Le prime (due) cose da dire su 31 canzoni è che è un libro in parte “reazionario”: 1) perché parla di una cosa che l’autore ama, “cosa di per sé difficile, perché uno ha molte più cose da dire su ciò che non va” e 2) perché è un prodotto “uscito così”, spontaneo (“senza forzature né imbottiture”), senza troppi piani studiati a tavolino (struttura, conta delle battute, etc), proprio come dovrebbe essere l’ascolto della musica che ci piace.
Parla delle canzoni che l’autore considera le sue preferite (magari quelle che gli sono venute in mente nel periodo in cui l’ha scritto): alcune perchè ispirate da ricordi personali, altre semplicemente perché gli piacciono. Se dovessi attribuire una parola a questo specifico prodotto di Hornby è quindi quella già detta poche righe più su: spontaneità, quella che dall’ascolto passa alla scrittura.
Non ci sono “ascolti della vergogna” che tengano: ogni brano a modo suo può lasciarci addosso qualcosa di prezioso. È così per i pezzi pop “usa e getta” che ci fanno scoprire, al di là della loro banale semplicità tecnica, che viviamo tutti nello stesso mondo e godiamo tutti delle stesse piccole cose (e se non è già un piccolo miracolo questo!). È così per il rock/metal chiassoso che si ascolta da giovani perché quando non si conosce ancora i propri gusti è più facile “non scegliere” e coprire tutto col rumore. È così per i pezzi che ti tirano fuori una spiritualità inaspettata se sei il tipo che non crede in Dio: quei pezzi da brividi lungo la schiena (ognuno ha i propri) che ti fanno sentire e vedere cose che non ci sono e che non possono essere viste e ti confermano l’esistenza di una “immortalità dell’anima o, come minimo, (di) una coscienza umana che ci unisce tutti”, pezzi che ci confermano che “la vita è breve ma ha un senso”.
Da lettrice e appassionata di musica l’ho apprezzato particolarmente nei passaggi in cui Nick Hornby ragiona sul rapporto che abbiamo con la musica (e con l’arte in generale): come ci rapportiamo ad essa, come reagiamo e cosa da lei ci aspettiamo.
Interessante anche per scovare qualche perla poco conosciuta e farne propria la storia.

My favorite book I read last year was Ten Years in The Tub, Nick Hornby’s collection of columns from The Believer detailing his book reading and purchasing each month. Being a huge music fan as well, I was eager to read Songbook (originally published as 31 Songs, then rereleased with a few bonus essays) Hornby’s collection of essays on various songs and albums. Apparently when this book was first released, a few versions of it came with CDs containing either 11 or even 18 of the 31 songs, so readers could hear these mostly obscure songs that Hornby has chosen to write about. However in the distant future of 2017, readers can now just log on Youtube and listen to every song or album discussed in this book while reading the corresponding chapters.

I’m a pretty big music junky, but apparently my knowledge of Hornby’s favorites was lacking as prior to reading this I only knew the following tracks:
· “Thunder Road” by Bruce Springsteen
· “I’m Like a Bird” by Nelly Furtado”
· “Heartbreaker” by Led Zeppelin
· “Samba Pa Ti” by Santana
· “Mama, You Been On My Mind” by Rod Stewart
· “Rain” by the Beatles
· “Smoke” by Ben Folds Five
· “Caravan” by Van Morrison
· “Puff the Magic Dragon” by Gregory Isaacs (I think we all know the original, but I was unfamiliar with this version)
· “Late for the Sky” by Jackson Browne

That’s only ten of thirty one tracks, so I’m going to assume that part of Hornby’s goal was to focus on music that isn’t already known by the masses. I faired much better on his discussion of albums, owning all of the ones he discussed in depth except for a Steve Earle album, and I’ve got a few others by that artist. On a related note I enjoyed the album chapters the most, although if you told me up front Nick Hornby would spend a few pages discussing Nick Cave, Aimee Mann or Blink-182 I could predict with absolute certainty that I would enjoy it.

