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ABBA- The Making of an Unstoppable Musical Phenomenon
Michael Mascioni’s ABBA: The Making of an Unstoppable Musical Phenomenon is less a conventional band biography than a wide-angle study of how ABBA became a durable cultural ecosystem. The book moves from the obvious milestones, Eurovision and “Waterloo,” the peculiar alchemy of Agnetha and Frida’s voices, the immaculate pop construction of songs like “Dancing Queen” and “The Winner Takes It All,” into something more expansive: the Mamma Mia! empire, ABBA Voyage, the museum, tourism, tribute acts, fan communities, solo careers, and the strange elegance with which ABBA transformed from a recording group into a living global franchise. Mascioni is quite clear that he isn’t trying to tell the whole history of the band. What he wants to trace is the machinery of endurance, and in that respect, the book is unusually focused and often genuinely interesting.
What I liked most is that the book understands ABBA as both music and atmosphere. Mascioni keeps returning to that tension between emotional melancholy and radiant surface, and I found that persuasive because it gets at something essential in ABBA’s appeal. He’s especially good when he lingers over the afterlife of the songs, how Mamma Mia! recontextualized them, how Voyage turned nostalgia into spectacle, how even the museum and fan travel to Sweden become part of the meaning of the music rather than mere merchandising. The examples accumulate in a way that can feel repetitive, but they also create their own force. By the time he’s discussing audiences singing along with tribute bands, fans visiting Stockholm because of the group, or the band’s music being carried forward through theater and curated multimedia experiences, you feel the scale of the phenomenon rather than just hearing it asserted.
There’s real enthusiasm here, but the prose can be citation-heavy, and sometimes more compilative than shapely. Mascioni often builds chapters through long strings of quotations and testimony, which gives the book breadth. That method lets the book feel communal, as if ABBA’s story can only be told through the many people who’ve orbited it: musicians, scholars, producers, curators, fans. I also appreciated that the later chapters don’t simply circle the old hits. The sections on Agnetha’s and Frida’s solo work, on Chess and Kristina från Duvemåla, and on the sheer persistence of fan culture give the book a fuller, more textured emotional register than a nostalgia piece usually allows.
I came away feeling I’d been shown something real about why ABBA still matters, not just as a beloved pop group, but as a carefully sustained emotional world people keep choosing to reenter. That lasting resonance is the book’s strongest argument, and Mascioni makes it with conviction. I’d recommend it most to committed ABBA fans, pop-culture readers interested in legacy and branding, and anyone curious about how songs become institutions.
Pages: 136 | ASIN : B0DQ6F5953
Thomas and the Magic Violin
I found Thomas and the Magic Violin to be a deeply moving picture book that I would be delighted to share with children in my classroom. The story follows Thomas as he works hard to prepare for a spring concert, facing the frustration, self-doubt, and perseverance that are such familiar parts of learning something worthwhile. What I loved most is the book’s gentle message that growth often comes through patience, encouragement, and the quiet support of others. It presents musical practice honestly, while still wrapping the story in warmth and wonder.
This book stands out because it treats children’s emotions with real respect. Thomas is discouraged, embarrassed, determined, and hopeful, and those feelings are shown in a way young readers can understand. The relationship between Thomas and the older violinist across the courtyard is especially beautiful. Their connection is not built through long conversations, but through music, listening, and kindness. From a teacher’s perspective, that makes the story especially powerful, because it shows children that mentorship can be quiet, meaningful, and life-changing.
Illustrator Sofia Panchyshyn’s artwork is soft, expressive, and full of feeling, using warm pastel colors, floral details, and flowing musical lines to create a calm, magical atmosphere. The pictures help tell the story by showing Thomas’s changing emotions, the beauty of the courtyard setting, and the almost dreamlike presence of the master violinist’s music. I was especially taken by the scenes where the music seems to travel through the air, turning sound into something children can see.
I would highly recommend this book for classrooms, libraries, and families. It opens the door to thoughtful conversations about practice, resilience, artistic expression, grief, and gratitude, all in a way that remains accessible to young readers. Most of all, it is a lovely reminder that encouragement can leave a lasting mark on a child’s life. Thomas and the Magic Violin is a tender, memorable book that I loved, and I believe many children will find both comfort and inspiration in its pages.
