I think I have finally got
Michael Chabot pegged as to what he is trying to do with his books. With each
novel, he tries to blend a certain kind of modern sensibility toward pop
culture with the kind of scholarship you’d expect out of archaic English
professors. For all the things I have to say about him, I find this mission
very admirable. We need to broaden the types of people and things we deem smart
and intellectual, and throw some of this narrow minded crap out the window, and
writers like Chabon are trying to do that. But he does so in a rather pretentious
way that does little to bridge the gap between high art and pulp subjects. They
don’t mix well, and the characters he creates come off as being rather arrogant
about their shared knowledge of Sci-Fi and Dickens, and I would go as far to
say that they don’t reach out to too many average readers. His new novel,
Telegraph Avenue, is like that for about the last 300 or so pages, using silly
techniques (like a whole section being one sentence, which, at 15 pages, is
quite a drag), and making references that smack of smugness about Jazz music
and obscure film. But for the fist hundred pages or so, it is as good as his
novel Wonderboys, which is still what I compare all his other books to. This
story of Brokeland Records, its two founder, Archy and Nat, and the community
they trying to save from Gibson Goode and the Dogpile Record juggernaut, as a
very positive message about little businesses and how they are safe havens for
collectors when the world gets too rough. But when side characters are
introduced, like the two wives, as well as Archy’s long lost son and father,
who was a pseudo-Fred Williamson in the 70’s, this book totally derails and crash
lands. Hopefully he can repeat the success of Wonderboys in the future, because,
whether it is good or not, I feel obligated to read it.
Rating: 3/5
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