I wish I could say I fell in love with several new songs by reading this book, but the songs I was unfamiliar with were all pleasant enough but not so amazing that I had to go out and purchase on my own. The one exception was “Frankie Teardrop” by Suicide, which was an exception because it wasn’t pleasant but instead a curiosity on unpleasantness stretching out for 10 minutes.

Right away I guess this book loses points compared to Ten Years in the Tub, as I discovered several books and authors I loved from reading that, whereas my musical horizons were not expanded by Songbook (in terms of knowledge, yes, but as of yet no new favorites). As for the writing itself, this is a very quick read with typically 5 to 7 not particularly dense pages about Hornby’s relationship to each song (how he discovered it, how often he listens to it, how it compares to other music he enjoys). My favorite music criticism tends to involve some use of the first person as music is very subjective. In order to trust somebody else’s opinion on music I need some assurances that they have good taste. When I was through with this I had a good understanding of Hornby's musical tastes in relation to my own styles of enjoyment.

I suspect the most common criticism of Mr. Hornby’s music writing will be his preference for songs that conform to the pop style and format. The final chapter in the book is a review of the top ten albums of the previous year, and Hornby's critiques of Destiny's Child, Blink-182, Linkin Park, P. Diddy and others shows a definite preference for music that would be classified as "dad rock" or "oldies" by many people under the age of 30 or so today. I'll go on record as saying that I didn't care for a lot of those albums when they came out as well, but I can recognize that several of them resulted in tracks that are still radio favorites 15+ years later, while Hornby's only song he really appreciated from the list was "Falling" by Alicia Keys.

The real joy in reading this book is in Hornby's conversational style and charming anecdotes that reveal more about him than the music he is writing about. Hornby's openness about the challenges of dealing with an autistic child, the changing perceptions of his work once he became famous and his habits upon purchasing box sets stand out in terms of enjoyable sections the reader will take away and retain. Much like Fever Pitch or Ten Years in the Tub, Hornby is upfront that the writing is autobiographical and I suspect readers familiar with his other writing will have a similar reaction (positive or negative) to his work in Songbook.

Nick Hornby ist passionierter Musikliebhaber und nimmt uns in diesem kleinen Büchlein mit in seinen ganz persönlichen musikalischen Kosmos, anhand von 31 ausgewählten Liedern.

Er erzählt Anekdoten aus seinem Leben, über große und kleine Momente, in denen die Musik eine Rolle gespielt hat, spricht von musikalischen Entdeckungen, Zeitgeistphänomenen und Sammelwut, von (Musik)Liebe auf den ersten Blick und Künstlern und Songs, die erst nach und nach ihre Wirkung entfaltet haben, aber auch über persönliche Höhen und Tiefen wie eine berührende Erkenntnis über seinen autistischen Sohn, die ihm beim Hören eines bestimmten Stücks aufgegangen ist.

Ziemlich aus dem Herzen spricht er mir mit seiner Ablehnung von Musik-Snobismus und der Ansicht, dass Bob Dylan zwar definitiv ein prägender Künstler war, aber dennoch auch ganz schön überschätzt wird.

Sehr gefreut hat mich, gleich zu Beginn des Buches einen meiner Lieblingssongs vorzufinden, nämlich "Thunder Road" von Bruce Springsteen. Ansonsten waren mir zwar nicht die meisten Interpreten, aber doch die meisten Stücke unbekannt. Daran merkt man dann doch, dass richtig gute Musik zwar generationsunabhängig gut ist, aber die musikalische Sozialisation stark von der Zeit abhängt, in der man aufwächst. Aber das eine oder andere werde ich mir sicher mal anhören, um zu schauen, ob ich zum gleichen Schluss komme wie Hornby selbst.

Wie meistens bei kurzen, eher episodenhaften Büchern hat mir beim Lesen ein wenig der Fluss gefehlt, was aber eher an mir als am Buch liegt. Man kann es sicher prima in kleinen Häppchen lesen und genießen, vielleicht wirkt es dann sogar noch besser.

I'm reading and have read, especially in the past two years of pandemia, a lot of books about music, musicians, music criticism, and the like.