Pages: 38 | ISBN : 978-9528206088
Clarity
In Writing in the Wound, you share with readers what it means to be shaped by academia, gendered power, and migration, and how your reliance on music proved to be a method of rescue. Why was this an important book for you to write?
I began writing Writing in the Wound at a moment of profound emotional and political intensity in my life. After years of navigating the Canadian immigration system, I found myself confronting not only institutional barriers but also the deeper psychological and embodied impact of living within them.
Initially, I considered writing a more overtly critical, policy-driven book—one that directly addressed the failures and frustrations of the immigration system. But I realized that such a project would take me away from my core as an artist.
What felt more urgent was to write from within my own lived experience—through sound, memory, and relationship. This book became a way of tracing how I endured, and what allowed me to stay. In that sense, it is not only a story of struggle, but of artistic becoming.
In its early drafts, the manuscript was expansive and uncontained. Over time, it found its center—particularly through my relationship with my mentor, which offered a space of care, listening, and growth. That relational grounding became essential to shaping the narrative.
Ultimately, this book created a new path for me—a path where I was no longer masking who I am or what I am enduring within this system. It allowed me to situate myself clearly as an artist, while also naming the conditions I was navigating.
I wrote this book not just to document what happened, but to understand how one continues to create, even within systems that constrain and wound.
Music appears as discipline, refuge, and language—when did it become central to your survival?
Music became central to my survival during the uncertainty of the COVID-19 period. After serving as Music Faculty for Semester at Sea, I travelled to Karachi due to the pandemic and found myself unexpectedly unable to return to Canada for nearly two years, at a time when institutions were largely closed and opportunities had disappeared.
In that period of precarity, when academic institutions had stopped hiring faculty, and it was difficult to teach remotely from where I was situated, music shifted from being a practice of expression to a practice of sustenance. Earlier compositions, like Anticipating and Living with Purpose, had received recognition on international charts and in competitions, which gave me the confidence to continue applying for opportunities. Then, Perils of Heavy Rainfall received Second Prize in Listening during COVID contest (2020).
Gradually, commissions and invitations followed, including from organizations such as New Music Edmonton and New Music Calgary, as well as from the International Women’s Day festival and the Canadian Music Week platform. What began as a fragile thread of continuity became, over time, a means of survival—both materially and emotionally.
Was there a moment when you felt your voice shifting—from survival to assertion?
Yes—there was a moment when everything I had been experiencing condensed into a single, clear sentence: that after 17 years in Canada, I still did not have permanent residency, and that this was not incidental, but tied to the structural limitations of the immigration system.
This clarity came to me in July, during a later stage of working on Writing in the Wound. By that point, the writing had begun to settle, and I was able to see my experience not only as something I had lived through but as something I could name with precision.
Being able to name that so directly marked a shift for me. Until then, much of my writing had been about processing and surviving. But that sentence became a position—it allowed me to see my experience not as an individual struggle, but as part of a broader systemic pattern.
Around that time, I also began to explore new pathways within the immigration system, including applying on humanitarian and compassionate grounds. That process required me to articulate my story not only as narrative, but as a formal claim—something that could be recognized within institutional frameworks. In that sense, my voice was no longer only expressive; it became strategic and assertive.
This shift was also reflected in how my work moved into public space. My writing on the undervaluation of artistic labour was published in Canadian Dimension, and I began sharing my story in community settings, including an event with Action Dignity. Speaking in those spaces—where these issues are often not centered—felt like an important act of bringing lived experience into public discourse.
That momentum continued with invitations to speak at larger gatherings, including a Labour Day event, where my story was witnessed by a wide network of community organizations.
In that sense, assertion was not a single moment, but a series of acts—each one moving my voice from private endurance toward public articulation and advocacy.
What is one thing you hope readers take away from Writing in the Wound?
At its heart, the book asks: what happens when our scars begin to speak?
I hope readers come away with a deeper recognition that the wound is not only personal, but structural. Experiences of migration, racialization, and institutional struggle are not simply endured—they also carry strength, insight, and endurance. They shape ways of seeing, feeling, and creating that are often overlooked or undervalued.
