A baby boomer fantasy novel about racial intermarriage, sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. Yawn. Praise the Lord, at least Mr McInerney has been sharpening his wit on a razor strop, because the theme of the book is a bit, what's the word - passe? That's it. French words are extremely useful for critics. French is the language of pretentiousness par excellence, don't you think? And critics are pretentious geese, don't you know? So why am i reviewing this book? For you, dear reader. For you. Because i love you.
Will is a rock'n'roll renegade, that is why he is called Will. As a literary device, this is as crude and effective as a potato stamp. Bang. Will. He defies his families wishes. He marries a black woman in the deep south. Will.
Meanwhile, Patrick, the narrator, is a lawyer. Well, enough said.
A soft cock, social climbing, Ivy League wuss. The most radical thing he will do in his life is be a friend of Will. And turn out to have half-baked homosexual tendencies and desires for him. Oh, big freaking deal. Why don't writers write about something interesting, like how pearl farmers use Mississippi Pig Toe Clams as the nucleus for cultured pearls? Now you tell me, how cultured could something with a name like a Mississippi Pig Toe Clam possibly be? Like most lawyers, i'm sure he imagines himself to be a vanguard of justice, a torch-bearer for some worthy cause or other, but in reality he is just another weasel, a piece of vermin. That is, in those places where weasels are vermin. Hmm. Perhaps they are protected? ...but in reality, he is just another cane toad, a piece of vermin. Hold on, can't you lick cane toads and get high? As i understand it, in aged care facilities right across Queensland, the high point of the recreational calendar is always the Cane Toad Licking Party. ... but in reality, he is just another stupid character in a half-assed half-smart half-funny book with a nice photograph on the cover, a piece of vermin.
I remember when Sarah, the nice girl from the bookshop in Cottesloe, recommended McInerney's "Bright Lights, Big City" to me. I read it, and at the time it was meant to be the best thing since sliced bread. It probably was; I may very well have eaten a bit of sliced bread that morning and read the book that afternoon but so what: sliced bread is overrated. I think Sarah was just dropping a hint that she wanted to come over to my place, smoke a joint, do a line of coke, and let nature take an unnatural course. Drugs. It's all smoke and mirrors.
If you would like to read some more of my astonishingly stupid reviews, google "electricnerve". There you go.
Love and cigarettes,
the Art Director.


Recommended: Yes