Much like the other novel I read by the author, this one was appreciated on the intellectual and not emotional level. Lipsyte is a clever and stylish writer, he has a way with words, he knows how to create multilayered characters.
But the thing is I didn’t much care for the plot and didn’t at all care about the characters; and appreciation of narrative skills can only take a reader so far on its own. Early 90s, New York music scene. One fecally named band is trying to make it but hitting all sorts of obstacles from murder to personality explosions. It’s one of those fairly stereotypical NY stories of struggling artists and grimy streets, cheap bars, cheap pizza, cheap lifestyles. Sort of like waxing nostalgia for a past that isn’t necessarily worth it. New York has, for a while now, been a city aggressively hostile to nourishing most life (outside of the very wealthy or very naïve/stupid), but apparently once upon a time it welcomed those who dreamed or artistic self-expression and whatever fame and fortune that might bring. If you want to read about that time, this is as good of a book as any. Nothing special, though. Nothing really original, either. Seems like a really familiar story. So there you have it, folks…the novel about The Sh*ts isn’t quite The Sh*t it probably saw itself as, but it’s decent enough, well written, and a very quick read. Thanks Netgalley.
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