If a good novel based on rock ‘n’ roll has been written, I’ve yet to read it. That includes Jonathan Lethem’s latest, You Don’t Love Me Yet, a slim volume that tells the tale of an unnamed alt-rock band and the troubles its four members undergo. I was hesitant to dive in, despite being a fan of Lethem’s work. The book earned some fairly savage reviews and I’ve had no luck with rock novels in the past. Reading Lethem’s book, I think I’ve finally figured out why.

Music is something that must be experienced to be appreciated. That might seem obvious, but bear me out. Writing about a song that no one has heard is nearly impossible. You can describe things as sounding a certain way, but even then you usually fall on the crutch of comparing it with other bands and other songs. Plus, the performance of music simply isn’t that interesting. That’s why the light show was invented. People playing music, or worse, rehearsing, aren’t really doing anything. It’s like writing about someone doing their taxes or washing the dishes. Long ago in my college days, I proposed to some friends in a touring band that I would ride along on a weekend of shows and play roadie, writing about the results. They essentially told me that I could sit in a small room with the windows and doors closed so that it became unbearably stuffy and smelly, then sit around for a while longer, then carry some heavy boxes around, then eat bad food, then hear live music for about an hour, and then go back in the room before falling asleep on the floor. That closely approximates riding in a band all day, loading in, playing and then doing it all over again, and that’s why rock bands simply aren’t good subjects for a novel.

Related to that is the fact that rock lyrics and song titles often sound ridiculous in print. It’s difficult to divorce the words and titles of your favorite songs from the music and experience of listening, but try to do so and you’ll see what I mean. One of my all-time favorite songs is R.E.M.’s “Fall on Me,” and that title and the songs lyrics — regardless of how poignant lines like ” Feathers hit the ground before the weight can leave the air” might sound — don’t do much without the music and everything associated with hearing the song again and again.

So when someone like Lethem pens a passage like this:

“They hadn’t practiced in 10 days. So, the four shrugged halfway through their set list: ‘Shitty Citizen,’ ‘Temporary Feeling,’ ‘The Houseguest,’ and ‘Hell is for Buildings.’ Then worked a few times over the ending to ‘Canary in a Coke Machine,’ struggling with the elusive full-stop timing.”

It only sounds silly. The reader knows there is no song called “Canary in a Coke Machine,” so there is no “elusive full-stop timing” with which to struggle. That might not seem fair; there is no Tourette’s-afflicted private eye as depicted in Lethem’s Motherless Brooklyn, either, but that book is fantastic whereas this one falls flat. What gives?

Again, it’s the fact that discussion of music must be grounded in actual music. It is perhaps the only art form to suffer such fate. Novelists can paint a non-existent picture, recreate a made-up dance or direct a fictional scene, because all of these things are visual. They cannot, except only in the most general, unsatisfying terms, adequately describe music that does not exist. Or rather, no one has yet to my knowledge.

Further proof comes from the fact that the best so-called rock novels are written about fictional fans who like real music. Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity is an oft-cited example. Hornby’s characters, while involved with bands, listen to and talk about real songs. The reader either already knows this music or can seek it out. Either way, the reference point is tangible.

Lethem is far from alone. Bad rock novels seem a rite of passage, everyone from the wildly talented Don DeLillo (Great Jones Street) to Jeff Gomez on the other end of the spectrum (his Our Noise, a look at mid-90s indie rock, was one of the worst novels I’ve read, rock or otherwise) has tried and failed. It’s like an unavoidable challenge that any and all music-loving novelists must attempt. Who knows; maybe one day someone will get it right. Believe me, as a fan who keeps coming back for more punishment, I’d love to be wrong.

I had every expectation of logging on tonight to post a glowing review of last night’s Crowded House concert at the House of Blues in Chicago. Instead, I sit here not even 24 hours later with no real recollection of the show. No, I didn’t imbibe too much, I simply attended a show at the worst venue I’ve ever had the misfortune to visit. As such, I was unable to see, the sound was wretched and the venue seemed to take every opportunity to make sure the show was not enjoyable. So much for wish fulfillment.

Doors opened at 7:30 p.m., Crowded House went on at 11 p.m. There were two openers that I had no real interest in seeing (no slight intended; I just couldn’t imagine standing for 6 hours straight while crammed shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of sweaty Chicagoans). We arrived at 10:30 p.m., found the sold-out crowd completely jammed into every possible corner, so settled in at the back for the show. The venue is set up in such a way that there is a big open space in front of the stage, then everything else is under the low overhang caused by the balcony. The effect was one of standing in a garage with about 100 people I didn’t know (and grew not to like) while watching other people far away inside a house watch a Crowded House DVD on a TV with blown speakers. It was impossible to get into the show. Though the band seemed to play marvelously (it looked as such on the TV monitors sprinkled throughout the room which provided the only proof I had that bassist Nick Seymour was performing; the multiple cameras they used to shoot the show conspired with gigantic faux classic pillars to block more than half of the stage from view. There was rumor of a webcast being shot, but I can find absolutely no proof of this. If anyone knows whether this is true or not, I’d love to hear.) I simply couldn’t make myself feel like I was even at the concert that others seemed to be enjoying.

