The jacket blurb is misleading as this book doesn’t actually contain any revelations regarding the life and death of rock stars. It’s mostly a self-indulgent Chuck talking about his love life, and came off to me as rather narcissistic. I read this after reading The Visible Man and the way the author describes himself here is so similar to the musings of the psychopath in the other novel that it was somewhat uncomfortable to read.

The disclaimer at the beginning of “Killing Yourself to Live”, which is now a title that would immediately get canceled is as follows:
“This is a story about love, death, driving, narcissism, America, and the ill-advised glamorization of recreational drug use, not having sex, eating breadsticks at Olive Garden, talking to strangers, feeling nostalgic for the extremely recent past, movies you’ve never seen, KISS, Radiohead, Rod Stewart, and - to a lesser extent - prehistoric elephants of the Midwestern plains. If these are not things that interest you, do not read this book”. I can verify that this is, in fact, true. If you don’t care about music, don’t read this book. If you don’t happen to have an interest in painfully cool hipster topics (which, by the way, kudos to you) don’t read this book. It is written in that way that all Gen X white men wrote during this period of time, and Klosterman even admits it. “In all probability, you will also complain about the author’s reliance on self-indulgent, postmodern self-awareness, which will prompt the person you’re conversing with to criticize the influence of Dave Evers on the memoir-writing genre” (p. 17).

The premise of the book is this: Klosterman embarks on a journalistic adventure, representing Spin magazine, covering the locales in which rock stars died.
“I always find any location where somebody died compelling. This is probably because I think about death all the time; it is, I think, the most interesting thing absolutely everybody does, that’s especially true with celebrities. Unless you’re Shannon Hoon, dying is the only thing that guarantees a rock star will have a legacy that stretches beyond temporary relevance. Somewhere, at some point, somehow, somebody decided that death equals credibility. And I want to figure out why that is. I want to figure out why the greatest career move any musician can make is to stop breathing. I want to figure out why plane crashes and drug overdoses and shotgun suicides turn long-haired guitar players into messianic prophets. I want to walk the blood-soaked streets of rock’n’roll and chat with the survivors who writhe in the gutters. This notion became my quest. Instead of going to the places where everything happened, I would go to the places where everything stopped. I would get my death on” (p. 13).

There are moments that feel like genuine time capsules, such as his explanation of a GPS system:
“If you are unaware of how a GPS operates (and until I rented this Tauntaun, I had no idea, either), imagine a machine that should only exist in Tokyo in the year 2085. It’s a box on the dashboard that has an ever-changing digital map, and it literally speaks to me and gives me perfect advice; it tells me when I need to exit the freeway, and how far I am from places like Missoula, Montana, and how to locate the nearest Red Lobster. This mechanized siren will lead us down the eastern seaboard, across the Deep South, up the corn-covered spinal cord of the Midwest, and through the burning foothills of Montana - finally coming to rest on the cusp of the Pacific Ocean, underneath a bridge Kurt Cobain never slept under” (p. 14).

Describing “Car Rock”:
“I love the way music inside a car makes you feel invisible; if you play the stereo at maximum volume, it’s almost like other people can’t see into your vehicle. It tints your windows, somehow.
It will take three hours to decide which compact discs to put in the backseat of my Tauntaun. This is the kind of quandary that keeps people like me from sleeping; I never worry about nuclear war or the economy or if we need to establish a Palestinian state, but I spend a lot of time worrying about whether I need to purchase all the less-than-stellar Rolling Stones albums from the 1980s for cataloging purposes (particularly “Undercover” which includes the semi-underrated “Undercover of the Night”). I have 2,233 CDs” (p. 15).
Please note that this man has just purchased his first iPod.

While describing his office at Spin magazine:
“Just about everyone who works there looks like either (a) a member of the band Pavement, or (b) a girl who once dated a member of the band Pavement. The first time I walked into the office, three guys were talking about J Mascis for no apparent reason, and one of them was describing his guitar noodling as “trenchant.’” (p. 2).
This becomes funnier when, a few pages later, you learn the year is 2003.

There are the self-deprecating remarks like:
“…and I would pace around the room while making stupidly extravagant hand gestures, not unlike Benito Mussolini” (p. 12).

