Chuck certainly rants and does a great job of talking himself in circles. More irrelevant content than what the description of the book promised, but it was interesting to hear about rock culture in the late 90s/early 2000s. Also his love live is sad. Hope the past two decades were better for you, Chuck!

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.

Once again, Chuck Klosterman reveals himself to be a boring, self-centered paragon of bad taste with horrible ideas about the relations between the sexes. Why do I keep reading him?

The only really interesting chapter revolves around the Great White concert fire, revealing the poignancy of the men who lost friends and brothers at the show. I just wish that he would go as far as he thinks he's going into genuine critique of cultural elitism and how callously it allows us to treat each other. Many considered the Great White concert tragedy a joke because the band itself are seen as only beloved by "white trash" or "rednecks" - not the culturally aware - even subhuman. (A crowd-crushing fatality at a Smashing Pumpins concert a few years ago was treated with shocking cruelty by some of my fellows in the music industry for the same reason.) Klosterman hints at condemning this attitude but, perhaps realizing the extent his readership belong to the callous "elite" group, shies away.

Classic Klosterman sexism abounds here as well. Do most guys actually think that putting women on a pedestal of otherness accomplishes anything positive? So tiresome.

Also classic Klosterman: boring-ass prose. His popularity makes me sad.

Dude’s arrogance pours thick and true out of every page. There’s an air of that early aughts misogyny that can be veiled behind a self-deprecating dive into the author’s own psyche. Ah, well. Can’t expect much more from a music critic whose favorite band is KISS.

Yay. I'm FINALLY done.

Killing Yourself to Live was a very enjoyable quick read, it's a nice book to read on a Sunday afternoon when you just want to relax at home with a cup of coffee or tea, or when you're on an airplane or train. This is the kind of book that you read when you have nothing else to do and you want to be entertained. Ultimately though, your personal enjoyment of the book will be dictated by whether or not you feel like you would want to be friends with Chuck Klosterman-- because the book is saturated with his own personal experience and opinions, interspersed with tidbits of rock history. I think that i I knew Chuck Klosteman in real life he would be like a friend of a friend who I talk to at parties and find mildly likable, but who I have no real connection with, which is why I gave the book 3 stars. If you were to read this book and feel like you could actually be friends with or fall in love with Klosterman than you will probably like it more, and if on the other hand you read this book and think that Klosterman's worldview is so diametrically opposed to yours that he would be the type of person than you would silently resent or hate, or want to beat the shit out of, then you will probably not enjoy this book.

I do not know how Chuck Klosterman gets me to read about obscure rock and roll references and make me laugh and enjoy it. I think it's because he's not smug and too serious about his observations or his line of work. Like, if he was the Anthony Bourdain of music critics I would have to punch myself in the face, but he's so charming and relatable and it is so easy to read his writing.

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..

Why do we care about Chuck Klosterman? There is nothing truly remarkable about his life. I disagree with 97 percent of what he has to say about music. The way he holds his political cards close to his chest makes me suspicious. And yet, once I start one of his books, I can’t put it down. Killing Yourself to Live is no exception. It takes us on a drug-fueled odyssey across the United States with stops at famous rock and roll death sites (the seedy hotel where Sid Vicious did himself in; the burnt patch in Rhode Island that used to be a bar where dozens lost their lives thanks to Great White’s trying to re-live their, ahem, glory days; the patch of ground Buddy Holly’s plane collided with; Cobain’s death room, etc.). As is the case with many young-ish writers today (to wit: Sarah Vowell), Klosterman’s book’s stated purpose serves merely as an ostensible vehicle for the author to write about himself, his life, his loves, etc. One might be tempted to write this off as narcissism or myopia, but Klosterman somehow manages to wrest insights into the human condition out of the twisted, emotional menagerie that is his psyche. Yes, he’s self-absorbed, but in such a fashion that his sharing it with us feels like a gift…of sorts.

If my enjoyment of a book can be measured in reading speed, this is one of the most enjoyable books I've read in a long time. I simply couldn't put it down.

Now, I may be biased. I think Chuck Klosterman is totally likeable because I think, more than most people I read, he thinks like I think. And I think a lot of people have this private thought when they're reading him. Here is this nerdy guy who throws around pop culture references like sprinkles on the cupcake of his own self-deprecating over-analyzing sadness. And frankly, I think we all feel that way sometimes.

But I can also see how other people might not like Klosterman. And the book isn't perfect. It moves around a lot, inserts references that aren't always clear, but thats part of its charm. Its like Klosterman wrote a particularly funny diary for us about this road trip he went on and reading it made everyone feel a little better about the times they can be a little self-absorbed or monomaniacal or just plain bad at communication.

Klosterman is a reflection of all of us at our most earnest and sometimes most awkward.

Now, this book is ostensibly about rock star death but I really think its about the death of one's self throughout life. How certain chapters have to be closed in order for new one's to be started. On this theme, Klosterman is poignant and heartfelt, in his own way, and it really is what makes the book so worthwhile.

This book, as well as Klosterman in general, comes highly recommended. And when you read it, and fall in love with it, be sure to feel super envious of my autographed copy.

Imagine a 200 page inside joke that you don’t understand. Imagine a whole book where the only purpose seems to be the author trying to show how cool he is by name dropping CDs. Imagine a book that should be about the interesting and potentially life changing cross country trip to see where musicians died but never actually manages to be either. The one thing I liked was the dinner scene with his family. For a moment it captured a truly Midwest experience. For that, 2-stars.

Fun listening to a local boy and hearing about his "tour!"