This sounded pretty good. The author goes on a road trip in search of actual places that famous rock musicians died. He is a writer for Spin Magazine. If this was actually what the book was about I think it would have been interesting but he barely touches on his destinations and instead reverts to whining about the lost loves of his life and everything else that sucks in his life. He also frequently gives his opinion about music and musicians, most of whom I have never heard of. He tries to be humorous but it falls flat for me because so much of what he writes about is depressing or whining. Interesting concept for a book. I just think it could have been done better.

if I had read it in English I would've dropped it or rated 1-star

I have loved some of Klosterman's writing, but this book is really not for me. It's about Chuck spending 5 weeks driving around the country, mostly by himself, locating the places where famous rock musicians have died. And he has some tremendous one-liners thrown in there, but Chuck and I don't care for the same music, and I just never really got into his chapter after chapter of how this or that song/album/group moved him, and his thoughts on how/where that person died. If you are a serious music fiend, this is totally for you.

As a longtime admirer of Chuck Klosterman’s writing on pop music and culture, it pains me to report that his latest book, Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story, is a dismal, shoddy piece of work. The premise is promising: Klosterman sets out on a cross-country road trip to visit all of the sites of rock ’n’ roll’s long, rich history of death. It seems a brilliant idea — Klosterman’s combination of irreverence and curiosity make him the perfect candidate to unseat the holy-pilgrimage seriousness (and pathos) of most writing on rock ’n’ roll tragedy.

It doesn’t take long for the project to turn sour. Here’s the problem: Klosterman is used to skating by on the wit and originality of his own personal world-view; in his last collection, Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs, his observations on MTV, pornography, video games, and so on, emerged from a perspective that led him to some surprising conclusions. There was a sense of play, of intellectual gamesmanship, that was fresh and engaging. In Killing Yourself, however, he’s become self-reflexive to the point where he can no longer discriminate between what is valuable and what is piffle; it’s all self-narrative. If he’s looking at something, he thinks his reaction to it — how it affects him — automatically matters simply because it’s him, Chuck Klosterman, looking at it. He has become too lazy and uninterested to make any serious effort at thinking or observing and analyzing what a specific site or incident might mean, and falls back on relaying what it means to him, at that moment.

The most devastating element here is the incomprehensible decision to let Klosterman devote much of the book to pseudo-Hornby writhing about the three (!) women with whom he’s currently involved (that is, either sleeping with or wanting to sleep with). Aside from being, at times, downright creepy, it’s both lazy and irrelevant: as smart and funny and interesting as Chuck Klosterman is, I couldn’t really give two shits about his love life. His self-absorption on this count goes so far as to include a chapter-long conversation between the three women and himself that takes place entirely in his head. What’s sad is that he seems to realize this; the book closes with an actual, real-world conversation between the author and one of his female colleagues at Spin, who urges him not to become “the female Elizabeth Wurtzel.” At this point, one tends to agree wholeheartedly with the criticism, and Klosterman’s only retort is to tell her that “her disdain can only be voiced if I do the opposite of what you suggest.” It’s pre-emptive critical damage control. It’s embarrassing.

It is unsettling to see how turning Klosterman loose on such a promising theme brings out his worst instincts as a writer, because his feature pieces for Spin are often brilliant. A perfect example was his reporting on the Rock Cruise, one of those only-in-America phenomena wherein 40-year-old couples pay to hear REO Speedwagon and Styx perform on a boat. It is hard to imagine a riper opportunity for superiority and ridicule, yet Klosterman never condescends to these people — working-class Midwesterners who are paying money to see over-the-hill versions of the two of the most reviled bands in rock history — and in the end lends both the bands and fans an odd kind of dignity. It is frustrating to know that the author is capable of such insights and then to slog through 235 pages of crap that wouldn’t make it onto a Weezer B-side. One can only hope Killing Yourself was just something he needed to get out of his system.

From THE L MAGAZINE, July 20 2005

Bret Easton Ellis on Chuck Klosterman: 'I can't think of a more sheerly likeable writer...big-hearted ....optimistic and amiable'.

Not the same Chuck I met on this dead rock star ridden road trip.

In the beginning there was Chuck and his admirable road soundtrack - Drive-By-Trucker's Southern Rock Opera and Bowie's Hunky Dory. YEP, we got along fine. The writing was energetic and genuinely funny.

Then the incessant pop-culture references, clever to be clever quips and the navel gazing.

Partway through I finally get what the book is actually about. It's about a love. Of course!
The love of several (if not many) women and a lonely, sad narcissist who believes Rod Stewart has the best male rock voice. Did he also vaguely imply that Joy Division were Beatles wannabes? WTF?

And yet, all bitterness aside there were times when Chuck was so relatable it became frightening to read on.

Somewhere under all that 'trying too hard' and jaded wisdom is a decent, entertaining guy with an undeniable love for music (just not the 'sleepy' Blues apparently).

