WASHED up Tony Gardner is the eponymous Crooner enlisting the help of new acquaintance Jan in a Venetian swansong serenade to his wife. Come Rain Or Come Shine takes a quixotic look at the delicate threesome of university friends, couple Emily and Ch
arlie, and stooge Raymond, charting the difficult straits of middle age. In Malvern Hills, a frustrated young musician seeks comfort in the encouragement of two mysterious Swiss holiday-makers. Steve, a promising saxophonist and "the wrong kind of ugly", has plastic surgery paid for by his wife's new boyfriend in the hope of kick-starting his career. Hungarian Tibor's chance encounter with American on the run from loveless love, Eloise, culminates in a series of surreptitious cello lessons in Cellists.
Music unites this story cycle, and they also relate to each other tangentially; Steve the saxophonist neighbours Tony's wife Lindy in the exclusive post-surgery hotel in Hollywood, and the piazza musicians of the first and last stories will surely have met. But meetings, and emotions, are dealt with ambiguously, quirkily. Missing is the fine lustre of Ishiguro's novels – the powerful restraint of The Remains Of The Day replaced by Murakami-esque oddness. There is a flippancy which serves to flatten any emotional crescendo. Undercurrents of Lindy's crisis, for instance, are cloistered by a bizarre incident involving a stolen trophy hidden inside a turkey, while Raymond shoulders the mantle of loser to Charlie's hero with saddening equanimity, farcically boiling a boot as if to cover the metaphorical stench of despair.
Characterised by this sense of tranquil stasis and hope stifled, the collection as a whole makes for a lugubrious and somewhat plaintive reading experience. Each tale scales similar arcs, making each a solid part of his nocturne cycle; taken individually, however, they are dissonant things with clipped endings and no resolution.
The dance at the end of Come Rain Or Come Shine, and the perfunctory, but potent, "I love you" between Steve and cheating wife Helen are among the nuances that bring pause for thought. Cheap jingles have their place, but this from a maestro of Ishiguro's standing hits a surprising bum note.
