Onetime underground journalist Sandy Blair has traveled far from his radical roots in the ’60s—until the bizarre and brutal murder of a millionaire rock promoter draws him back. As Sandy sets out to investigate the crime, he finds himself on a magical mystery tour of the pent-up passions of his generation. For a new messiah has resurrected the once legendary rock band Nazgûl—but with an apocalyptic new beat that is a requiem of demonism, mind control, and death only Sandy may be able to change in time. . . .
--This text refers to an alternate
Paperback
edition.
The Armageddon Rag: A Novel
and over one million other books are available for Amazon Kindle.
Learn more
| ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Book Description
Editorial Reviews
About the Author
George R.R. Martin sold his first story in 1971 and has been writing professionally since then. He spent ten years in Hollywood as a writer-producer, working on The Twilight Zone, Beauty and the Beast, and various feature films and television pilots that were never made. In the mid '90s he returned to prose, his first love, and began work on his epic fantasy series, A Song of Ice and Fire. He has been in the Seven Kingdoms ever since. Whenever he's allowed to leave, he returns to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he lives with the lovely Parris, a big white dog called Mischa, and two cats named Augustus and Caligula, who think they run the place.
--This text refers to an alternate
Paperback
edition.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Those were the days, my friend/
We thought they'd never end
It was not one of Sandy Blair's all-time great days. His agent had picked up the lunch tab, to be sure, but that only partially made up for the way he'd gotten on Sandy's case about the novel deadline. The subway was full of yahoos and it seemed to take forever to get him back to Brooklyn. The three-block walk to the brownstone he called home seemed longer and colder than usual. He felt in dire need of a beer by the time he got there. He pulled one from the fridge, opened it, and ascended wearily to his third-floor office to face the stack of blank paper he was supposedly turning into a book. Once again, the elves had failed to knock off any chapters in his absence; page thirty-seven was still in his typewriter. You just couldn't get good elves anymore, Sandy thought morosely. He stared at the words with distaste, took a swig from the bottle in his hand, and looked around for a distraction.
That was when he noticed the red light on his message machine, and found that Jared Patterson had phoned.
Actually it had been Jared's secretary who made the call, which Sandy found amusing; even after seven years, and everything that had happened, Patterson was still a bit nervous about him. "Jared Patterson would like Mister Blair to contact him as soon as possible, in connection with an assignment," said the pleasant professional voice. Sandy listened to her twice before erasing the tape. "Jared Patterson," he said to himself, bemused. The name evoked a hell of a lot of memories.
Sandy knew that he really ought to ignore Patterson's message. The sonofabitch deserved no more. That was hopeless, though; he was already too curious. He picked up the phone and dialed, mildly astonished to discover that he still remembered the number, after seven years. A secretary picked up. "Hedgehog," she said. "Mister Patterson's office."
"This is Sander Blair," Sandy said. "Jared phoned me. Tell the poltroon that I'm returning his call."
"Yes, Mister Blair. Mister Patterson left instructions to put you through at once. Please hold."
A moment later, Patterson's familiar mock-hearty voice was ringing in Sandy's ear. "Sandy! It's great to hear ya, really it is. Long time, old man. How's it hanging?"
"Cut the shit, Jared," Sandy said sharply. "You're no happier to hear from me than I was to hear from you. What the hell you want? And keep it short, I'm a busy man."
Patterson chuckled. "Is that any way to talk to an old friend? Still no social graces, I see. All right, then, however you want it. I wantcha to do a story for Hedgehog, how's that for straight?"
"Go suck a lemon," Sandy said. "Why the hell should I write for you? You fired me, you asshole."
"Bitter, bitter," Jared chided. "That was seven years ago, Sandy. I hardly remember it now."
"That's funny. I remember it real well. I'd lost it, you said. I was out of touch with what was happening, you said. I was too old to edit for the youth audience, you said. I was taking the Hog down the tubes, you said. Like shit. I was the one who made that paper, and you damn well know it."
