West of Mars\' Rocks \'n Reads

I was one of the lucky people who got a look at Kenya Wright’s Fire Baptized before it was published. On the surface, it may seem distasteful: the Supernaturals have been exiled to a ghetto built out of a literal cage near Miami, Florida. This ghetto, though, is reminiscent of a shetl of Eastern European past: some districts are quite lush and lavish, while others live up to the ghetto name. It’s its own contained community, and it lives and breathes in ways some real cities never do in fiction.

It is one of these poor, gritty districts that Lanore Vesta lives with her childhood friend and protector, MeShack Hooshmand. MeShack is a Were-cheetah, while Lanore is one of the loathed: a Mixie. In La La’s case, she bears both Demon and Fairy blood.

When she witnesses a murder, Lanore is hot on the trail, playing amateur sleuth to uncover the killer. Along the way, she’s got to contend with the possessive posturing going on between MeShack and fellow Mixie Zulu. Lanore adores them both, it’s obvious, and this is a love triangle as complicated as any other – and better than most. It’s Lanore’s heart that’s going to decide this matter, although the men may never stop bristling when they are around each other.

Some of the tension between the men goes beyond the romantic. Zulu’s the dreamer, the revolutionary working to achieve his goals of Supernatural equality and maybe a life among the Humans. MeShack’s more retiring, happy with his life: women, a band, Lanore. He represents the status quo. Part of Lanore’s personal conflict, beyond trying to stay alive, is choosing between change and stasis. This opens the door to personal growth for our heroine, and growth happens even as she seems to be mixed up in something that’s bigger than she is.

All this sets up a story that’s hard to put down, but it’s the Santeria Supernatural Habitat and the people who inhabit it that steal the show. This world is ugly, gritty, brutal. The characters who populate it are survivors. They’re also unforgettable.

It was my mother, of all people, who told me to take Meg Cabot’s Size 12 Is Not Fat out of my TBR mountains and read it. The lead character, Heather Wells, is a former pop star turned amateur sleuth. Doesn’t that qualify for Rock Fiction?

Well, yes and no. Cabot’s former pop star is trying to go incognito, shrinking and demurring when people think they recognize her. There’s music in these pages, mostly in the form of ex-fiance Jordan Cartwright and Tania Trace, but the music doesn’t come alive and breathe the way the best Rock Fiction does. We’ll have to call this one a glancing blow.

The most striking part of Size 12 is how closely it resembles a Chick Lit novel. Heather’s not very worldly, for all that she’s been around the world and lived in an environment that probably deserves its own episode of Shark Week. She’s not very confident, for all that she stood in a spotlight and sang in front of (presumably) thousands (but possibly only hundreds; it’s not clear) of teenyboppers. With a background like this, she’s lacking in a lot of areas I wouldn’t expect her to be lacking in — like self-confidence in front of others. Oh, and for someone who’s 28, she sure acts like she’s 18 a lot of the time…

Overall, this is a cute book about a woman trying to figure out where she fits in the world. She’s working in a residence hall, hoping to make it to the six-month point at which she can enroll in classes, seeking some sort of degree that she hasn’t figured out yet. She’s living with her ex’s brother, who she’s got a massive crush on but can’t bring herself to do anything about. And then a girl goes and falls off an elevator, spinning this story into a cozy mystery.

Truly, Cabot bends genre here. Rock Fiction, chick lit, cozy mystery. She does it well, and the mystery unfolds with a sort of ramshackle grace that fits the genre-bending. The prose is fun. Heather, despite her many flaws, is a welcome character to spend time with. I hope as the series develops, so does Heather. Watching her grow from an ugly duckling into a swan will be quite the treat — if Cabot can keep Heather from following in the usual Chick Lit style to make it happen. I don’t want to see Heather lose weight and become a size eight again. I want to see her stay a 12, to be comfortable within herself, and even to embrace her music and find her power as a songwriter. I suspect it’s there, lurking, and once she and Cabot find it, this will, indeed, be Rock Fiction.

The nice thing about my continued growth as an expert in Rock Fiction is that people send me books. Go Now, Richard Hell’s 1996 novel (novella? I didn’t count the words) is one of those books that showed up with a Random Act of BookCrossing Kindness.

I picked it up the other day because I needed a quickie read, and it was a skinny book. How’s that for prioritizing your stack of To Be Reads?

Richard Hell has been around music for a long time, most notably as a founding member of the Voidoids. He’s also been around drugs for a long time. No wonder they came together — sort of — in the Rock Fiction book, Go Now.

