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This, however, was in 1988, when this book first appeared and Lester's kind of music was about as unpopular as you can imagine. The late eighties were not really a time for howling guitars and yowling screech, unless you were buying import copies of Sonic Youth LPs for fifteen quid a time at the new Virgin Megastore on Aston Quay in Dublin, so reading that someone had charted this territory before, and had described it so well and preached it so fervently, was like discovering a cool older brother I hadn't known I'd had. (Not that my existing older brother wasn't cool in his own way.)
The main thing was not the music, however, so much as Lester's prose. He was, and is, one of the funniest writers I have ever come across. His fantasy about Lou Reed doing a version of "Rigoletto" set in a leather bar for Puerto Rican amputees made me cry with laughter, only a bit guiltily, and his surgical demolitions of an overblown Chicago album or a preposterous Bowie gig manage to combine great wit with a genuine, if subterranean, moral fervour. His Bowie piece, "Johnny Ray's Better Whirlpool", is for me up there with some of Swift's shorter works, as a bitterly amazed study of human folly.
He could do other things, too, of course; his hushed, radiantly attentive late essay about "Astral Weeks" almost (but not quite) persuades me that I like that album.
While I agree with Greil Marcus that Bangs was, on balance, better about writing about things he had a problem with than about things he flat-out adored, I quibble with the selection of pieces. Although I wouldn't wish for anything here to be omitted, I assume that it was only Marcus' pompous dread of trash that prompted him to reject something as hilariously sarcastic as "How To Be A Rock Critic" (reprinted in Jim DeRogatis' fine biography of Bangs) or reviews of heavy metal albums. Bangs was one of the very few rock writers to find anything in heavy metal, and I would have liked to read him on Deep Purple or Black Sabbath, both of which he admired but which Marcus, we can confidently assume, finds repugnant.
This is still a book I would give as a Christmas gift to any bright-eyed nephew of mine with a musical ear and a fondness for language. Bangs may have led a shambles of a life, but he wrote like an angel, and if I no longer share much with him in the way of musical taste, I'll always admire the passionate intelligence with which he wrestled his likes and dislikes onto the page. He's a model to all critics, not just rock writers.
Now can we have some more?
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