Suzy, Led Zeppelin and Me and ME...
No promises or warnings about spoilers. I'm a guy who doesn't like to read the front cover of a book before jumping in, so I have to figure if you're reading a review, then you don't mind a little info about the contents of the narrative.
I just read Martin Millar's book Suzy, Led Zeppelin, and Me. My previous experiences with Millar's work are limited, since I don't live in Britain. Only a few of his books have made thier way across the pond. I have a friend who forced us to buy The Good Fairies of New York. (She seriously forced us. She put my wife in a half-nelson in the middle of Border's and wouldn't let go until it was in our possesion. It was kind of embarassing since she's half my size.) I'm glad we own it because I really enjoyed it. Since then, I've seen Lonely Werewolf Girl in stores but didn't buy it when I had the chance, and I regret it. Although I must admit a little trepidation at the prospect that maybe his other books aren't as good as Fairies was, since his books are hard to come by. Still, I nabbed the copy of Suzy as soon as I saw it.
I wasn't worried after reading the first chapter. Millar tells his coming of age story like a British Kurt Vonnegut with ADD. His tale is about how Led Zeppelin came to Glaskow when he was almost 15, and the events that surrounded the concert. He is telling it to his friend Manx who is suffering from post-partum depression and helping him judge a literary contest. Martin Millar, in the two books of his that I've read, manages to do two things incredibly well. The first thing is tell stories about music that make me want to start buying CDs. The second is that he manages to create characters who I completely loathe and want bad things to happen to, and then make me feel bad for them when things do, and be happy when things go well again. That isn't to say that Suzy ends like a fairy tale, it didn't. But there were times when I wanted to fly to England and punch Martin in the face for being a loser. But by the end I'm a fan.
I won't have the same fear when I see a copy of Lonely Werewolf Girl or any of his other books that may someday make thier way to my neck of the woods (small town Indiana, always a haven for the literary). There are some grammatical errors and editorial mistakes that frustrated me while I was reading but a lot of books have those these days. But his style is deceptively simple. He tells you he's giving you a Pinto, but when you look under the tarp you find a Lamborgini.
Once more: I curse Britain for producing wonderful fiction.