Book Review: The Violin Conspiracy by Brendan Slocumb

Since I am still isolating during the pandemic, my “walks” consist of marching in place in my bedroom. I very rarely want to do this, so I dutifully “temptation bundle” or pair something I do not want to do with something I like doing. I hope that, eventually, I will learn to like walking or exercising. It is a slow process.

Over the past month, I’ve listened to Brendan Slocumb’s The Violin Conspiracy. This book was recommended to me by Amazon’s Kindle algorithm as a mystery selection. Apparently, Slocumb has made the morning talk show rounds to publicize the book. It promises an intimate look at the oft-underexplored world of classical musical performance from the perspective of a Black concert violinist. As a mystery, the book did not disappoint. When I consider it as a sensitivity reader, it raises some fascinating questions.

The main character, Ray(quan) McMillan, returns to his home in Charlotte, NC to find his precious Stradivarius missing, replaced with a Chuck Taylor in his violin case. The rest of the novel details his ascent to become a contender for the Tchaikovsky competition. Ray grows up in a home hostile to his playing, though his grandmother who (unknowingly) gifts him with the Stradivarius encourages his playing. He tries to play with a school rental, noting the inequity built-in to the access he has to classical music. Eventually, Ray impresses a college scout who invests in him and his future. All the while, Ray traverses the racism within the classical music world from overtly racist comments (to his face and behind his back) to the slights like being asked to play Gershwin and only being asked to play during Black History Month. (For those unfamiliar, Gershwin was an American composer with Russian Jewish ancestry whose compositions spanned classical and popular genres. He is most well-known for Porgy and Bess. NB: I despise Porgy and Bess. Because of its ableism, the opera haunts me like Gershwin haunts this protagonist.) In addition, Ray is being sued by his family, with the exception of one aunt, and another family, the Marks, who kept Ray’s family – specifically the grandfather who passed on the fiddle – as property. Both families want the violin.

I agree with reviewers who have called the book gripping and riveting. The plot structure is partly responsible for this. We move from the theft to Ray’s childhood; then, we progress from the past to meet the initial moment of the theft and then move beyond it. Slocumb establishes the stakes of the novel: in addition to the violin, there is Ray’s pride and dreams, money for the ransom and multiple lawsuits, and, of course, the Tchaikovsky competition. Then, the foray into the past allows for one to invest in these characters.

Here’s where I chafe at the New York Times Review: “Slocumb isn’t too different from his protagonist: a natural.” Yes, Brendan Slocumb is Black and a violinist living in North Carolina. A quick (and mistaken) internet search revealed there is another white Brandon Slocumb who is also a violinist who is also living in North Carolina. I gaped at the search results. My little spelling mistake showed me perhaps more than I was prepared to see. That said, the review offers a kind of double speak, implying a mythology I try to dissuade my students from: namely, that one can only write and read about characters like themselves. Tellingly, some believe and review under the mistaken impression that when the writer is part of a historically marginalized group, protagonists, narrators, and speakers are simply proxy for the writer. While there are certainly protagonists that are stand-ins for the writer and The Violin Conspiracy’s Ray may be one (in the words of Mr. ____ from The Color Purple “Could be. Could be not. Who’s to say?”), all writing requires an attention to craft, a shaping of the words on the page. Slocumb isn’t writing a biography and I resent the implication, however sly and seemingly complimentary, that he might be.

Within the novel, I had some questions about how racism was depicted. To be clear, I did not disbelieve any of the incidents for a moment. They were rendered well, with detail about occasion, tone, and the difficulty of it. Yet, something nagged at me. In one of the incidents, I wondered why Ray was confused. In this incident, he is in high school and is at the mercy of a racist white father of a bride. Ray continues to ruminate on the incident (which is quite typical) but does not seem to understand it. As a Black child in North Carolina, particularly one who experiences some economic difficulty, Ray might at least be familiar with the differences in zip codes, and differences between forms of dislike as a matter of survival. He might not have known to strategize so that he arrived with the rest of the quartet. In short, I believed the incident, but I was not sure this character would have been confused given his background. To be fair, the confusion strikes me as a narrative device, a way to garner sympathy from a reader. But, as Matthew Salesses might ask, which reader? Which readers need to read confusion rather than anger? Which readers require some degree of helplessness before attaching themselves emotionally to a Black male protagonist?

I also had some question about the depiction of Black women. Ray’s mother is unmercifully mean. Whereas the rest of her siblings transform into greedy litigious bums, she begins as and remains a complete jerk: calling the music noise, trying to keep him from playing, demanding that he get a job at Popeye’s rather than go to college on a full ride. I was concerned that she was never named, not even by her siblings or her mother, and I was concerned that there was no reason for her viciousness. If I am being generous, her material concern suggests her meanness is a result of poverty and the absent father suggests she is mean to Ray because he reminds her of a loss. But, none of these options are explored or mentioned – not even briefly. In addition, the descriptions of Ray’s mother – her outfits, her nails, her tracking of Ray’s paid performance schedule – imply a welfare queen aesthetic and a selfish material investment. Certainly, there are other Black women in the novel that demonstrate kindness, a slew of other mothers (that is, women who function as othermothers for Ray and women who mother other people). The final sentence of the novel has a tenderness toward a Black woman which implies some degree of care. That is, it would not be accurate to accuse the novel of misogynoir. Yet, I could not shake the nagging question as to why the mother, the Black mother, was an unnecessary villain. What purpose does she serve? Does the combination of absent father and unsupportive mother equal orphanhood (a common trope for underdogs)? If so, why have the mother as a character at all?

Despite my questions, my final assessment of the novel is that it is a riveting one and I am not its main, intended audience. As disappointing as that is, I do understand. But, you understand: I had to ask.