"Never denied it," Jared Patterson said breezily. "But times changed, and you didn't. If I'd kept you on, we'd have gone down with the Freep and the Barb and all the rest. All that counterculture stuff had to go. I mean, who needed it? All that politics, reviewers who hated the hot new trends in music, the drug stories . . . it just didn't cut it, y'know?" He sighed. "Look, I didn't call to hash over ancient history. I was hoping you'd have more perspective by now. Hell, Sandy, firing you hurt me more than it did you."
"Oh, sure," Sandy said. "You sold out to a chain and got a nice cushy salaried job as publisher while you were firing three-quarters of your staff. You must be in such pain." He snorted. "Jared, you're still an asshole. We built that paper together, as a communal sort of thing. It wasn't yours to sell."
"Hey, communes were all well and good back when we were young, but you seem to forget that it was my money kept the whole show afloat."
"Your money and our talent."
"God, you haven't changed a bit, have you?" Jared said. "Well, think what you like, but our circulation is three times what it was when you were editor, and our ad revenues are out of sight. Hedgehog has class now. We get nominated for real journalism awards. Have you seen us lately?"
"Sure," said Sandy. "Great stuff. Restaurant reviews. Profiles of movie stars. Suzanne Somers on the cover, for God's sake. Consumer reports on video games. A dating service for lonely singles. What is it you call yourself now? The Newspaper of Alternative Lifestyles?"
"We changed that, dropped the 'alternative' part. It's just Lifestyles now. Between the two H's in the logo."
"Jesus," Sandy said. "Your music editor has green hair!"
"He's got a real deep understanding of pop music," Jared said defensively. "And stop shouting at me. You're always shouting at me. I'm starting to regret calling you, y'know. Do you want to talk about this assignment or not?"
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. Why do you think I need your assignment?"
"No one said you did. I'm not out of it, I know you've been doing well. How many novels have you published? Four?"
"Three," Sandy corrected.
"Hedgehog's run reviews on every one of them too. You oughtta be grateful. Firing you was the best thing I could have done for you. You were always a better writer than you were an editor."
"Oh, thank you, massa, thank you. I's ever so thankful. I owes it all to you."
"You could at least be civil," Jared said. "Look, you don't need us and we don't need you, but I thought it would be nice to work together again, just for old time's sake. Admit it, it'd be a kick to have your byline in the old Hog again, wouldn't it? And we pay better than we used to."
"I'm not hurting for money."
"Who said you were? I know all about you. Three novels and a brownstone and a sports car. What is it, a Porsche or something?"
"A Mazda RX-7," Sandy said curtly.
"Yeah, and you live with a realtor, so don't lecture me about selling out, Sandy old boy."
"What do you want, Jared?" Sandy said, stung. "I'm getting tired of sparring."
"We've got a story that would be perfect for you. We want to play it up big, too, and I thought maybe you'd be interested. It's a murder."
"What are you doing now, trying to turn the Hog into True Detective? Forget it, Jared, I don't do crime shit."
"Jamie Lynch was the guy that got himself murdered."
The name of the victim brought Sandy up short, and a wisecrack died in his mouth. "The promoter?"
"None other."
Sandy sat back, took a swig of beer, and mulled on that. Lynch had been out of the news for years, a has-been even before Sandy was fired from the Hog, but in his day he had been an important man in the rock subculture. It could be an interesting story. Lynch had always been surrounded by controversy. He'd worn two hats: promoter and manager. As a promoter, he'd organized some of the biggest tours and concerts of his day. He'd ensured their success by booking in the bands he controlled as manager, and by denying those bands to rival concerts. With hot talent like American Taco, the Fevre River Packet Company, and the Nazgûl under his thumb, he'd been a man to reckon with. At least up until 1971, when the disaster at West Mesa, the breakup of the Nazgûl, and a couple of drug busts started him on the long slide down. "What happened to him?" Sandy asked.