Actually, I’d call this more of a Road Trip book than a work of Rock Fiction. Sure, we’re told Billy is in a band, but between the drugs and the adventure, we don’t really see much in terms of music. At most, I’d call this one of those fringe books in the Rock Fiction genre: there’s a guy who makes music, but that’s the extent of it.

So we’ve got this road trip, and at the same time, we’ve got the story of a junkie. The two can’t mesh well, and they don’t. Billy is a train wreck, but what junkie isn’t?

This is my issue. I’m not a fan of junkie fiction. I’m not a fan of train wrecks. I need something redeeming in a character, and there just isn’t much redeemable about someone who’s trapped in a very dark, needy place. Add in the fact that I can’t relate to a junkie’s lifestyle and … yeah. I’m doomed.

In the right hands, this book will be viewed as a fabulous work of fiction. Billy’s written with an authenticity that rings so very true, even if I hadn’t known anything about Richard Hell, I’d be able to tell Billy is based on some autobiographical traits.

While this wasn’t my sort of read, that doesn’t mean it’s not a good one. If you’re into Road Trip Junkie stories with only a hint of Rock Fiction, go for it. Send me the link to your own review and I’ll add it on the Rock Books page.

I don’t remember where I first heard of Farai Chideya’s Kiss the Sky. I do know I had really high hopes for this story, of a woman struggling with herself and her music career. Sophie is the sort of character you initially want to root for: she’s divorced from her music partner, but they’ve found a way to co-exist — maybe they are even comfortable with their status. She’s got a cool job, at least when the book opens, and she’s willing to work to regain what she had, musically.

It should have worked. Even the fact that Ms. Chideya is a Harvard grad who has a published a number of non-fiction books should have been enough to save this one.

I was shocked to see how many sentences started with a verb. Went to the club. Stepped outside for a smoke. (Now, I’m making these sentences up, so don’t go looking through the book for them) Yes, okay, maybe some of this is establishing Sophie’s voice, but frankly, it was too much. It became annoyingly repetitive, and it got in the way of the story.

This wasn’t as horrible a thing as I had first feared. Sophie is a mess: she’s bulimic, broke, and bull-headed. She’s so far in denial about her life that I couldn’t spend time with her. I had to put the book down.

It’s one thing to want to read an autobiography about someone who’s a bigger train wreck. We have a reason to want to like them — we have heard the music they make. There’s a connection there.

Thus, in fiction, it’s imperative for the reader to be able to relate to a character who has large amounts of baggage. We need to like them, care about them, root for them. They need to have some sort of drive, some sort of forward motion — either about them or their plot. If it’s going to be a plot-driven book, the character shouldn’t get in the way of that. Sadly, Sophie does.

I needed a reason to like Sophie. But I find myself intolerant of women characters, especially, who are broke but continue to spend money as if it’s no big deal. And then the sex scene with Leon… really, I had to ask if Sophie had any self-respect whatsoever.

If she doesn’t respect herself, why should I?

Kiss the Sky became a Did Not Finish.

I love used book sales. I’m such a fan of them, though, that I’ve had to institute a few rules.

1. I’m only allowed to buy it if I know for certain it’s on my wishlist. “For certain” is key; there are over 2300 books on my wishlist. Yes, I’ve bought the same book more than once… more than once.

2. I’m only allowed to buy it if it was written by a friend of mine. I’ve been known to pick up books from friends for the mere purpose of passing them on to new homes, in fact. So it’s always worth making friends with me.

3. I’m only allowed to buy it if it has Rock Novel elements.

That last rule is the one that led me to pick up Ruth Ryan Langan’s All that Glitters. In today’s world, a publication date of 1994 makes this book ancient, but whatever. It probably cost me a dime — I picked it up at a bag sale. According to the back of the book, the main heroine has two loves — her brother and her singing career.

Slam dunk, right?

Not so much.

One of the mistakes many Rock Novel writers make is falling into clichés. The cute but stupid drummer. The egotistical lead singer.

In All that Glitters, we had all sorts of other clichés — the kind you’d find in a Danielle Steel novel. Those big romance tropes, the ones that have so very wrongly defined the genre for so many people.

I never got to the parts where the music mattered. The clichés bothered me too much.

On to the next.

With a title like The Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam, you’d expect the book to be a work of Rock Fiction, right? Add in a mention on the back blurb of the fact that our heroine, Allegra, has a thing for karaoke — and hello? That name!! — and yeah. You’d expect a rock novel. It’s not that unreasonable.

Ha. Not even close. This is one of those madcap, hapless tales of an amateur sleuth. There’s no rock here. Heck, there’s barely a mention of the karaoke nights.

In that respect, it’s quite disappointing.