For those navigating migration and racialization, these experiences are frequently internalized, fragmented, or rendered invisible. This book is an attempt to give them form—to show that what is carried in the body and in memory can become voice.
If there is one thing I hope readers take away, it is that these experiences are not only sites of injury, but also sites of knowledge. When scars begin to speak, they do more than tell a story—they begin to name the structures that produced them, and in doing so, open the possibility of shifting those systems—and one’s positionality within them.
Author Links: GoodReads | X (Twitter) | Facebook | Website | Amazon
For Dr. Shumaila Hemani, music began as a calling. It unfolded into a life path through a rare human connection with eminent ethnomusicologist Professor Regula Burckhardt Qureshi, whose faith in her awakened the courage to risk everything for the artist’s path.
Spanning nearly two decades — from 2006 to the present — across the academic corridors of Harvard and the University of Alberta to the soundscapes of London, Boston, Chicago, Edmonton, Mumbai, Karachi, Calgary, Banff, and Toronto, and a world odyssey aboard a floating campus, Writing in the Wound is a story of resilience and fragile belonging, of visibility and erasure, and of the power of art — in particular Sufi music — to transmute pain into wisdom.
It is an intimate testament to truth and vulnerability in the face of institutional silencing, immigration precarity, and the long endurance toward permanent belonging.
Connie’s White World
Connie’s White World is a debut short story collection by Sam Newsome, saxophonist, educator, and what you might call a jazz anthropologist of the human condition. The book gathers ten interlocking stories set in the world of jazz: a white pianist rattled by a racially charged review, a beautiful but undisciplined busker haunted by ambition he never quite answers, a classically trained soprano who sheds her mother’s legacy for a sequined alter ego at a Chinatown dive bar, an aging educator whose memory dissolves even as the music remains, a saxophonist who stops playing after an accident that kills a girl. These characters live at the margins of recognition, talented, conflicted, sometimes sabotaged by their own psychologies, and Newsome traces the grain of their private lives with the attentiveness of someone who has spent decades listening. As he explains in his liner notes, he rewrote these stories as jazz: short clauses, Baldwin-style em dashes, rhythmic disruptions. The prose swings because it was designed to.
What I liked most was Newsome’s refusal to adjudicate. He gives every voice its weight, even the uncomfortable ones. The opening story, “Connie’s White World,” places us inside a white jazz pianist grappling with a career-defining accusation that her music has “strained out Black culture,” and Newsome neither exonerates her nor condemns her. She is by turns defensive, self-aware, and achingly honest about her own limitations, and the story’s power comes precisely from that honesty. “Letter to the Editor” operates as a bracketed epistolary duel between a Black saxophonist and a white critic, and Newsome lets both men reveal themselves through escalating salvos until neither is fully right and neither is fully clean. The book is most alive when it refuses easy resolution. “The Legacy of Mr. Mosley” is perhaps its finest achievement, a portrait of a jazz educator undone by dementia, cared for by a son-in-law who can’t bring himself to call him “Dad,” still tapping two and four in wingtips on a nursing home deck while Chet Baker drifts from the speakers.
Some stories, particularly “Tone-Hole Love,” narrated from a saxophone’s perspective, feel more like impressionistic experiments, and a few of the romantic subplots arrive and depart quickly. The prose occasionally tips from rhythmic restraint into something closer to purple heat, especially in scenes of physical intimacy.
Readers drawn to literary fiction, jazz fiction, and character-driven short story collections will find much to admire here, particularly those who have appreciated James McBride’s The Heaven & Earth Grocery Store for its portrait of music and community, or Colson Whitehead’s early work for its cool, socially observant prose. Newsome writes from inside the jazz world in a way most fiction doesn’t; his characters argue about voicings and sidemen with the specificity of people for whom these things are genuinely at stake. Connie’s White World is an unmistakably alive debut, proof that when a musician decides to write, the silence between the notes can carry as much meaning as the notes themselves.
Pages: 136 | ASIN : B0GJN1117N
The Concept of Rhythm
I Can Play Drums breaks rhythm into simple, playful steps—listening, feeling the beat, relaxing your grip, and having fun—making it the perfect starting point for nervous beginners of any age. What do beginners misunderstand most about rhythm when they first start?