Suffice to say that the House of Blues could create a time machine, book a show featuring 1984-vintage R.E.M., Replacements and Minutemen (hell, throw in late era Split Enz while we’re at it) for a free show, and I wouldn’t walk across the street to attend. I don’t know if he even has anything to do with this cheesy tourist-trap of a club any more but I feel like Dan Ackroyd owes me money, a sum I’d gladly trade for the chance to give him (or anyone else involved in this shitty, shitty place) a swift kick in the nuts.

The good news is that Crowded House seems to be doing well with its new record and tour. Perhaps I’ll get another chance to finally see them.

Mark Jude Poirier quotes Susan Sontag in the introduction to a new collection of short fiction, The Worst Years of Your Life, and neatly states the reason why adolescence is such a heavily mined topic for fiction in the process: “The best emotions to write out of are anger and fear or dread.”

As he goes on to say, the “awkward years” of 11 to 15 are those where these feelings are at their peak. Looking back on those years has allowed scores of writers to navigate emotional mine fields with the result being a lot of great short stories and novels.

Poirier sensed this and put together this anthology, which collects 20 previously published stories from writers like George Saunders, John Barth, Jim Shepard, A.M. Homes and Julie Orringer. It’s a fine selection, but I was disappointed to learn that everything here has already seen print. I love (and sometimes love/hate) Saunders’ work, and was excited at the prospect of a new story. Instead, I’m treated to “Bohemians,” a good story from a 2004 New Yorker. As a matter of fact, though I would consider myself moderately well read at best, I’ve already read five or six of the stories in the collection. It’s interesting to see them all together and to think about each of them in the larger context of adolescent angst, but even a few new stories would certainly have sweetened the pot.

Adolescence is always a hot topic for writers, as discussed above, but now seems to be a time particularly suited to the over-the-shoulder glance at the past. Perhaps it’s simply a sign of the times, as those of us easing into middle age look back at the relative safe haven of our teens. While those in Poirier’s book looked back fictionally, a recent collection edited by writer John McNally finds 25 writers weighing in on their own high school years with heartbreakingly touching and funny essays. When I Was a Loser will conjure memories for everyone, be they geeks, jocks, nerds, stoners, cool kids or something in between.

While both collections are great reading, I’ll give the edge to McNally’s simply for the fact that it features new and original work. Poirier’s book is certainly worthy competition, for it serves as a nice sampler, allowing people to check out writers they’ve heard of but never read (something I plan to dive in and use it for immediately).

A lot of ink has been spilled in the debate about whether genre fiction and literary fiction are mutually exclusive terms. High-brow types like to relegate mystery and crime fiction to the commercially popular-criticially reviled ghetto, while writers of mysteries and their fans decry the second-class citizenship accorded works that focus more on plot than character.

John Banville’s pseudonymous novel, Christine Falls, offered the opportunity for those on both sides to chime in. Having finally gotten around to reading the book, I can safely say it seemed more sound and fury signifying nothing to me than anything resembling a groundbreaking work. It was a fairly plodding, at times boring stab at a thriller from a writer whose books are often characterized as being about nothing. It’s going to take more than writing under the name Benjamin Black and adding a bit of a plot to make Banville a mystery writer worth reading.

The book is set in 1950s Ireland and Boston, and tells the tale of a Catholic society that takes babies from disadvantaged Irish families and places them with families in Boston. The plot is more nefarious, of course, but suffice to say that’s the long and short of it. Banville’s protagonist is Quirke Griffin, the adopted son of a wealthy Irish family. Quirke is a pathologist, and he comes across the woman who gives the book its name after she’s already dead, finding her on a slab in his office. Malachy Griffin, his brother of sorts and the hospital’s top obstetrician, is somehow involved, and Quirke’s attempt to unravel things leads him to uncover the larger plans and get himself and others into a great deal of trouble in the process.

While Banville is clearly a gifted writer — his descriptions of people and places are at times breathtaking — his attempt at mimicking the verbal sleights and shadows of the best thrillers, never mind the pace, show just how difficult it is to write a gripping pageturner. Sure, the characterizations in many genre novels pale in comparison to the richly drawn, three-dimension people who populate literary fiction. But Banville proves that the plotting and pacing of such books can’t hold a candle to that of even middling mystery novels. Whether Banville’s folly was his way of showing how easy it is to write such books is for him to say. If so, he failed.