"It's pretty kinky," Jared said. "Somebody busted into his place up in Maine, dragged him into his office, and offed him there. They tied him to his desk, and, like, sacrificed him. Cut his heart out. He had one after all. Remember the old jokes? Ah, never mind. Anyhow, the whole scene was kind of grotesque. Mansonesque, y'know? Well, that made me think of the series you did back around the time that Sharon Tate got offed, you know, that investigation of . . . what did you call it?"
"The dark side of the counterculture," Sandy said dryly. "We won awards for that series, Jared."
"Yeah, right. I remembered it was good. So I thought of you. This is right up your alley. Real Sixties, y'know? What we're thinking of is a long meaty piece, like those in-depth things you used to go for. We'll use the murder as a news peg, see, and you could investigate it a bit, see maybe if you could kick up something the police miss, y'know, but mostly use it as a springboard for a sort of retrospective on Jamie Lynch and his promotions, all his groups and his concerts and his times and like that. Maybe you could look up some of the guys from his old groups, the Fevre River gang and the Nazgûl and all, interview 'em and work in some where-are-they-now kind of stuff. It would be sort of a nostalgia piece, I figure."
"Your readership thinks the Beatles were the band Paul McCartney was with before he got Wings," Sandy said. "They won't even know who Jamie Lynch was, for Chrissakes."
"That's where you're wrong. We still have lots of our old readers. The kind of feature I see on this Lynch business will be real popular. Now, can you write it or not?"
"Of course I can wri... --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.
Those were the days, my friend/
We thought they'd never end
It was not one of Sandy Blair's all-time great days. His agent had picked up the lunch tab, to be sure, but that only partially made up for the way he'd gotten on Sandy's case about the novel deadline. The subway was full of yahoos and it seemed to take forever to get him back to Brooklyn. The three-block walk to the brownstone he called home seemed longer and colder than usual. He felt in dire need of a beer by the time he got there. He pulled one from the fridge, opened it, and ascended wearily to his third-floor office to face the stack of blank paper he was supposedly turning into a book. Once again, the elves had failed to knock off any chapters in his absence; page thirty-seven was still in his typewriter. You just couldn't get good elves anymore, Sandy thought morosely. He stared at the words with distaste, took a swig from the bottle in his hand, and looked around for a distraction.
That was when he noticed the red light on his message machine, and found that Jared Patterson had phoned.
Actually it had been Jared's secretary who made the call, which Sandy found amusing; even after seven years, and everything that had happened, Patterson was still a bit nervous about him. "Jared Patterson would like Mister Blair to contact him as soon as possible, in connection with an assignment," said the pleasant professional voice. Sandy listened to her twice before erasing the tape. "Jared Patterson," he said to himself, bemused. The name evoked a hell of a lot of memories.
Sandy knew that he really ought to ignore Patterson's message. The sonofabitch deserved no more. That was hopeless, though; he was already too curious. He picked up the phone and dialed, mildly astonished to discover that he still remembered the number, after seven years. A secretary picked up. "Hedgehog," she said. "Mister Patterson's office."
"This is Sander Blair," Sandy said. "Jared phoned me. Tell the poltroon that I'm returning his call."
"Yes, Mister Blair. Mister Patterson left instructions to put you through at once. Please hold."
A moment later, Patterson's familiar mock-hearty voice was ringing in Sandy's ear. "Sandy! It's great to hear ya, really it is. Long time, old man. How's it hanging?"
"Cut the shit, Jared," Sandy said sharply. "You're no happier to hear from me than I was to hear from you. What the hell you want? And keep it short, I'm a busy man."
Patterson chuckled. "Is that any way to talk to an old friend? Still no social graces, I see. All right, then, however you want it. I wantcha to do a story for Hedgehog, how's that for straight?"
"Go suck a lemon," Sandy said. "Why the hell should I write for you? You fired me, you asshole."
"Bitter, bitter," Jared chided. "That was seven years ago, Sandy. I hardly remember it now."