Enter Nick Hornby's Songbook in 2003. Judging by how much I enjoyed the 2000 film version of High Fidelity, I had sincere hopes for this read. The NYT Book Review declared it "a kind of prose equivalent of a mixtape" in a blurb on the paperback cover, and "delightfully passionate."

If that were the case, it'd be a rather homogenous mixtape. For the most part, it's terrifically white book. It hails from nearly 20 years ago, but feels about 40 years old in its coverage. Plus, he writes about and brings up Bob Dylan *a lot* for someone who doesn't particularly care for him and his music.

The chapters on Bruce Springsteen and Patti Smith – at opposite ends of this book – bored me a bit, when they absolutely should not. Hornby's vigor or "passion" for these artists, albums and tracks, did not shine through for me for about two-thirds of this thankfully slender tome.

In the end, I should've expected this to be what it was: more aligned with the vibe and through-line of John Cusack's High Fidelity than Zoe Kravitz's more diverse and inclusive 2020 version, made for TV. I rewatched the film version during quarantine proper in the pandemic, and it made me cringe in ways I hadn't realized the past couple times. That's the passage of time and the new angles by which we look on things, knowing what we know and value now.

In closing a li'l list of what I'm definitely glad for in this book:

- Hornby's thoughts on Nelly Furtado and "I'm Like a Bird," a song/singer my (straight) college roommate the first two years was singularly obsessed with; that chapter helped me look differently and more fondly on his fixation
- The author's meditation on Aimee Mann, whose work I delved into more afterward, esp. that splendid Bachelor No. 2 album (note: She has a great new one, too)
- His take on Ani Difranco's "You Had Time," a song I've long adored
- Its introduction to me of the songs "Royksopp's Night Out" and Jackson Browne's "Late for the Sky"
- It's reintroduction to the Avalanches' "Frontier Psychiatrist" ("That boy needs therapy!")

This is not a review, just notes about some of the types of songs identified/areas for discussion:


-Songs that perfectly encapsulate a moment in time
-Songs that help you express a part of your identity
-Pop songs/probable one-hit wonders "of the moment" that you can't shake, and that you want to play over and over
-Songs that you used to listen to all the time when you were younger, but that only fit into your life on specific occasions now
-Songs that reveal God at work
-Cover versions of songs that reveal something new about that song
-Songs that are the best representations of artists we are "supposed" to like/appreciate
-Songs that provide an escape and make you feel better about life
-Songs whose meanings to you change over time due to your own life experiences
-Songs you'd like played at your funeral/that provide space for reflection
-Songs you like because you heard them live, and that capture a mood and feeling you had in that moment, or that were just so good live that it changed the way you heard them permanently
-Songs your children like, or that signify something you're proud of passing onto your children
-Songs that represent something essential about a place/national identity that is important to you
-Songs that grow on you as you've aged
-Songs you don't think are great, but that you can't imagine going through life without
-Songs that capture a specific time in your life that has passed and probably will not return

I take music very seriously, drawing deep meaning, or trying to, from many of the songs and albums I listen to. I've been told by someone I care deeply for that I take music too seriously--that I'm idealizing fake or pretend stories and messages and that, by doing so, I've tainted my outlook on reality. But that, to put it bluntly, is utter bullshit. Music is just another form of human artistic communication, no different than someone pouring their inner feelings and desires out on canvas or on stage or hell, just through talking to one another. People spew lies and deceit to one another all the time. Any one form of communication is not necessarily better than any other, so long as it is honest and truthful. Hell, people say dishonest and deceitful things to one another all the time. There is plenty of garbage music that is similarly devoid of meaning at best, or harmful at worst. But to say that anyone looking for deeper meaning through pop songs is misguided is flat out insane. If doing so comes off as disingenuous to someone, then it's their inability to empathize and emotionally connect that is at fault, or perhaps their choice of music. This is an argument I could make all day...or I could just point them to Nick Hornby's wonderful collection of essays about pop songs and their often intimate meanings.