That’s not to say the book isn’t entertaining in spots, and it’s subject is one ripe for further exploration. But in terms of writing a book that bridges the gap between literary and genre fiction, many others have already accomplished what it seems Banville set out to do: write a compelling novel with real characters that happens to have a mystery at its core. Banville would do well to read the work of Dennis Lehane, Michael Connelly, George Pelecanos or Ian Rankin to get an idea of how this should be done. He promises further adventures for Quirke, though I’ll be hesitant to tag along. Reading this did make me move Banville’s Booker-winning The Sea to the top of my to-be-read list. Without the need to jam a plot into his story, I’m sure Banville’s prose is rewarding.

There’s was an interesting piece in the New York Times on Sunday that essentially calls 1997 ground zero for the woes the music industry has faced for the past decade. In the piece, David Browne calls that year “the start of the last golden era of pop (if not its final one) and, more important, the beginning of the end of the music business as we knew it.” He’s certainly right, and he’s not the only one to compare chart-topping sales figures from that year with this one. The top selling disc of the past year wouldn’t have made the top 10 in 1997, for example.

His analysis, however, seems off balance. In passing out blame, he seems to give record label mergers and the rise of MP3s the same weight as the shift from career artists with something to say to look-oriented one-hit wonders with no message. While the former two factors contributed to the industry’s fall, it was the latter greedy cash-grab that is most to blame. It can look to outside factors, but the music industry shot itself in the foot be looking at short-term gains to the detriment of long-term potential. Boy bands by their nature won’t ever enjoy long careers. Cute doesn’t last, and it’s creepy to think of subsequent generations of teenaged girls swooning over increasingly grizzled pinup lads as they move into their 40s. Meanwhile, the potential U2s and R.E.M.s that could generate consistent sales over the long haul are cast aside because they don’t make the cover of Tiger Beat.

Browne does make a good point at the close of his piece, writing that for most consumers, things have improved since 1997. I think he would be better to say “discerning consumers,” as the mainstream, which still buys the overwhelming majority of music-related products probably doesn’t take advantage of the benefits he outlines, but they are there: Downloading and cheap reproduction have democratized the marketplace to the extent that anyone has the opportunity to get their music out the masses.

Anyone who has ever disagreed with a critic will like the idea behind the cover feature in the latest issue of Time Out New York. The feature, “Critiquing the Critics,” puts the work of New York-based critics in eight disciplines up for review.

According to the piece, they developed a grading scale in five categories – knowledge, style, taste, accessibility and influence – and then asked artists, authors, publicists and others to weigh in using that system. They looked at critics of art, books, dance, film, food, music, classical music and theater.

Sasha Frere-Jones with the New Yorker topped the music list; The panelists rightly dock Frere-Jones for his hipster tendencies, which can be a detriment when writing about artists he discovers when he “goes out of his way to discover new music.” Another commenter says “I often disagree with his picks, but generally look forward to reading him,” which pretty well describes my own relationship with his work. Kelefa Sanneh with the New York Times and Jody Rosen with Slate round out the top three.

John Leonard with Harper’s led the book list. John Updike came in at no. 2 on the list for his work in the New Yorker and The New York Review of Books, while Salon‘s Laura Miller was no. 3.

It’s a great idea; one that could keep critics on their toes. It would be bad for critics to worry too much about what the public thinks of their work as it would likely affect what they do and temper their views, but a bit of accountability is never a bad thing.

This is the time of year for journalistic fluff, but even in a season of lowered expectations the made-up huff over bibliographies in novels must surely rank among the silliest stories to make print. In an article in last week’s New York Times, Julie Bosman asks writers and critics about the lengthly bibliography at the back of Norman Mailer’s new novel, The Castle in the Forest. No warning bells immediately go off at that premise, as the presence of a bibliography in a novel is somewhat rare.

The reactions she elicits, however, are comical. James Wood, a critic for the New Republic, calls it “terribly off-putting.” It is posturing, it seems, a bit of self-congratulation for the legwork involved in researching a novel. “We expect authors to do that work,” he adds, “and I don’t see why we should praise them for that work. And I don’t see why they should praise themselves for it.”

Two things come to mind. First, no one need read a bibliography if its mere presence truly offends. Second, couldn’t such a list actually be helpful to readers who want to further explore the ideas, concepts or history involved in the fiction? I for one think it’s great to see where certain ideas might spring from, and while I rarely follow up, it’s comforting to know I can if ever so compelled. Sure, some of these lists might seem a little self-indulgent, particularly when they list dozens and dozens of sources. But rather than look for offense, why not see these as one more way a novelist can connect with a reader? It isn’t getting any easier to do so, and something like this, which in no way compromises the book itself, would seem to be a nice tool to add to that effort.

Michael Chabon weighed in with a subsequent letter to the editor offering another possible reason for such lists: to acknowledge. “If there is some kind of old-fashioned virtue in concealing one’s debt to and gratitude for the hard work of others, it’s difficult for me to see where it lies,” he writes.