SOURLAND

In pre-legalization California, a hidden marijuana farm is fertile ground for desire, betrayal, secrets, lies, and the settling of old scores.

“On the inhale, Greyhound Buddha tasted of pine and diesel, the classic flavors, but there was a leavening twist of orange blossom too, and a blooming buttercream sweetness you could sniff when the buds were ground up for packing into a bowl or rolling into a joint.” One can easily imagine that cloud of pine and diesel wafting up from the pages of Dixon’s gritty neo-Western, complete with double crosses, shootouts, rattletrap pickup trucks, a herd of cattle, and a dog named Pistol. Sourland, named for its acidic soil, is the property of a charismatic older woman named Sapphire and home to a seasonal crowd of latter-day hippie farmworkers as well as the boss’ two lovers: Frankie, a former ballerina, and Fizz, a young man Sapphire has known since he was 8 and who has since had a long run as a drug smuggler and distributor. As Frankie explains in one of her first-person sections, “When Sapphire and I met, I was 21 and she was 46, a perfectly torrid gap. She had eked past 50 since then, but I was still lan­guishing in my mid-20s, and Fizz was two years older, at 29.” Unhappy with Fizz’s new role in their lives, Frankie bolts—and then, not long after, Sapphire herself disappears. After she’s been gone long enough for Fizz to throw a memorial service, Frankie returns to Sourland, though whether to share control or wrest it away is not immediately clear. In interwoven flashback chapters, a snake pit of complications is revealed, deals gone bad and unpaid debts now coming due. Is Sapphire really dead or will she reappear? Dixon’s wealth of knowledge about both legal and illegal farming practices and her feel for the texture of rural queer living infuse this sweaty, smoky thriller with vibrant realism.

Skunky, in the best possible way.