As the author of "High Fidelity," Hornby's musical bona fides are unquestionable. These are some of the choice nuggets he presents in "Songbook":

"Now, whenever I hear "Your Love Is the Place Where I Come From," I think about that night, of course--how could it be otherwise? And initially, when I decided that I wanted to write a little book of essays about songs I loved (and that in itself was a tough discipline, because one has so many more opinions about what has gone wrong than about what is perfect), I presumed that the essays might be full of straightforward time-and-place connections like this, but they're not, not really. In fact, "Your Love Is the Place Where I Come From" is just about the only one. And when I thought about why this should be so, why so few of the songs that are important to me come burdened with associative feelings or sensations, it occurred to me that the answer was obvious: if you love a song, love it enough for it to accompany you throughout the different stages of your life, then any specific memory is rubbed away by use. If I'd heard "Thunder Road" in some girl's bedroom in 1975, decided that it was okay, and had never seen the girl or listened to the song much again, then hearing it now would probably bring back the smell of her underarm deodorant. But that isn't what happened; what happened was that I heard "Thunder Road" and loved it, and I've listened to it at (alarmingly) frequent intervals ever since. "Thunder Road" really only reminds me of itself, and, I suppose, of my life since I was eighteen--that is to say, of nothing much and too much...One can only presume that the people who say that their very favorite record of all time reminds them of their honeymoon in Corsica, or of their family Chihuahua, don't actually like music very much. I wanted mostly to write about what it was in these songs that made me love them, not what I brought to the songs."

"But sometimes, very occasionally, songs and books and films and pictures express who you are, perfectly. And they don't do this in words or images, necessarily; the connection is a lot less direct and more complicated than that. When I was first beginning to write seriously, I read Anne Tyler's Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, and suddenly knew what I was, and what I wanted to be, for better or for worse. It's a process something like falling in love. You don't necessarily choose the best person, or the wisest, or the most beautiful; there's something else going on. There was a part of me that would rather have fallen for Updike, or Kerouac, and DeLillo--for someone masculine, at least, maybe somebody a little more opaque, and certainly someone who uses more swearwords--and, though I have admired those writers, at various stages in my life, admiration is a very different thing from the kind of transference I'm talking about. I'm talking about understanding--or at least feeling like I understand--every artistic decision, every impulse, the soul of both the work and its creator. "This is me," I wanted to say when I read Tyler's rich, sad, lovely novel. "I'm not a character, I'm nothing like the author, I haven't had the experiences she writes about. But even so, this is what I feel like, inside. This is what I would sound like, if ever I were to find a voice." And I did find a voice, eventually, and it was mine, not hers; but nevertheless, so powerful was the process of identification that I still don't feel as though I've expressed myself as well, as completely, as Tyler did on my behalf then."

"When it comes down to i, I suppose that I, too, believe that life is momentous and sad but not destructive of all hope, and maybe that makes me a self-dramatizing depressive, or maybe it makes me a happy idiot, but either way "Thunder Road" knows how I feel and who I am, and that, in the end, is one of the consolations of art."

"But the truly great songs, the ones that age and golden-oldies radio stations cannot wither, are about our romantic feelings. And this is not because songwriters have anything to add to the subject; it's just that romance, with its dips and turns and glooms and highs, its swoops and swoons and blues, is a natural metaphor for music itself. Songs that are about complicated things--Canadian court orders, say or the homosexual age of consent--draw attention to the inherent artificiality of the medium: Why is this guy singing? Why doesn't he write a newspaper article, or talk to a phone-in show? And how does a mandolin solo illustrate or clarify the plight of Eskimos anyway? But because it is the convention to write about affairs of the heart, the language seems to lose its awkwardness, to become transparent, and you can see straight through the words to the music. Lyrics about love become, in other words, like another musical instrument, and love songs become, somehow, pure song. Maybe this is what gives "You Had Time" the edge: our breakups, in the end, have more melody to them than our work does."

"If it's true that music does, as I've attempted to argue elsewhere, serve as a form of self-expression even to those of us who can express ourselves tolerably well in speech or in writing, how much more vital is it going to be for him, when he has so few other outlets? That's why I love the relationship with music he has already, because it's how I know he has something in him that he wants others to articulate. In fact, thinking about it now, it's why I love the relationship that anyone has with music: because there's something in us that is beyond the reach of words, something that eludes and defies our best attempts to spit it out. It's the best part of us, probably, the richest and strangest part."

