We review books across a wide range of genres, all related in some form to championing women.
Swing Time begins with its unnamed narrator hiding out in a temporary rental flat in northwest London after losing her job and her privacy. After three days she steps back out into crisp autumnal London and chances on a film event at the Royal Festival Hall.
The darkness of the venue had been meant as a distraction from her humiliation, but she suddenly sits up when the director plays a clip from her favourite childhood film, Swing Time. Fred Astaire tap-dances with three silhouettes behind him.
“I felt a wonderful lightness in my body, a ridiculous happiness, it seemed to come from nowhere…”
“A truth was being revealed to me: That I had always tried to attach myself to the light of other people, that I had never had any light of my own. I experienced myself as a kind of shadow.”
When she gets home, the narrator googles the clip of the routine she so treasured as a child and understands – confused – for the first time, that she is seeing Fred Astaire dancing in blackface.
Two mixed-race girls meet at a ballet class in 1982, holding their mothers’ hands. One – Tracey – has the dancing talent to be a serious star. The other – our narrator – can’t exactly dance, though she sings at the piano before class begins. Tracey’s gift for dance takes her onto the stage, while the narrator tastes fame as the assistant to an international celebrity.
The narrator, betrayed by Tracey’s lie, commits her own betrayal of her pop star employer Aimee by revealing an uncomfortable truth. The three women’s lives only ever entwine briefly, when the two girls dance as children to one of Aimee’s records; emulating her sexiest choreography in a performance whose repercussions are both immediate and long-delayed.The novel plays with the idea of how friendships change and they can change us. It deals with growing up mixed race, betrayal, class, motherhood and childlessness.
The novel plays with the idea of how friendships change and they can change us. It deals with growing up mixed race, betrayal, class, motherhood and childlessness. The internet also plays an important role in the novel, as it’s the means through which Tracey taunts the narrator and later her mother from the confines of her poky Willesden flat. It’s also the medium through which superstar Aimee’s secret is leaked. As you’re reading the book, there’s plenty to google from chapter to chapter. From the unforgettable ‘Thriller’ video – the rhythm of which pumps throughout the tensions of Tracey’s friendship, to Sara Forbes Bonetta – freed from slavery to become Queen Victoria’s goddaughter – who we learn about from a boyfriend exploring his own experience of race.
There’s also the Dahomey Amazons to research – an all-female military regiment of the African country now known as Benin – as well as Jeni LeGon (who danced with Fred Astaire) and whose performances Tracey re-packages as her own.
The novel flies between London, New York and an unnamed country in rural West Africa, and as the modern and historical references crop up in the story, interlaced with mentions of laptops, iPhones and the glowing blue light of a Samsung flip phone, it seems entirely fitting to set down the book between chapters and tap these unfamiliar names into the search bar.
As the narrator reflects on her own heritage – her Jamaican mother’s struggle to better herself, her white post-man father’s reluctant goodbye to his wife – the reader is learning too.
Most importantly; it’s a novel to get your toes tapping. There’s the Mandinka rite of passage; the Kankurang (when an anonymous dancer jiggles and shakes beneath the woolly fronds of a flame-coloured costume, celebrating the beginning of adulthood), the brazen cultural appropriation of Aimee’s dance routines and a west-end performance of Show Boat – where Tracey steals the scene using only her raw dance ability and a broom. Dance and its history leap and sashay across Swing Time’s every page.
Time it took me to read it: A few weeks, mainly on the commute in between gazing at the Sussex countryside.
Why I picked up the book in the first place: I loved White Teeth.. though was less thrilled by The Autograph Man and On Beauty. I skipped N-W altogether, but one or two of my friends had mentioned reading Swing Time so I decided to give Zadie another try.
Don’t judge a book by its cover: The blurb doesn’t give away how clever this book is. Zadie Smith is never going to give you a full-on Agatha Christie solution to every question mark, but certain elements link back together in a satisfying circle.
P.S. I secretly always judge books by their covers and this one fully lives up to it’s bright, smart packaging.
Where to get it online: Click here
The Woman Behind The Book
What appealed to me most about Swing Time were the significant similarities between the main character’s life and Smith’s own. You will always have me at ‘based on a true story’.
Zadie Smith was born in 1975 in Brent, north-west London to a Jamaican mother and an English father.
If her Wikipedia page is to be believed *crosses self* Zadie Smith’s parents divorced when she was a teen, she earned money at her university as a jazz singer and had a childhood love of tap dancing. In knowing this a reader can choose to believe one of two equally pleasing possibilities: the first is that there really was a Tracey, with her ‘ridiculous nose’ that ‘went straight up in the air like a little piglet’, the cruel childhood friend whose taunts are somehow so moreish when she’s on your side.
The second is that Zadie Smith has the kind of imagination which breathes fictional lives into her own lived past, allowing unreal characters to spit on true events and beloved family with lies and hate. Either way, the story is an intriguing one.
Zadie Smith (who was born Sadie, but swapped in the more electric Z at 14) lives between London and New York with her husband and two children. In an interview with the New York Times, she called writing ‘a kind of stupidity’.
“It’s a way of experiencing time.. of slowing life down.”
Zadie Smith’s novel certainly feels like watching a slow-motion dance routine; giving its reader time to frown and ponder the intricacies of the footwork and the interactions of its four starring women, but its comic timing and knack for blending the real with the imagined are a million miles from stupid.
Written by Annie Hopkins
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