"That's funny. I remember it real well. I'd lost it, you said. I was out of touch with what was happening, you said. I was too old to edit for the youth audience, you said. I was taking the Hog down the tubes, you said. Like shit. I was the one who made that paper, and you damn well know it."
"Never denied it," Jared Patterson said breezily. "But times changed, and you didn't. If I'd kept you on, we'd have gone down with the Freep and the Barb and all the rest. All that counterculture stuff had to go. I mean, who needed it? All that politics, reviewers who hated the hot new trends in music, the drug stories . . . it just didn't cut it, y'know?" He sighed. "Look, I didn't call to hash over ancient history. I was hoping you'd have more perspective by now. Hell, Sandy, firing you hurt me more than it did you."
"Oh, sure," Sandy said. "You sold out to a chain and got a nice cushy salaried job as publisher while you were firing three-quarters of your staff. You must be in such pain." He snorted. "Jared, you're still an asshole. We built that paper together, as a communal sort of thing. It wasn't yours to sell."
"Hey, communes were all well and good back when we were young, but you seem to forget that it was my money kept the whole show afloat."
"Your money and our talent."
"God, you haven't changed a bit, have you?" Jared said. "Well, think what you like, but our circulation is three times what it was when you were editor, and our ad revenues are out of sight. Hedgehog has class now. We get nominated for real journalism awards. Have you seen us lately?"
"Sure," said Sandy. "Great stuff. Restaurant reviews. Profiles of movie stars. Suzanne Somers on the cover, for God's sake. Consumer reports on video games. A dating service for lonely singles. What is it you call yourself now? The Newspaper of Alternative Lifestyles?"
"We changed that, dropped the 'alternative' part. It's just Lifestyles now. Between the two H's in the logo."
"Jesus," Sandy said. "Your music editor has green hair!"
"He's got a real deep understanding of pop music," Jared said defensively. "And stop shouting at me. You're always shouting at me. I'm starting to regret calling you, y'know. Do you want to talk about this assignment or not?"
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. Why do you think I need your assignment?"
"No one said you did. I'm not out of it, I know you've been doing well. How many novels have you published? Four?"
"Three," Sandy corrected.
"Hedgehog's run reviews on every one of them too. You oughtta be grateful. Firing you was the best thing I could have done for you. You were always a better writer than you were an editor."
"Oh, thank you, massa, thank you. I's ever so thankful. I owes it all to you."
"You could at least be civil," Jared said. "Look, you don't need us and we don't need you, but I thought it would be nice to work together again, just for old time's sake. Admit it, it'd be a kick to have your byline in the old Hog again, wouldn't it? And we pay better than we used to."
"I'm not hurting for money."
"Who said you were? I know all about you. Three novels and a brownstone and a sports car. What is it, a Porsche or something?"
"A Mazda RX-7," Sandy said curtly.
"Yeah, and you live with a realtor, so don't lecture me about selling out, Sandy old boy."
"What do you want, Jared?" Sandy said, stung. "I'm getting tired of sparring."
"We've got a story that would be perfect for you. We want to play it up big, too, and I thought maybe you'd be interested. It's a murder."
"What are you doing now, trying to turn the Hog into True Detective? Forget it, Jared, I don't do crime shit."
"Jamie Lynch was the guy that got himself murdered."
The name of the victim brought Sandy up short, and a wisecrack died in his mouth. "The promoter?"
"None other."
Sandy sat back, took a swig of beer, and mulled on that. Lynch had been out of the news for years, a has-been even before Sandy was fired from the Hog, but in his day he had been an important man in the rock subculture. It could be an interesting story. Lynch had always been surrounded by controversy. He'd worn two hats: promoter and manager. As a promoter, he'd organized some of the biggest tours and concerts of his day. He'd ensured their success by booking in the bands he controlled as manager, and by denying those bands to rival concerts. With hot talent like American Taco, the Fevre River Packet Company, and the Nazgûl under his thumb, he'd been a man to reckon with. At least up until 1971, when the disaster at West Mesa, the breakup of the Nazgûl, and a couple of drug busts started him on the long slide down. "What happened to him?" Sandy asked.