"Your old music cannot sustain you through a life, not if you're someone who listens to music every day, at every opportunity. You need input, because pop music is about freshness, about Nelly Furtado and the maddeningly memorably fourth track on a first album by a band you saw on a late-night TV show."

"The dance floor is still, to me, the social equivalent of the North Sea during English seaside holidays--something to be treated with the utmost fear and caution, something you walk toward and away from over a period of several hours while battling with your own courage, something you plunge into briefly and uncomfortably while every corpuscle in your blood screams at you to get out before it's too late, something that leaves lots of important parts of you feeling shriveled."

When I heard this was a set of essays about songs that the author who has written some of my favourite screenplays loves, or has loved, I was naturally curious. In recent years I’ve taken to reading more essays than normal, not all of which felt overly academic and bogged down by pretentious intellect. Something I realised quickly about this set of essays was that they were far more about an emotional connection than they were about the technical aspects of the song. Hornby is not a musician and instead of trying to convince you of his intellect he plays to his strengths as a writer. This approach made this a very quick and easy read.

I wasn’t familiar with most of the songs prior to reading the book so if for nothing else it was great to be introduced to new music. I jump at the opportunity whenever my friend invites me to gigs performed by bands that I’ve never heard of so I think it’s safe to say that I’m willing to give any band a go. I decided that it wouldn’t be right to read the essays without having given the songs a listen to first so I hit up the playlist on Spotify and voila: new driving music. That way I could make my own opinions of the songs in question without being guided by the author. The songs were certainly a mixed bag and I definitely wasn’t prepared for the song by Suicide (driving with my window open and that song playing was an odd experience).

When listening to the songs, particular the ones I disliked, I found myself excited to read how someone could love a song such as that. I love reading well-argued contrary opinions. Perhaps the best aspect of the book is that Hornby does not try to rationalise his love of the songs. He talks about the attitude many have to pop music for sure but

I wouldn’t say that I personally loved any of the songs Hornby chose, mostly I felt ambivalent. Hornby isn’t writing about these songs being masterpieces though, it’s all anecdotal accounts of why he likes these songs in particular. His casual approach definitely works and makes this book feel far more like a memoir than a dry piece about technically good songs.

Sarcasm and compassion are two of the qualities that make life on Earth tolerable.”

A nice excursus onto Hornby’s fine taste for music. Light and enjoyable.

had to read this book for a music class. ya it sucks dude. i get everyone has their opinions but Hornbys a lil shit head. he acts as if what he says is fact. it’s an insufferable book where he just talks abt how a song means something to him and then acts as if he’s all deep and can relate it to people. like no thank you, when he talks about more serious topics in the book it comes from a place of privilege and how he talks about it is very prejudiced. At one point he’s talking about Frankie Teardrop by suicide and it’s a song about Frankie who is working class works two jobs can’t make ends meet has a wife and new born to support and the stress gets to him and he kills his family and himself. Hornby basically says “if you’re frankie why would you listen to bad music like this? when you can listen to more upbeat and happy music” … Hornby… shut. the. fuck. up. I don’t want to listen to fucking colby caillat while going through a hard time and not knowing if i’m gonna make it through this economy. People listening to upbeat and happy music isn’t gonna fix the world. He claims that love songs are the only type of songs that stand the test of time and how they’re just so good. like dude shut up it’s so crazy to think that someone could be so narcissistic to write a book about songs that they like and get it published. it’s also crazy that people bought the book. why is anyone so invested in another persons life, that they don’t know! that they would buy a book about songs he likes? AND IT GOES FOR LIKE $20 YOURE SPENDING $20 TO READ ABOUT SONGS THAT SOMEONE LIKES??? If you’re really that in need of music just go on spotify and then genius the lyrics so you can “know what the songs about” and can act all deep and better than thou when you drop that music knowledge on your friends who will eventually leave because they get so fed up and tired of you acting as if you’re so smart and deep for thinking about the meaning behind WAP by Cardi B

Hornby has a net worth of 22 MILLION dollars. i’m not taking advice or listening to a dude who writes shitty books and the only people who really like them are rich white dudes and white women who clutch their pearls the second a poc gets within a 5 mile radius of them.