And the evocative descriptors like:
“Her whole life has an excessively casual, excessively melodramatic ambience” (p. 130).

The things you didn’t know you needed validation on:
“You know what’s the best part about driving by yourself? Talk radio. Talk radio offers no genuine insight about anything, but I always feel like I am learning something; I always feel like I suddenly understand all the people I normally can’t relate to at all. At the very least, I feel like I understand what most of America finds interesting” (p. 103).

The commentaries that could only come from a rock critic:
“My sister liked INXS. I never understood who they were; I think they existed for 13 years before I knew their name was not pronounced “inks” (as in ‘rhymes with lynx’)” (p. 107).

The part where he compares each one of his exes to members of KISS in a droning, monotonous thing that is somehow still interesting. “Diane is sort of my own personal Gene Simmons, because she’s all about the bottom line. She demands attention. She’s an atheist who’s obsessed with her own Jewishness. She’s self-interested and intelligent, and that’s why I love her. Lenore is more like Paul Stanley - less overt about sex, but sexier. Perfect-looking. Fraglie. Not necessarily immune to believing astrological bullshit. Seemingly happy all the time, but somehow more melancholy underneath. Quincy is, of course, Ace: stoned, cool, and the personality I secretly want to be… (p. 214-216).

On Led Zeppelin:
“Everything is real. And what that everything is - maybe - is this: Led Zeppelin sounds like who they are, but they also sound like who they are not. They sound like an English blues band. They sound like a warm-blooded brachiosaur. They sound like Hannibal’s assault across the Alps. They sound sexy and sexist and sexless. They sound dark but stoned; they sound smart but dumb; they seem older than you, but just barely. Led Zeppelin sounds the way a cool guy acts. Or - more specifically - Led Zeppelin sounds like a certain kind of cool guy; they sound like the kind of cool guy every man vaguely thinks he has the potential to be, if just a few things about the world were somehow different. And the experiences this creates is unique to Led Zeppelin because its manifestation is entirely sonic: There is a point in your life when you hear songs like “The Ocean” and “Out on the Tiles” and “Kashmir,” and you suddenly find yourself feeling like these songs are actively making you into the person you want to be…” (p. 199).

He’s a whiny Gen X-er. And I love it.

My first foray into Klosterman’s writing was a total blast. I loved how he bounced between road trip diary and the influence of death on popular culture.

At times, the book felt like chaos and I was confused. But I was along for the ride!

2nd time reading this one. 20 something me would have given it 5 stars in 2006 when I first read it. Either the book hasn’t aged well or I haven’t. Yikes. Gave it 2 stars for the few moments where he actually discussed rock history. I enjoyed his analysis of the “Led Zeppelin phase” (although women can have it too, thanks.) and the insight he shared on Kurt Cobain’s death. Could have done with less ramblings about a 30-something sexist man’s immature whining about his multiple girlfriends. Unfortunately, the latter seemed like ‘85%’ of the book..

Abandoning. Instead of being about fame, death, and music, this repulsive guy rambles on about his numerous girlfriends. Who cares? Not me. Stopped reading.

I made it 1/3 of the way through it and couldn't read any further. This book contained the ramblings and random stories of a man on a road trip that seemed to go nowhere.

Let me start by saying I generally like my job. Sure, there are days where I show up and can't wait to go home, but in general, it's alright. That being said. I work in a cubicle for a big corporation in Austin, TX. I _am_ what the movie Office Space is about. When that movie first started to gain cult status, every fucking person I worked with would say "Oh, man, that movie is about me." Really? Really? You just quit going to work one day? And then you asked out waitress? And then you stole hundreds of thousands of dollars from your employer? And then you quit your job and went to work construction? Because if not, I'm pretty sure that movie is not "about you." But ANYWAY, if I were to follow my Office Space journey it would not end with a burned down building and me shoveling crap into a wheelbarrow, it would end with me being Chuck Klosterman. Now, I have neither the desire nor the talent nor the skill nor the inclination to really do what he does. I mean, the sitting around all day doing drugs and drinking beer and writing about whatever bullshit popped in my head, that I think I could do. But the work it actually requires to write good (sic) and intersting is not really all that appealing to me. So thanks, Chuck, for following the dream that I am too lazy to.