"It's pretty kinky," Jared said. "Somebody busted into his place up in Maine, dragged him into his office, and offed him there. They tied him to his desk, and, like, sacrificed him. Cut his heart out. He had one after all. Remember the old jokes? Ah, never mind. Anyhow, the whole scene was kind of grotesque. Mansonesque, y'know? Well, that made me think of the series you did back around the time that Sharon Tate got offed, you know, that investigation of . . . what did you call it?"
"The dark side of the counterculture," Sandy said dryly. "We won awards for that series, Jared."
"Yeah, right. I remembered it was good. So I thought of you. This is right up your alley. Real Sixties, y'know? What we're thinking of is a long meaty piece, like those in-depth things you used to go for. We'll use the murder as a news peg, see, and you could investigate it a bit, see maybe if you could kick up something the police miss, y'know, but mostly use it as a springboard for a sort of retrospective on Jamie Lynch and his promotions, all his groups and his concerts and his times and like that. Maybe you could look up some of the guys from his old groups, the Fevre River gang and the Nazgûl and all, interview 'em and work in some where-are-they-now kind of stuff. It would be sort of a nostalgia piece, I figure."
"Your readership thinks the Beatles were the band Paul McCartney was with before he got Wings," Sandy said. "They won't even know who Jamie Lynch was, for Chrissakes."
"That's where you're wrong. We still have lots of our old readers. The kind of feature I see on this Lynch business will be real popular. Now, can you write it or not?"
"Of course I can wri... --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.
Product Details
Would you like to update product info or give feedback on images?
|
More About the Author
George R.R. Martin sold his first story in 1971 and has been writing professionally since then. He spent ten years in Hollywood as a writer-producer, working on The Twilight Zone, Beauty and the Beast, and various feature films and television pilots that were never made. In the mid '90s he returned to prose, his first love, and began work on his epic fantasy series, A Song of Ice and Fire. He has been in the Seven Kingdoms ever since. Whenever he's allowed to leave, he returns to Santa Fe, New Mexico, where he lives with the lovely Parris, and two cats named Augustus and Caligula, who think they run the place.
Customer Reviews
|
Share your thoughts with other customers:
|
||||||||||||||||||||||
|
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
37 of 42 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
A Classic-Rock / Horror Masterpiece,
By
This review is from: The Armageddon Rag (Hardcover)
It seems quite appropriate that praise from Stephen King can be found on the back of this book. Like many of King's better novels, the "Rag", doesn't seem like a horror novel at the start. Instead, we are given an engaging mystery set in a real-life setting. But as you continue to turn the pages, you begin to get the sense that something is definitely not right, and eventually, we encounter the supernatural.I highly recommend this book, but as I write this review, the question I ask myself is, "Exactly *whom* would I recommend it to?" When I first picked up the Rag, I was dubious. Of course I loved Song of Ice and Fire, and I found myself quite impressed with most of Martin's horror and sci-fi works as well... But I didn't have much confidence in an out-of-print horror book with a hippie/seventies/classic rock setting. Fortunately, I read it anyway, or I would have missed out on one fabulous book. The bottom-line is, this is one book that truly doesn't deserve to be out-of-print, and thanks to Martin's rocketing popularity- it soon won't be. As soon as you can, give it a try!
20 of 26 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
A classic.,
This review is from: The Armageddon Rag (Hardcover)
By now, this has to be a classic in the fantasy/horror field. I remember picking it up in as price-reduced overstock, simply for the astonishing artwork (the german edition) and that title. I have to say, that I'm still very thankful for that occasion. Not only has Mr. Martin delivered the best Werewolf-Novellla of all time (Skintrade) but the Song of Fire and Ice Series, that had reignited my interest in Fantasy after 15 years.Thank you Mr. Martin. I want a hardcover-reprint of this book. Now.