I felt like High Fidelity showed more of his love for music than this book did. I don’t feel that he really, in most of these essays, even tied the song to anything in his life in a meaningful way. And what might have been mildly entertaining to read in a character in a book like High Fidelity is not entertaining to read in a person who is not a quirky character in a book, but a true human who is claiming to have something to say worth hearing. For example, his constant judgement of others is off putting, I quote, “the ubiquity of The Pretender in all the record collections of the girls I met at college confirmed my suspicion that when it came to music, girls didn’t Get It” - maybe you didn’t meet the right girls in college because you were a pretentious loser? Maybe people who don’t agree with your music tastes could still be smart or interesting people who have their one viewpoint on music? Maybe a whole lot of people don’t have the money to invest in buying up every obscure album they find that they might like, and don’t have the financial luxury to curate obscure music tastes (for all Spotify has done to not support artists and music at least it has leveled the playing field for listening to a lot of diverse music). Maybe some people have that obsessive passion about literature or visual media or other forms of expression but their music tastes mean they love to listen to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and that’s OK and they’re OK. OK, scratch that last part, anyone who loves the Red Hot Chili Peppers needs help.

my thoughts on this book probably lean more towards 2.5/5 stars, but i’ll rate it a 3 simply because nick hornby writes about music in a way that reflects how i feel about music, and that’s a wonder. although it felt a bit repetitive & i didn’t particularly care about his experience with each song (no offense, just not super interested in what these specific songs that are entirely out of my generation’s consciousness mean to a middle aged white dude), the way that hornby writes about music is astounding. he captures the innate feeling you get when you find a song that changes you. with that in mind, here are some of the songs that make me feel that way too (a short list, given my age, but one that is worth sharing).

in no particular order:

ladders by mac miller - everything about this song, from the lyrics to the track itself, makes me very aware of my own mortality somehow. it poses a question: if nothing has any meaning and we inevitably turn to dust, what do we do in the meantime? it’s a good question, and the song gives a better answer - we find a way.

green light by lorde - this song is angry in a way that i love. we’re told to bottle our anger so often, but lorde unleashes it in this song & we’re all better for it. she lets herself be angry & i can see myself in the way she spits the lyrics out. this song gives me permission to hold my grudges, but gives me permission to move on too. i love it.

face by brockhampton - i’m not religious, but this song is something spiritual for me. i don’t know what it is, but this song just cements the importance of love in my mind & the wonders that it brings. it’s sad, it’s melodic, and it’s truly lovely.

not your muse by celeste - this song asserts itself as individual in a way that is refreshing and awesome. the first time i heard this song, i felt understood in a way that i never have before. the way that celeste asserts her independence from her art & her lover & anything that isn’t herself is beautiful. it’s a fighting song.

I probably bought this book when it first came out. This is a mixed tape of a book. It isn't a book of music criticism. It is a love letter to music that he likes.

I tried to listen to the songs that he wrote about as I read the pieces. In the early 2000's, it wasn't always possible to find these things. I gave up and just dove in where I knew the music. A few years back, I tried a second time. Spotify wasn't yet the total behemoth. I still couldn't find everything. I tried to make a playlist and couldn't get it to work.

Finally, this past year I gave up and took which versions were available rather than track em all down. This is a guy who is often accused of not writing smart. That doesn't mean that he can't say something observant or relevant. I like his partially put upon everyday guy persona. I would hazard that it is a much easier one to carry off than pretending that you are smarter than you are.

When it comes to pop music and curmudgeonly attitudes, it works. This is a pleasant read and some of the same conversations I have had over beer with another friend who is musically inclined, we have had some of the same preoccupations. This is like one of those bull sessions.

Feel free to have your opinions. You can't dismiss anything he totally says. Sure, there are some dumb moments. But when has drinking and talking about music produced anything smart? This is fun and I enjoyed it. Sometimes, it was thoughtful. Kinda like music. Don't think too hard. Enjoy it.