May 2, 2006 by A.S. Van Dorston

This book came out over two years ago and for some reason I ignored it. Probably because of all the snarky, dismissive reviews. But the other day I was reading Brendan Halpin’s blog (author of Donorboyand Long Way Back) where he said it made him laugh, so I picked it up. I love this book! I guess the problem is you have to be a big enough music geek to catch all the jokes.

It’s the story of the love-hate relationship between rock critic and academic blowhard Paul St. Pierre, and the “world’s greatest rock critic,” Neal Pollack. St. Pierre is a thinly veiled parody of Greil Marcus, author of Dead Elvis : Chronique d’une obsession culturelle, Lipstick Traces: A Secret History of the 20th Century(where he emasculates punk by trying to elevate its meaning to the level of avant-garde French art movements like the Lettrists and Situationists), Mystery Train : Images of America in Rock-n-Rol, Invisible Republic: Bob Dylan’s Basement Tapes, Like a Rolling Stone: Bob Dylan at the Crossroads, The Old, Weird America : The World of Bob Dylan’s Basement Tapes, and Bob Dylan: The Band and the Basement Tapes. No joke, he really, really likes Dylan. And has a bizarre fetish for the “authenticity” of “old, weird America.”

Pollack is an exaggerated version of Lester Bangs. He and Bangs actually meet in the book, which is pretty funny (“He took a great chug of cough syrup. ‘I’m the King of Rock Critics!; Bangs said. ‘No,’ Pollack said. ‘It is I!”). Pollack dies in 1994 a few days before Kurt Cobain, and St. Pierre gets to work on his biography. For his research, he travels to Memphis to interview Pollacks’ friend Sam Phillips, to Woodstock to interview Dylan, to New York to interview Lou Reed, Detroit, and Bruce Springsteen in New Jersey. Here’s an encounter with Dylan:

“Hey,” he said, cryptically. “How’ve you been, Paul?”
“You remembered me!” I said
. “Of course. Man doesn’t forget a guy who’s written three books about him, now, does he?”
“Do you like me?” I said. “I mean my books? Do you like my books?”
“Yeah,” he said, “They’re pretty good. I see what you’re getting at when you talk about me. Hey. Wanna hear a song I just wrote five minutes ago?”
‘Oh, yes, Please,” I said.
I thought to myself, Bob Dylan wants to be my friend!

We learn that young Norbert Pollackovitz was haunted by the first blues he heard, from Clambone Jefferson at Chicago’s Maxwell Street Market in 1949 (“Sing it Clambone!” shouted an old woman. “You know ah will you sexy bitch,” said the man). The rest of his life was spent chasing this muse and its meaning, becoming neighbors with Elvis Presley, who accidentally runs over his music-hating, racist father, wanders the southwest as a folk troubadour called “The Singin’ Fishin’ Cowboy,” cockblocks Bob Dylan for Joan Baez’s affections (only for Dylan to block him right back), becomes depraved drug buddies with Lou Reed and Iggy Pop, sleeps with St. Pierre’s wife, and gets amnesia, finding himself roadying for Bruce Springsteen.

Throughout the book, Neal Pollack (the actual author) makes up several original lyrics of fictional songs by the fictional Clambone Jefferson and Pollack, Elvis, Dylan, Lou Reed, a George Clinton style alien named P. Amazing Frankenbooty, Springsteen and god knows who else (haven’t quite finished it yet). Some are tedious but mostly hilarious.

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