33 1/3 Meat is Murder by Joe Pernice

I’m as good as my word. I said I was going to read more of the 33 1/3 series, and so I did. Unfortunately, my second foray was into the pages of Meat Is Murder, which is not like most of the 33 1/3 series. It is different primarily in that it is fiction, and not really about the album at all. But—and this is the surprising bit—I knew that before I started reading it. I was hooked in the store by this lead-in on the back cover:

“One morning as I was jogging my way past the bronze plaque commemorating the deaths of one student and one motorcyclist, my necktie flapping like a windsock, Ray floored the brake pedal of his Dodge as he close in on me. Fifty mile an hour traffic came to a screeching, nearly murderous halt behind him. He leaned over and rolled down the passenger side window in one fluid motion. He dispensed with formalities while I marveled at the audacity of his driving and, tossing something at me, winked and said, “Here. I’m going to kill myself.” He pegged the gas, leaving a surprisingly good patch of rubber for such a shitty car. In the gutter, sugared with sand put down during the winter’s last snow, I saw written in red felt ink on masking tape stuck to a smoky-clear cassette: ‘Smiths: Meat.’”

I was caught by that stunning bit of bait, but it was probably the high-point of my experience with the book. Initially, I thought it was a straight memoir. Then, when I read a few reviews on Amazon, I accepted that it was fiction. Fine. But what bugged me most after I put in the time to read it was that that scene on the back is so terribly boring when put into context.

In fact, the whole thing is best described as boring and unfulfilling. It acts like a novel, but is in fact a sketch of 80’s life as a Boston teen. The plot seems to be a plot, but never follows through. No questions are answered. Instead, you get some mildly entertaining descriptions of people and places, and an all-too-convenient wrap-up at the end.

The style of writing isn’t bad, but it isn’t used to do anything worthwhile. This is, at best, the first half of a book. Where the second half is, I would like to know, because then it might be deserving of a read-through. We have a love-story which barely gets off the ground, and the story of a band that never actually gets together (yet). Oh, and some flimsy character progression that seems to be used as justification for ending the book after 102 pages.

There are a few moments of quality which make me regret disliking the whole. One is when the narrator discusses popular explanations for why four local kids committed suicide together: “My favorite came from this balding sixteen-year-old named Flaherty who later joined—and was subsequently asked to leave—the seminary: ‘They did it because of despair.’ No fucking shit.” (26) Unfortunately, these moments of humor are separated by large swaths of lackluster cliches and digressions that go nowhere.

I almost want to like this book. But I can’t. It just isn’t in me.

“I always enjoyed pegging the volume when I listened to headphones in public. I liked depriving one of my senses of the mundane and force-feeding it something altogether different.” (97 Pernice)

Sincerely,

Spencer Miles Kimball