But, seriously, KISS? You love KISS?

The idea of driving around the country doing drugs and visiting places where rock stars died seems like a more interesting concept than it ended up being. There’s some classic Chuck insight here, but it mainly exists as a way to talk about all of the women he has ever been in love with.

i realized very early on in this book that i don't like chuck klosterman very much and that i did not need to read about his relationships with hot babes, his search for hot babes, or about the hot babe he was drunk with who dangerously climbed upon a roof top, while he sat there and thought about how weird and exciting it would be if she plummeted to her death, all the while hoping he was going to "get lucky." grrrrr.

also, i don't trust a music writer who, though my age, has never ever bought a vinyl record, and is proud of that. i mean, c'mon ...

there are nice moments here, but they are overwhelmed by all the things that are ... not nice. and the anti-climactic climax is anti-climactic. if you're going to vaguely fictionalize a half-baked idea, at least give me a startling ending.
grrr.

I barely got through this. The author is too full of himself. Constantly on about every woman he fucked or how the woman he wanted did something so horrible that he didn't want to be her friend, but he cant tell the reader what it is, you just have to trust his douchey opinion.

Get this book away from me.

This book is like being on a road trip with that one friend who monopolizes the radio and won't shut up, but you let them because everything they want to listen to and everything they say is somehow perversely fascinating. Klosterman's non-linear narrative through America, music, pop culture, and his own failed relationships is outrageously funny and often insightful. This might have been a five-star read if not for one thing: while Klosterman is undeniably entertaining, he's also... a bit of a douche. He's an absolute pig about women. He's unduly outraged by the casual suggestion that a rock star might have been gay. He's a culture snob who mocks hipsters without realizing the irony, seems to think Thom Yorke is a prophet, and hates the Doors for no apparent reason. Basically, if Chuck is your co-pilot for a transcontinental road trip, you might spend the duration unable to decide whether to laugh at all his jokes or lean across the console and punch him in the face.

When judging Klosterman's work, what you're really doing is judging Klosterman. And yes, I say judging on purpose. Not criticizing. Because that would call for an in-depth assessment of a valuable work instead of a moral appraisal of the man behind the book. And I am judging him harshly in this book.

What was recommended to me as a great "road trip book" soon seemed like a chore, drudging through all of his pop culture references and insipid bullshit about his own life history. Like climbing up sand dunes, hard going and calf muscles burning, trying to find the oasis, but when you get over the ridge- there's more sand. And not a drop of water in sight. Only, it's more like a landfill. Yeah, a landfill, not sand. And you're climbing through everyone else's shit to try and find one salvageable piece of shit in the pile.

So here we are again listening to Klosterman, who it becomes more and more apparent isn't Mark Spitz. And I admit, I enjoyed some of Klosterman's other collections of essays because sometimes I am in the mood for his smarmy, spiteful, silly little shit-head takes on the world at large filtered through music and pop culture references. It's his bulwark and I understand that because the real world is too tough for him to deal with outside of the buffer of imagined connections and metaphors in the music, movies and books he reads.

And that really is the crux of Klosterman- he hides behind these things. Instead of making an honest assessment of life and his surroundings, he uses this sleight of hand in his pop culture internalizing to beat it back and not deal with it in any meaningful way. But we are supposed to think that he is thinking very deeply about his life and the world at large in regard and respect to pop culture. But he isn't. What little he does bring away from these analyses may seem deep but are rehearsed and forced. Making ontological connections from bad arguments.

So, in this, he connects even less to the pop culture he reveres and idolizes, and moves instead to make an even bigger pile of shit in this landfill I'll very loosely call "his work".

What this book is is a big heap of facts and rumors associated with different rock bands and their dead members. And intersperesed are pieces about his life that may or may not be true but which, in the end, matter very little. And that is the crux of this book. A big pile of crap you could have gathered off of wiki sites and wrapped around your own personal experiences. There is nothing really to take away except the petty gossip. So read it and get your fill of water cooler bullshit.