In every other respect, this is one fun read. Allegra’s a great heroine. It’s easy to root for her. And Sloan is one heck of a hunky foil. The plot isn’t the most original, but it’s one that holds you throughout. I’m definitely going to be keeping an eye out for more from author Marilee Brothers.

It may not be a Rock Novel. But it’s a West of Mars Recommended Read.

My book club read Laurie Gwen Shapiro’s The Matzo Ball Heiress. We loved it; it was a great romp through a fun story, and one most of us in my book club could relate to … in one way or another.

Then I picked up The Anglophile, her follow-up. I didn’t love it. I may not have finished it.

So what possessed me to pick up her first book, The Unexpected Salami?

Well, Matzo Ball was that good. And as a bonus, The Unexpected Salami has a rock theme: Rachel, our heroine, turns tail and runs home when the drummer of the band she’s been living with gets shot.

Definite rock theme there, especially when The Tall Poppies go on to have moderate success.

All the elements are there! A book by an author whose penned another book I loved. Bands. Music. Rock and roll. What’s not to like?

Well, Rachel, for one. She’s whiny and so totally unlikeable, getting to the end of the book was difficult. It was a slog, a chore. It was, at times, torture. I kept wanting to smack her and tell her to grow up, get a clue, take some responsibility already. Not something you want to be reading as you’re trying to relax, unwind, and get ready for a good night’s sleep.

Since this is Rachel’s story, liking her is absolutely necessary. And since I couldn’t do that, I hated the rest of the book, too. It might have worked — part of the plot is her indecision about the men in her life — with someone who had at least one redeeming quality.

No go.

I’m now 2 for 3 with Ms. Shapiro’s books — and that 2 stands for dislike, not like. Loving that sophomore effort… I’m thinking that was the anomaly.

If you disagree with me and you thought The Unexpected Salami was great — or even good — leave your link in the comments. I’ll list any links here, and if you’ve written a really great review, I’ll link to that on the Rock Books page, too.

I am not sure I knew Last Night at Chateau Marmont fell squarely into the category of Rock and Roll Fiction until a copy arrived from BookMooch and I read the cover flap. It’s the story of Brooke Alter and what happens to her when her husband lands a recording deal and becomes music’s new darling.

Okay, so it’s about Julian as he becomes a mega-star. That qualifies for rock and roll fiction, right? Even if Julian isn’t a rocker as much as a pop musician in the best sense of the word — after all, the guy lands the opening slot on Maroon 5′s tour.

This book doesn’t feel very rock-ish. If anything, it’s a story about celebrity. The paparazzi abound (although I don’t quite get how they conveniently disappear when the dog needs to be walked. Walter Alter didn’t come across as particularly interested in eating paparazzi.) and the jet-set lifestyle has definite negatives when you are the one at home, trying to continue to live your life as if nothing has changed. Gossip magazines rule your lifestyle.

In some senses, Julian could have been an actor thrust into the spotlight. Or a reality show star. His being in the music business didn’t matter.

And that is why this isn’t a rock and roll novel.

It’s a good read, though. Perfect for the beach. It’s not too deep, even when it flirts with serious topics like the serious bumps that can end a marriage or eating disorders. Even the ending is easy and breezy. It’s almost too easy, but that fits the sort of book this is. And it’s neat to see music from the angle of celebrity. That part, I can’t find fault with. It’s so real, so chilling. I can see the meeting of the scorned women so clearly, as if I was watching the reality show based on them. (Is there one? Gosh, I hope not!) And while I don’t read the rags, I’ve seen enough of them in my day to believe this vile, snarky world Weisberger plunges us — and Brooke — into.

If you’re looking for real rock and roll fiction, there are better books out there. If you want a pleasant read to pass a few hours with, this is definitely the one for you. I may not rave about it, but I’m sure glad I read it.

I remember when I first heard of David Hiltbrand. He’s a rock journalist and feature reporter for those cross-state folk at the Philadelphia Inquirer. No, not THAT Inquirer. Sheesh.

Anyway, I picked up Hiltbrand’s first novel, Killer Solo. Even dropped the man a friendly e-mail because, hey, us rock and roll authors ought to stick together.

And then… I didn’t love the book the way I expected to. I know, I have really high expectations for anything involving a musician. Maybe too high.

But you know what? I liked the book enough to hit up BookMooch or PaperbackSwap and get my hands on Hiltbrand’s next two books. They hung around my office awhile, as books usually do. In preparation for Rocktober, I finally picked up the second book, Deader than Disco.

If Killer Solo had been as good as this book, I’d be raving about this series from top to bottom. Deader than Disco is a GREAT read.