The most important thing that I learned from this book is that even if you CAN write a book, you shouldn't always do so (ouch, sorry Mr. Klosterman!) Although the author's style is engaging (probably the only reason I managed to finish the book), the book itself left you scratching your head, waiting for the punchline--maybe even the joke. Klosterman is traveling the country, visiting the sites of famous musicians' tragic deaths while processing the many romantic relationships that he had had in his life. I felt sorry for this guy, as he seemed to not have moved past a single one of them; and yet his relationships with them, or, at least, his lasting impressions from them, were very superficial. And yet he seems obsessed with reliving these failed relationships and dragging his readers along with him. There is rock trivia and discussion that someone else might appreciate more, and there are certainly entertaining parts, but my overall impression of this book is that it was a waste of time.

I read this for a college class so that we could analyse it in terms of Ironic Living.
1. The depth of this book, and the material that it dealt with was very interesting and complex. There was a lot of metaphor and a whole level of thought I did not see by just reading through casually.
2. there was a lot of inappropriate material for young adults in here--it is certainly an adult book. That mainly comes from the fact that the author is an adult talking about his life. But, in the end, I do would not recommend you read it, unless you have very specific reasons to do so, or if it is required for a college class.

In this round, Chuck Klosterman expands a journal article into a book narrative of his cross-country trip to seek out the death sites of multiple rock stars. Unsurprisingly, he focuses most of the narrative in the Midwest, from where he hails. Also, unsurprisingly, he delivers some memorable one-liners and anecdotes mixed in with many throw-away references to KISS, Fleetwood Mac, and pop culture generally.

The most refreshing aspect of Klosterman is his unapologetic focus on pop culture and rock music. For the most part, he is unpretentious (although I don't understand all the hating on Jim Morrison). He tries to deliver his references in a way that he or the reader attempts finds deeper meaning by way of analogy. But, I think even Klosterman realizes it is largely a joke.

This, like most of Klosterman's material, is pretty much like pop culture in general. It is largely throw-away material. But, you generally enjoy it while it lasts. And, you usually will find one or two nuggets to carry with you for a long time.

I just finished this book and I think a more accurate title for it would be "To all the manic pixie dream girls I've loved before". The idea of driving across America to visit its most famous rock 'n roll death sites is interesting but it doesn't feel to me as if this author had the maturity or insight to really do the subject matter justice- the majority of the book consists of the author's narcissistic and adolescent rambling about his various boring relationships and encounters with women, none of whom seem very real. This is a well written but ultimately a lazy, shallow and unrewarding book.

This was the first Klosterman book that I read. Klosterman’s pop-culture musings amuse and intrigue me, or at least they did back when I still really cared about that stuff. Unfortunately, the author's regressive outlook on the subject of animals (this book contains a graphic deer hunting story) is not an aspect of his writing that I enjoy.

"Flipping back and forth on the rental car radio between an '80's Retro Weekend!' and an uber-conventional classic rock station, I hear the following three songs in sequence: 'Mr. Roboto,' 'Jumpin' Jack Flash,' and a popular ballad from the defunct hair metal band Extreme. Well, that settles it: Styx and Stones may break my bones, but 'More Than Words' will never hurt me." -- on page 132

Ostensibly an assignment - during his time as a columnist for SPIN magazine circa the summer of 2003 - regarding visiting the death sites of rock musicians (Buddy Holly in Clear Lake, Iowa or Kurt Cobain in Seattle, Washington, et al.), author Klosterman instead sort of delivers something akin to an early 21st century version of Steinbeck's Travels With Charley with his witty, often touching, and occasionally deep Killing Yourself to Live. Setting forth from New York City in a rental car - "Death rides a pale horse, but I shall ride a silver Ford Taurus" he quips - that he christened with the Star Wars-related moniker 'Tauntaun' (just as Steinbeck adorned his green GMC-model truck/camper with the Quixotic-name 'Rocinante'), Klosterman solitarily crosses the continental U.S. to converse with the various folks he meets along the way while also pondering the crossroads of his unresolved romantic life, which involves three women from different regions. Some of the book's best moments are when things happen naturally and/or as a result of those happy accidents - such as the sincere literature-based conversation with an astute young waitress in North Carolina, or an old barfly providing some increasingly odd-sounding but otherwise genuine lifestyle advice in a small town in North Dakota - amongst Klosterman's requisite and sometimes random thoughts on the American popular music scene. While I didn't appreciate his scathing take on Elvis Presley - and I get it that not EVERYONE is a fan like me - there were other times that he slyly hit the proverbial bullseye, whether it was how U.S. adolescent guys routinely gravitate towards Led Zeppelin fandom (guilty as charged!), examining the fascinating misfire resulting from the four original KISS members intentionally all releasing solo albums in 1978, or a reminder of how Nirvana's popularity was waning against Pearl Jam in 1994 until their frontman's tragic suicide sadly reversed that course. This one was a little more personal in nature than some of Klosterman's usual essay collection style - harkening back to the excellent Fargo Rock City, which introduced me to his writing in 2020 - and when it was good it was really good.

Mr. Klosterman's friend and colleague: "I don't understand why you would want to produce a nonfiction book that will be unfavorably compared to Nick Hornby's High Fidelity."

That comparison is not so unfavorable; it is incredibly apt. Book was an enjoyable Sunday afternoon read, though disconcerting that it was only written in 2003. The references and musical selections make it seem like it should be older. I mean, Steve Miller Band and Ratt--to which he VOLUNTARILY listened! For shame!