Kids see a drummer in action, mostly in staged videos, looking cool as whirling sticks and playing all over the place, then hound parents to buy them a drum kit, as they are now inspired.
The new kit arrives, a box of bits and pieces with no assembly instructions; the new kid drummer and parents have to work out how it pieces together with an unhealthy belief that everything on the internet is the Bible.
Once the kit is in some playable form, they then start to try to work out how to be like that cool drummer as seen on videos, fail to do so, and are unable to resist the temptation to just bash away, hoping something musical comes out, and learn bad habits.
Parents gasp at the cost of good tuition, as the kit sits in the corner collecting dust after finding lessons of playing single and double strokes all boring and repetitive (unbeknownst to them that is what and how that cool drummer learned and plays).
To add, many books on drumming after the initial pages of basic beats turn into daunting exercises. Not all, though, a good progressive one to mention is the Carmine Appice Realistic Rock. There is a gap in providing an initial guide to point someone new to drumming in the right direction, hence an attempt in writing I Can Play Drums, to hopefully provide some assistance.
The kit eventually is for sale due to a lack of interest after finding it all too hard, a shame, as with a good start and mind engaged in the concept of rhythm and how it works, there is then a chance to enjoy drumming, and what it brings with perseverance.
Once a learner can gather the basics and start playing rhythms, the immense world of drumming opens to them.
What’s the one piece of gear advice you wish every new drummer would hear first?
To play drums, there is no need to spend a lot of money on equipment. A drummer has all they need with two hands, two feet, and their head in the right place. Then, to prove me wrong, there is the band Def Leppard’s drummer, Rick Allen, who plays with no left arm.
The addition of a pair of drumsticks and a practice pad (a piece of a flat rubber sheet), then drums can be practiced anywhere.
Should anyone venture into a big-name rockstar drummer’s dressing room pre a stage show, they are likely to find the drummer warming up, playing his sticks on a practice pad.
There is also the question of what drummers should not hear. Please invest in hearing protection and use it.
What would you say to someone holding drumsticks for the first time and feeling unsure?
To read I Can Play Drums, taking note about grip on sticks to be so loose so that the drumsticks do the work as they naturally rebound, it is no secret, as this method is proven by many great drummers, such as examples Tiger Bill Meligari, Jo Jo Mayer, as well as most likely any corps drummer.
By playing with a controlled grip, problems of limiting playing ability and the risk of injuring the body are reduced considerably. Many drummers who play hard with a stiff grip end up with carpal tunnel issues, as well as foot issues for those who, by default, slam the pedal into the head. It is good to know about this at the commencement of drumming rather than later.
Another thing is to learn and play slowly to one’s own ability. Speed, power, and the flashy stuff that initially inspired them to take up the drums all come in time with plenty of practice.
Drumming is a very physical thing to do, learn to hold the sticks correctly, as well as placing and playing the feet correctly, and yes, you can play drums, well.
Author Links: Facebook | Website
I Can Play Drums
I Can Play Drums is a friendly beginner’s guide that walks the reader through the basics of drumming in simple steps. It starts with listening and feeling the beat, then moves into coordination, timing, practice methods, stick control, tuning, kit setup, and all the little things a new drummer needs to know. It keeps the language light and direct, and it focuses on helping anyone learn rhythm by breaking ideas into small actions that can be practiced anywhere.
The book talks to you like a coach who actually wants you to enjoy the journey. I appreciated how the book treats drumming as something playful, something almost childlike at times. The little challenges, like patting your head while circling your tummy, made me smile. The tone feels encouraging in a way that pulls down the fear that beginners often carry. I liked how it keeps telling you to slow down, relax, and have fun. That landed with me because learning an instrument can feel stressful. This book leans the other way, and that gave me a sense of relief.
I also liked the ideas in the sections about gear and tuning, even though they are simple. The author keeps the advice practical and almost homespun, which made the book feel grounded. There were good reminders to loosen your grip on the sticks and to avoid chasing fancy drum parts before you can hold a steady beat. The honesty there felt refreshing. Some parts did feel long and a bit repetitive, although I get why the author wanted to reinforce certain habits. Even so, the informal tone kept me reading, and I never felt talked down to.
