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.

This being my first Chuck Klosterman read, I didn't know what to expect. I'd heard that Drugs, Sex, and Cocoa Puffs was good, but this was cheaper at the bookstore I went to.

I really like his writing style. He's such a pop culture nerd and he's oh so human. He's a borderline neurotic, based on his writings, and so easy to relate to in many ways. It's enjoyable even if you have no idea who 90% of the rock stars are that he references. I'd imagine getting the references would make it all the more enjoyable, but it's definitely not necessary. It doesn't really have a large overarching point, but the observations he makes and the thought processes he goes through a delicious food for thought.

Recommended as a nice, leisurely read on the bus.

If you want to learn about dead musicians and how they died, look elsewhere. 1/3 Into this book and I still haven't learned a thing. The title of this book should be My Boring Life - it is all irrelevant rambles on the author's friends, relationships, drug use, and work. I decided to pull the plug during a part in the book where he says, "I wonder how long it would take someone to find me if I died on top of this hill and who would care. Tommy would call Billy who would call Timmy would call Suzy who would call..." STFU

Made it to page 54 before I felt like I just might throw this book into a dumpster. I can't understand someone who is fascinated and in awe of an author who wrote about what music she'd listen to if she ever was brave enough to slit her wrists and bleed to death to, and yet finds no majesty, beauty or history in seeing the Washington Monument (or any monument in DC) or the Grand Canyon. He finds these "things" pointless, but music-to-suicide-to worth writing an entire chapter about.

No thanks.

I am a sucker for pop culture and I like to be entertained. This book fit the bill. And yet, I wish the author didn't come off as such a jerk.

Enjoyed the narration and found this audiobook perfect for commuting.

Läste om den här för första gången på några år. Chuck bilar genom USA 2003 och besöker platser där rockmusiker dött.

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.

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.

In general, I read to learn something new or for vindication. I read Klosterman for vindication: I feel smarter when a real-life writer puts out things that I have been thinking to myself. It makes me feel deep even if by rule this is shallow thinking.

Entre el libro de viajes, el relato autobiográfico y la autoficción, Chuck Klosterman se embarca en Matarse para vivir en dos odiseas. Primero, una aventurilla de carretera por los lugares donde se estrellaron las avionetas en las que viajaban los Lynyrd Skynyrd, Buddy Holly o Ritchie Valens, el baño donde se paró el corazón de Elvis, el recodo del Mississippi donde se ahogó Jeff Buckley, el invernadero donde Kurt Cobain se reventó los sesos, la discoteca donde casi un centenar de personas murieron durante un concierto de Great White, el cruce en el cuál Robert Johnson hizo su pacto con el diablo... Cada uno de estos sitios-icono le permiten divagar sobre cómo muerte y música popular se han realimentado, desde la iconoclastia, su habitual perspicacia y una cierta ligereza.

Este recorrido, sin embargo, a ratos parece una excusa. Klosterman dedica amplios espacios a contar las melopeas junto a sus compañeros de redacción; los encuentros más extravagantes durante su paso por los bares, restaurantes y moteles del trayecto; su uso de las sustancias estupefacientes; y, sobremanera, sus miedos, dudas, confidencias surgidas en sus relaciones con tres mujeres que han marcado su vida sentimental. Como bromea su editora al final, entre las páginas de periodismo cultural Klosterman parece meter su propia Alta fidelidad, a machacamartillo.

Y aunque a veces le daría de collejas por lo que hace, dice o piensa (por ser fino, no vaya a ser que alguien me pille tirria porque piense que lo haría de verdad), creo que sale exitoso. Aparte de su manejo del lenguaje, es sumamente ingenioso al conectar cualquier suceso con su visión del mundo de la música popular anglosajona de los últimos 50 años, ya sea a través de los compositores e intérpretes, sus canciones, las letras, las anécdotas detrás... Y esa inteligencia sobrepasa con creces las gilipolleces que, sin duda, también se pueden encontrar. Total, la indulgencia con Klosterman es las que necesitamos nosotros mismos cuando volvemos la vista atrás (aunque no sepamos sacar a nuestras pequeñas epopeyas personales el lustre que hay detrás de este relato).

¿Qué puedo decir? Quizás me estoy haciendo mayor para el rock'n'roll, o quizás es que me cuesta leer un libro sobre las angustias existenciales (sexuales) de alguien de la generación X (mi generación), utilizando como excusa un viaje por carretera visitando lugares donde murieron músicos (que el autor no quiere hacer, como repite una y otra vez).

Lo que cuenta sobre música no tiene gran relevancia para alguien que esté mínimamente interesado sobre la historia del rock -o que quiera consultar la wikipedia-, tampoco profundiza más allá en las historias de los fans o de los propios músicos aparte de cuatro tópicos simplones. Sus historias de frustración sexual o sobre con quién debe acostarse (que no enamorarse), son más bien propias de un adolescente sin muchas luces. Su teoría sobre la inconsciente banda sonora del 11-S por Radiohead parece su forma de meter el asunto en el libro de alguna manera (y es un peñazo).

Terminé el libro por pura fuerza de voluntar y esperando que al menos el final justificara el dinero y tiempo invertido... ¡fue un error! El final es pésimo, con otro de los desvarios del autor con una compañera de la revista donde trabaja.

Aburrido, egocéntrico, misógino... y encima se habla muy superficialmente ¡de música! Una pena porque la editorial (en España "Es Pop ediciones") es más que recomendable y ha publicado otros excelentes ensayos. Yo no sé qué hacer con él, darlo a la biblioteca sería darle la posibilidad de aburrir a otros lectores y conservarlo hace que ocupe lugar y peso en las próximas mudanzas.

PD: lo vendí en wallapop, no sentí mucho empaquetarlo y verlo marchar.

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!