From Publishers Weekly
If rock 'n' roll bands moan about why we can't all get along, the rock industry that scoops them up and spits them out must be the reason. Or so industry insider Sampson (Awaydays) would have readers believe. This long, over-stuffed novel, in which vomiting on someone can be forgiven but bad haircuts cannot, chronicles the rise and fall of a Liverpudlian alternative-rock quartet, the Grams, and its hordes of associated apparatchiks. It is in a fit of blind rage (read: envy over the success of his nemesis's band, Sensira) that the Grams' requisitely melancholy singer-songwriter, Keva McCluskey, agrees to play a desperate gig orchestrated by manager "Wheezer" Finlay at a rich family's party. Said family just happens to have a son recently out of rehab; said son, Guy deBurrett, just happens to be a record producer, and the Grams shoot to stardom. First, there's the record deal, financed by Guy's trust fund; then there's the first single, the big show, the big video, the big tour. The book's central appeal is the author's formidable knowledge of the record business (Samson managed the British band the Farm). There's no plot, but rather a trajectory, with the band passing through a number of preordained points: the obligatory bacchanalian pilgrimage to Ibiza, the great on-tour freak-out and the ominously recurrent wrangling over publishing rights. Though excellent at showing the hows of the music industry, Sampson does not explain the whys, and few of his many characters offer any insight. While presenting a series of funny snapshots of the music industry, the book's slow buildup and flash-in-the-pan conclusion may leave readers hoping the next record will be better. Expect no platinum or gold pressings for this title. (Nov.)
Copyright 2000 Reed Business Information, Inc.
From Library Journal
Sex, drugs, and rock'n'roll always make great headlines but rarely a riveting novel. Real writers (Don Delillo, Great Jones Street) and dilettantes (Bill Flanagan, A&R) alike have faltered at translating the power of three chords into prose. A one-time rock manager and proud Liverpudlian, Sampson obviously knows the rarefied realm of which he speaks. The Grams start off as a credible creation, an ecstatically brooding four-piece who want to rule the word … la U2 or the Clash and do, for the blink of an eye. But Sampson spreads his ink much too thin, weaving in and out of the heads of the band members as well as their record label president, manager, publicists, and bus driver at the cost of much-needed context and focus. As it turns out, excess in itself makes for a toxically boring trip. What could have been characters come out as coke-snorting caricatures. Sure, rock'n'roll is 99 percent bullshit, but that remaining shred of meaning fuels the future Kurt Cobains of the world and deserves more attention. With graphic sex and language, of course. Not recommended. Heather McCormack, "Library Journal"
Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information, Inc.