23 of 31 people found the following review helpful:
3.0 out of 5 stars
Compelling, if dated, tale in a world that really existed.,
By A Customer
This review is from: The Armageddon Rag (Hardcover)
George R.R. Martin's science fiction novels and short stories strike a resonant chord with compelling, flesh and blood, characters and a real sense of their time... even if that time is thousands of years in the future after a human diaspora into outer space, where many of his tales are set. That sense of time and place is a strength... and weakness, in Armageddon Rag, taking place with a history that really existed and with which the reader is already familiar. This time, we stand at the uncertain, disillusioned dawn of the 1980s, looking back on the chaos of the '60s and '70s, but with the renaissance of the '80s and '90s yet to come. The sad meanderings of the book's former flower children and their yearning for their past delusions are heart wrenching. It's understandable some turn to a bizarre plan to resurrect the Nazgul, a Tolkein tinged, Doors-esque super group whose bloody dissolution years before is part of Armageddon Rag's lush "back story." The sinister truth behind the reunion unravels in a narrative that is both a wistful personal journey and an intriguing mystery. The trouble with the book is that it is so very much a work of its time. In 1980, it would have felt right on. Today, it seems surprisingly dated. Even then, the ex-hippies' lingering desire to destroy the "military-industrial complex," tear America apart, and promote world socialism seemed amusingly anachronistic. Today, after free enterprise's success at bringing prosperity to billions of people, the West's victory in the Cold War and the implosion of the Soviet Union, let alone AIDS, it seems preposterous and makes it hard to muster sympathy for these would-be revolutionaries, including the hero. Even with those shortcomings, Martin's narrative style is mesmerizing and his characters vividly alive, from the conflicted storyteller himself, to the doomed holdouts in the commune... to Froggy the Gremlin. If you can disregard the cobwebs on the protagonist's mindset, Armageddon Rag is a seductive treat.
Share your thoughts with other customers: Create your own review
|
|
Inside This Book
(learn more)
Browse and search another edition of this book.
Browse and search another edition of this book.
Key Phrases - Statistically Improbable Phrases (SIPs):
(learn more)
armageddon rag, guaran fucking tee, sound tower Key Phrases - Capitalized Phrases (CAPs): (learn more)
Gopher John, Edan Morse, West Mesa, Jamie Lynch, Peter Faxon, Larry Richmond, Patrick Henry Hobbins, Rick Maggio, Gopher Hole, Wake the Dead, Butcher Byrne, Flying Eye, Come On Inn, Jared Patterson, Stephen Ellyn, Pat Hobbins, Mister Blair, Sandy Blair, Jane Dennison, New York, Lark Ellyn, Bambi Lassiter, Golden Vision, Red Rocks, Copping Out Browse Sample Pages:
Front Cover | First Pages | Surprise Me!
armageddon rag, guaran fucking tee, sound tower Key Phrases - Capitalized Phrases (CAPs): (learn more)
Gopher John, Edan Morse, West Mesa, Jamie Lynch, Peter Faxon, Larry Richmond, Patrick Henry Hobbins, Rick Maggio, Gopher Hole, Wake the Dead, Butcher Byrne, Flying Eye, Come On Inn, Jared Patterson, Stephen Ellyn, Pat Hobbins, Mister Blair, Sandy Blair, Jane Dennison, New York, Lark Ellyn, Bambi Lassiter, Golden Vision, Red Rocks, Copping Out Browse Sample Pages:
Front Cover | First Pages | Surprise Me!
What Other Items Do Customers Buy After Viewing This Item?
Suggested Tags from Similar Products(What's this?)Be the first one to add a relevant tag (keyword that's strongly related to this product).
|
Customer Discussions
|
This product's forum
Active discussions in related forums
Search Customer Discussions
|
Related forums
|
