I should hate this book. It’s mostly present-tense. It’s about rock ‘n’ roll. It shifts between first-person, second-person or first-person plural. It’s structurally complex. The entire time I just waited for it to collapse under its own weight. It really should have. This should have been the one book I hated this year. But it didn’t collapse. I loved it. It’s very, very good. One-hundred pages. Takes as long to read as it takes to listen to a double album. It feels like music, man. Feels like bad decisions and new opportunities. And it’s not glamorous like other books or films make bands out to be. Usually you’re just really hungry and listening to tracks and trying to figure out where you are. Chick Bassist doesn’t read annoyingly self-indulgent. It reads honest. The narrative structure doesn’t overwhelm the book. This thing is tight as can be. And the fact that it’s more than the sum of its parts (i.e. makes me love things I normally don’t) should be an indicator of just how skilled a storyteller Ross Lockhart is. It even reminds you that Lou Reed was awesome once. Yeah. I know. Listen to The Velvet Underground while you read. Do it. (Codexstatic)
One reader at a time, one review at a time, one mixtape, one demo, one show. Always forward. This is how we conquer the world.
As much as I love the Velvets, my mushroom dream leaves me a little more in this kind of mood: