TITLE: The God of Jazz: Fugue, Concord
AUTHOR: Varian Krylov
COVER ARTIST: Bey Deckard
LENGTH: 117,450 words
RELEASE DATE: September 16, 2016
Thanks to Melanie and everyone here at Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words for having me over for a visit! I’m excited to be here today, and to answer your questions about my latest novel, The God of Jazz.
Let’s start with the inspiration behind the story. Well, first, even though none of the characters are based on me or people I know, I put more of my own experiences into The God of Jazz than any of my previous books. In particular, Godard is an independent filmmaker, and this is a world I worked in for several years before I left the U.S. Godard also finds himself coming to Barcelona to shoot his first feature-length film, and I wanted to give the readers a vicarious holiday on Spain’s gorgeous Costa Brava, and also a little glimpse of what it’s like to explore life in Barcelona as an expat.
But the key inspiration that’s at the heart of the novel was me wanting to tell the story of someone who felt like they’d lost everything important to them both personally and professionally, and who overcomes the pain of failure and betrayal, and learns to love and trust again. I don’t just mean learning to love and trust another lover—though there is that—but also that Godard learns to love and believe in himself again. I think just about everyone can relate to being hurt in love, and to failing at life now and then. We all doubt ourselves, sometimes, we all feel unloved and isolated now and then, and I wanted to tell a story that reminds us that however cruelly we get knocked down or left behind, there’s something else out there for us. And sometimes there’s something out there that’s a thousand times better than what we lost.
Another important element of The God of Jazz is—surprise!—jazz music, and the Barcelona jazz scene. Of course, there are a lot of different styles under the expansive jazz genre. Some I adore, others I don’t care for so much. I dig bebop, and I’m mad for cool jazz, so I listen to artists like Chet Baker, Charlie Parker, The Modern Jazz Quartet, and Stan Getz. As a rule I prefer my jazz without vocals, but I love Nina Simone. I also love going out to the local jazz clubs. Barcelona has a thriving jazz scene, so there’s something on almost every night.
I hope everyone who reads the book enjoys the ride along with Godard as he discovers Barcelona and falls under the seductive sway of the beautiful and talented Ángel—or as Godard calls him, the god of jazz.
Thanks for reading! Besos from Barcelona!
BLURB: After years struggling to realize his dream of directing a feature film, on the final night of his fundraising campaign Godard is on the cusp of having everything he ever wanted. The man he loves is upstairs waiting for him, and he’s just a few dollars short of his GoFundYourself goal.
Then everything falls apart.
His personal and professional life in ruins, when his old nemesis from film school offers to fund his dream project if he’s willing to shoot it in Spain, Godard knows it’s a deal with the devil. But he also has nothing left to lose.
Among the labyrinthine streets of Barcelona’s Barrio Góthico, the city’s vibrant music scene, and the sun-gilt beaches of the Costa Brava, Godard begins making shooting his dream project and putting his life back together, largely under the domineering gaze and deft touch of Ángel, the god of jazz.
But Ángel is keeping a secret, and a deal with the devil always comes at a price.
“Bienvenidos…” After a glance back at his band mates, the trumpet player fixed his intense gaze on the audience and welcomed us in a low, smoky voice. Almost instantly the crowd went quiet, like everyone there was desperate not to miss a syllable. Of course, the remaining crumbs of my high school education in Spanish didn’t get me past the first word, except I did catch their names as he introduced his bandmates. Jaume on the drums. Alistair on bass.
The stunner with the trumpet and the arresting eyes that were the color of Amaretto di Saronno in the sun, but almost black in the hard shadow cast by the spotlight hitting his striking, upward angled eyebrows, was Ángel. He shot a glance at the drummer, who set a rhythm, brushes hissing over the heads. The low thrum of the bass came in as an electric smile spread over Alistair’s handsome face. The tempo of the music echoed faintly in Ángel’s subtly swaying body for a few measures as he let the music lull us out of the hectic pace of our day, the frenetic energy of the crowd that had been bantering and calling for drinks and jockeying for places to sit or stand, into the soothing rhythm. Then he brought the horn to his lips and kissed our souls.
Sultry, thick and sweet, tinges of melancholy. The notes stretched and yawned, curled around us like smoke. Slipped into the gaps in our broken, rusted armor and soothed our wounds.
I felt almost ashamed, in the midst of that transcendental rapture, that I couldn’t look at Ángel without conjuring the memory of his naked body, lax and faintly sheened with sweat as his broad shoulders flexed when he’d shifted his weight. The taunting temptation of his bare ass. Impossible to stop trying to imagine what he would look like, standing alone on that stage, under those lights, looking down at me, naked. Picturing his cock hanging, limp. Wondering if, when hard, it would stand up straight, jut off at an angle, or stick out from his groin.
At some point I had stopped looking at the other two sharing his stage, and just stared at him. The slight inward slope of his narrow nose. The delicate bow shape of his upper lip, slightly prominent, overshadowing his narrower bottom lip. Wanting him, almost willing him to turn those intense eyes on me again. Would it feel like a touch, the way it had at the beach? Was he caressing every man and woman in the bar with that gaze? Were they all secretly quivering and warming under his stare?
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Growing up near Los Angeles, I spent much of my time frolicking in the Pacific Ocean and penning angst-twisted poetry. Now I’m living in sunny Spain writing pathos-riddled fiction. Ironically, two of my favorite things are traveling, and swimming in the ocean, despite increasingly intense phobias of sharks and flying.
I’ve always loved the music and substance of words, always loved writing in well-worn notebooks by hand, tapping at the keys of the computer, and, of course, conjuring up stories.
And from my earliest memories, I’ve always been fascinated—maybe obsessed?—with sex and sexuality.
In my writing, sex is the medium, the expression, and the tool of discovery for my characters’ insecurities, the needs that drive them, the comfort they can’t live without, the joy and relish of life that makes each of them intense, strange, and alluring.
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Giveaway
The giveaway for this event is of an ecopy of the book to one lucky commenter, must be 18 years of age or older. Contest ends September 29th at midnight, EDT.
After years struggling to realize his dream of directing a feature film, on the final night of his fundraising campaign Godard is on the cusp of having everything he ever wanted. The man he loves is upstairs waiting for him, and he’s just a few dollars short of his GoFundYourself goal.
Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words 