The rocker at the heart of the book, Angel, is almost a total ripoff of Madonna. (I hope Madonna isn’t so unpleasant in person, but on the other hand, I can believe that there’s a glimmer of truth in Angel’s character.) The storyline deviates, however, in that I don’t believe anyone has ever turned up dead at Madonna’s home, making her a suspect and sending her on the run.

As with Killer Solo, the music details are pretty authentic. Hiltbrand knows this world, inside and out. In Deader than Disco, however, there are some almost fatal mistakes. Eighties bands such as Duran Duran are shifted an entire decade earlier, into the seventies, for example. Given the level of knowledge of a pop star’s inner circle, these mistakes seem more out of place than the mistakes you’ll find in a book that doesn’t obviously know the rock world so well. Yes, I’m saying I’m holding Hiltbrand to a higher standard. Given his pedigree, it’s not an unreasonable standard.

Where Hiltbrand doesn’t fail is with our main character, detective Jim McNamara. He has an authenticity about him that can’t be denied. His AA life is well represented and seems as real to me as the music world.

Of course, Jim rides to the rescue and saves the day — and Angel’s hide, too. That’s pretty much a given in today’s literature, and people would be calling for his head if this weren’t the case.

Unfortunately, this series, published between 2003 and 2006, seems to be Hiltbrand’s only fiction. Not just rock fiction, but fiction. Period. It’s too bad. While the series got off to a rocky start. Deader than Disco is a definite West of Mars Recommended Read.

** Note from Susan: I can’t find a buy link for Killer Solo at Powells.com, or I’d have included it. The book must be out of print. There IS a Kindle edition, however. Guess that’s too bad for those of us who don’t use Kindles…

Every now and then, you hear about a book that excites you beyond belief. A book you absolutely MUST read, so much so that you go track down the author so you can get a copy for yourself. Yeah, I know. It happens to me fairly often. What can I say? I’m a book freak. Bibliophile, I believe the word is.

Now, I’m not the world’s biggest fan of horror. Oh, I like the genre, don’t get me wrong. My problem with horror is that I like really well-done, squirm-in-your-seat, psychological horror. The blood and gore? Yawn. But if you promise to mess with my brain and make me afraid of what might be creeping around in the dark, I’m there.

I suppose it makes sense that this horror novel that caught my fancy was written by the one and only Jeremy Wagner, guitarist for metal bands Lupara and Broken Hope. The man rocks harder than I do, and now he’s treading on MY turf: rock and roll fiction.

The Armageddon Chord, his debut novel, is the story of Kirk Vaisto, God of Guitar. Poor Kirk’s a good guy, living a quiet life in a mansion, with a backyard music studio. The set-up reminds me of Jason Newsted and his Chophouse, but not quite as communal. Kirk’s a loner, all right. I’m not sure the poor dude has friends.

Anyway, Kirk gets suckered by his amazingly opportunistic agent into signing a contract with Festus Baustone, a bully who keeps company with some really sick people. Baustone and his buddy want Kirk to play a song for them. It seems simple at first — until Kirk finishes the transcription and plays it for the first time. Then, he’s smart enough to turn tail and run. Or… try to. Remember when I said Baustone was a bully? Yeah. That.

It’s Satan who’s coming to visit via the mystery song. And it’s up to Kirk to not only summon him, but vanquish him as well. Is our man up to the task?

This storyline is so awesome, I’m not sure why it wasn’t an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Really. Joss Whedon is wherever he is in all his brilliance, wondering why he didn’t think of this plotline. It’s that good.

And while I know there are an awful lot of people who dismiss the power of music, Wagner spends some time letting his characters wax more poetic than I ever could on the subject.

One area where I could use a little less waxing is near the end, when religion figures very strongly into the situation. Oh, I get that it’s necessary and I love what the guitar does to the heavy. Plot-wise, it works. It’s just that the characters get a bit too preachy about the glory of Christianity for this good little Jewish girl from the ‘burbs.

I hope Wagner’s got more up his sleeve, with or without Kirk and his love interest, Mona (that’s a provocative name…). He shows some serious author chops in this too-short novel (am I the only one bemoaning the lack of subplots?), although there are some clunkers that show Wagner as a writer who’s still got some growing and polishing to do on the mechanical level. Yet he’s close: on page two, he hits us with a band so evil, they “made Slayer look like Justin Bieber.”

Dude. I hope you know the Slayer guys if you’re going to go around dissing them like that. I’ve met them. They scare me. (Actually, that’s not true. I have met them, but they didn’t scare me. Still, it sounds good, so we’ll go with it.)

Keep writing, Jeremy. You’ve earned this West of Mars Recommended stamp.

**FTC Disclosure: Jeremy was kind enough to put up with my online wheedling and sent me a review copy. And some postcards, which I’ve already given to other rockin’ friends.