I didn't like the music in this book. This may sound like a piddling thing, but it's not, really. Ray Robertson writes ecstatically about music, with a gift that's difficult to match outside of Rolling Stone's better moments, and like all such writing, it can make you hear the music in new ways. ...
Bayle parked and locked up Davidson’s truck and walked to the foot of 66’s driveway. “Excuse me,” he said. “Is there a Billy that lives here? I’m sorry, I haven’t got a last name.” The teenaged shooter, hockey stick raised hip-high and ready to slap the tennis ball at his feet in the direction of...
And then, too soon, Monday, and five more days of doing what I was told until, at the end of each, it was time to go home to whatever tiny room I was renting and read myself to sleep. Pissing away an entire day simply coaxing your body back to pre-hangover health wasn’t, I soon learned, the wises...
Within reason of course. Too much of anything, it seems, is never a good idea. “Sorry,” the teenager sitting next to me says, needing to get by me to go to the restroom for the third time since we left Toronto. “Sure,” I say, standing up, letting hi...