I think I Can Play Drums works best for new drummers, younger learners, or anyone who feels nervous about starting. The writing is easy to understand, and the hands-on exercises make rhythm feel reachable. If you want a book that takes you by the hand and makes drumming feel simple and fun, this one will suit you well.
Pages: 76 | ISBN : 9781105931598
The Meteor Symphony: Stories and Poems
The Meteor Symphony is a colorful mix of short stories, poems, and microfiction, stitched together with music, humor, grief, and hope. It moves from tales of jazz musicians and stolen saxophones to intimate portraits of aging, love, heartbreak, and resilience. Some pieces lean into whimsy, others lean into sorrow, and many hover in the strange, honest space in between. The title story ties it all together with an imaginative search for a lost symphony, but the book itself feels like a symphony of voices, moods, and rhythms.
I enjoyed the range in this book. One page had me laughing at the absurdity of a sax heist, and the next had me sitting with the weight of a widow’s quiet grief. Burke writes with sharp clarity, yet there’s also a looseness in her storytelling that feels natural, like listening to a friend talk late into the night. I loved that she didn’t try to polish away the odd details. People misstep, conversations derail, feelings clash, and it all feels real. At times, the jumps between stories and poems felt a little jarring, but in a way, that’s what made it lively. The collection refuses to settle into one mood.
I also found myself connecting with her fascination with ordinary people. She doesn’t write grand heroes or villains, but flawed, funny, messy people. That resonated with me. Her style is direct but not cold, and she doesn’t shy away from emotions. Some of the poems hit me harder than the stories, brief as they were, because they carried that distilled punch of truth.
I’d say this book is best for readers who like variety, who don’t mind skipping from lighthearted banter to heavier reflections, and who enjoy the intimacy of short-form writing. If you’re open to being surprised, amused, and sometimes gutted all in one sitting, Burke’s collection is worth your time. I’d recommend it to anyone who loves music, who has wrestled with family, or who has ever paused at sunset and felt the ache of beauty and loss in the same breath.
Pages: 114 | ASIN : B0DTJ37FVK
Prodigal Song: A Gen X Memoir of Excess and Obsession in Pursuit of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Dream
Prodigal Song is a deeply personal and wildly entertaining memoir chronicling Sean Coons’ journey from a chubby, music-obsessed kid in 1980s Los Angeles to a struggling rock guitarist trying to make it in the heart of Hollywood. The book traces Coons’ obsession with rock stardom, his battles with body image and compulsive eating, and the wild misadventures with his band, Song Unsung. It’s a raw look at the pursuit of artistic dreams, the trappings of self-indulgence, and the eventual pull toward redemption and meaning. Coons mixes humor with brutal honesty, all set against a vivid backdrop of ’80s and ’90s pop culture.
Coons’ writing is funny, sharp, and full of heart. He doesn’t try to make himself look cool or mysterious or tragic. He just tells the truth, warts and all. I loved how he could pivot from describing an embarrassing childhood moment to riffing on Van Halen lyrics or unraveling the twisted ethics of rock culture with surprising insight. I found myself rooting for him, even as he made bad choices or spiraled into food binges and self-doubt. It’s rare to find a memoir that’s this self-aware without being self-important.
What hit me hardest, though, were the moments where the glamor faded, and the raw stuff came through. When Coons realizes he’s eaten himself into obesity while chasing his dream, it’s not played for pity or laughs, it’s just sad and real. The way he weaves in spirituality, guilt, and the need for grace without ever getting preachy or stiff made the book resonate on a deeper level. He never quite gives up on his dream, but he learns that the real victory might not be fame at all. That really stuck with me. It made me think about my own ambitions and the things I’ve let define me, for better or worse.
If you’re someone who grew up loving rock ’n’ roll, or if you’ve ever felt out of place chasing a dream in a world that doesn’t seem to care, Prodigal Song will speak to you. It’s perfect for fans of memoirs like Rob Sheffield’s Love Is a Mix Tape or anyone who likes their nostalgia with a side of truth. You don’t need to be a musician to appreciate this story, you just need to have wanted something badly enough to lose yourself in the process.
Pages: 215 | ASIN : B0FG2PFXNT
