A walk on the mild side

Novels set in the music business (from blockbuster to coming-of-age) are few and far between — far less than in the film industry, say. Is this because writers are scared of looking square, Daddy-O, being as a breed not the most ‘street’ of types, whereas pop stars have traditionally been quite rough, ready and proletarian? Mind you, these days so many chart musicians are privately educated bedwetters that, shamefully, this shouldn’t be a problem any longer. I look forward eagerly to the roman à clef which reveals the backstage Babylon of Mumford & Sons.

It certainly couldn’t be more boring than this stinker. I haven’t read any books by Bret Easton Ellis, but I imagine they’re a bit like this: a bunch of seen-it-all ciphers wafting around Los Angeles, turning on and copping off, with no one enjoying it. And it’s all meant to mean something horrid about democracy and capitalism while being a damn sight nearer to Flanders and Swann: ‘Ma’s out, Pa’s out, Let’s talk rude!/Pee Po Belly Bum Drawers/Let’s write rude words all down our street/Stick out our tongues at the people we meet/Let’s have an intellectual treat/Pee Po Belly Bum Drawers.’