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.

The whole time I am reading this book I am thinking it is part Elizabethtown road trip scene, part High Fidelity, and part On The Road. Truth is … I don’t really enjoy reading about recreational drug use or about failed relationships. Turns out I wasn’t far off given the comments made on the last page of the book.

All that said, I’ll probably read another of his books.

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 really like Klosterman's writing, but this made me hate the man. The ending is fascile and lazy. Read "Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs" instead. For a better description of what is to hate about this book that serves also as a cautionary tale for would-be writers about what an audience most definitely ain't interested in reading about, read "Mike's" review here (he gives the book a star):

Mike rated it: 12/05/07
bookshelves: nonfiction
Read in April, 2005

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...less

I bought this book on vacation as I was excited to find another Klosterman book in the wild after having read and enjoyed his book on The Nineties. I was disappointed to find that this title was nearly 20 years old, but gave it a shot. Man, I hope he has re-read his work lately and realizes how cringeworthy some of his prose is. Talk about a guy trying real hard to be edgy. This book needs to stay in the past. DNF

Oh, I don't know, it was just OK. This was my first time reading Klosterman, who I've avoided for a very long time, for no real reason. It was exactly what I expected: A bunch of somewhat pedestrian observations about music and pop culture. It left me feeling confused and conflicted, somewhat frustrated, and yet I enjoyed reading it. He's very easy to read, almost too easy, whatever that means. I can't decide whether I don't like the writer, or I don't like the writing. I found myself arguing with Klosterman throughout the whole book, which in retrospect was probably the most enjoyable part of reading this. I can't even decide if I would read another book by him, which probably means that I will, but probably not for a long while.

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.

I wanted this book to be a Sarah Vowell's "Assassination Vacation"-style account of the US history of rock n roll deaths as narrated by the typically witty Chuck Klosterman. That seemed like that's what this book was going to be. BUT IT WAS NOT.

RNR history occupies maybe 2% of this book. 3% = talking about how great he thinks Radiohead is, 3% = talking about how great he thinks KISS is, 10% = talking about writing about music for a living and how much he hates the idea of this roadtrip, 30% = boring stories about Chuck's ex-girlfriends (seriously "we talked about horses" is a line that is included in this book TWICE), 5% quotable funniness, 47% Chuck gets stoned, alone, and denies he is an addict.

I kind of can't see how anybody can complain about two weeks of road tripping. But whatever, Chuck's world is not my world.

Additionally, I find it totally disgusting and reprehensible that Klosterman says retarded people are unlikeable.

p.120, Chuck's having an imaginary conversation with his ex-girlfriends: " 'What would happen if I stopped being funny? What if I became retarded? What if I stopped listening to you whenever you talk about why you like shopping for boots? How long would it be before you stopped talking to me?'
'That, in a nutshell is why you don't understand what 'Layla' is about,' Quincy would interject. 'Diane brought up qualities that make someone physically unattractive. You are bringing up qualities that make someone unlikable.'... Quincy is making a valid point, if I do say so myself."

Where were his editors? Where's the content of this book? I prefer when Chuck sticks to writing about pop culture and NOT his female troubles since he clearly has serious, serious issues with women. (See my review of "Fargo Rock City" for more on that point: http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/... )

Ultimately, the author should have listened to his friend Lucy Chance.

Cool book. Fun non-fiction to breeze through, especially for a music lover. Don't read if you hate that pre/early millennial pretension.

This book is freaking excellent. Chuck Klosterman's sense of humor is obviously exactly the same as mine, because everything he writes that's funny is wonderfully, perfectly, awesomely, hysterically funny to me.

No deja de ser una paja mental sobre amor, drogas y rockeros muertos (en ese orden), pero el autor tiene algunas ideas interesantes. Que parezca esforzarse por caerte mal lo hace más entretenido (spoiler: lo consigue).

I am going to start this review by saying that Chuck's friend was right. He shouldn't have published this book. I picked it up (or, rather, was given) thinking that it would be an exploration of sites where dead rockers perished. Growing up in Seattle, I was bred with an intense love of Kurt Cobain. Growing up goth, I have an intense love of death. So this book would have been a LOT better in my mind if it had either a) Actually talked more about dead rock stars or b) Been a little clearer that this book had nothing to do with dead rock stars. I spend the whole 250 or so pages listening to a man complain because he's getting too much tail. True, he is very quotable at times and brings up some valid points about god, infidelity, and the like, but other than that, he just whined for thousands of miles about how his girlfriends were like KISS. Maybe worth a read if you're a liberal arts major who watches Wes Anderson movies and thinks Ed Hardy is the most amazing form of popular art the fashion world has ever seen. This book should be on "Stuff White People Like".

Book 20/150