Kenneth Womack

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Kenneth Womack

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The United States
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August 2007


Kenneth Womack is a world-renowned authority on the Beatles and their enduring cultural influence. His latest book project involves a two-volume, full-length biography devoted to famed Beatles producer Sir George Martin. Forthcoming in 2017, the first book in the series will be entitled Maximum Volume: The Life of Beatles Producer George Martin (The Early Years: 1926-1966).

Womack's Beatles-related books include Long and Winding Roads: The Evolving Artistry of the Beatles (2007), The Cambridge Companion to the Beatles (2009), and The Beatles Encyclopedia: Everything Fab Four (2014).

Womack is also the author of three award-winning novels, including John Doe No. 2 and the Dreamland Motel (2010), The Restaurant at the End of the World (2012), a
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Average rating: 3.73 · 16,388 ratings · 932 reviews · 51 distinct worksSimilar authors
Maximum Volume: The Life of...

4.30 avg rating — 79 ratings6 editions
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Long and Winding Roads: The...

3.82 avg rating — 34 ratings — published 2007 — 6 editions
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Playing the Angel

3.85 avg rating — 26 ratings — published 2013 — 2 editions
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The Restaurant at the End o...

3.85 avg rating — 20 ratings — published 2012
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Made to Order: The Sheetz S...

3.90 avg rating — 20 ratings — published 2013 — 2 editions
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The Cambridge Companion to ...

3.84 avg rating — 19 ratings — published 2009 — 5 editions
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Mapping the Ethical Turn

3.25 avg rating — 12 ratings — published 2001 — 2 editions
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John Doe No. 2 and the Drea...

4.14 avg rating — 7 ratings — published 2010 — 2 editions
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A Companion to the Victoria...

4.60 avg rating — 5 ratings — published 2002
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Postwar Academic Fiction: S...

4.20 avg rating — 5 ratings — published 2002
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John Doe No. 2 and the Dreamland Motel (Select)
1 chapters   —   updated Sep 24, 2010 05:34PM
Description: Sample Chapter

Kenneth’s Recent Updates

Kenneth wants to read 50 books in the 2017 Reading Challenge
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Avenue of Mysteries by John Irving
Avenue of Mysteries
by John Irving (Goodreads Author)
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More of Kenneth's books…
“In the end—as in the beginning—it is the authentic performance of the Beatles’ peculiar, elaborate, unfettered art that matters. It is the performance that makes the text possible in the first place, that imbues it with the heartbreaking reality of our transitory existence. It is the impermanence of the moment—rendered seemingly permanent by magnetic tape and celluloid—that is so vexing in its realness that it somehow seems immutable. Take the rooftop concert, with London’s blustery, wintry winds swirling up from the streetscape as John, Paul, George, and Ringo make one last play for greatness after a month of soul-destroying misery. They climbed the stairs above 3 Savile Row and willed a final, breathtaking performance for the ages. It is the primal image of the Beatles having become lost in the pure joy of their sound, just as they had done so many years before in the Cavern and not so very long ago in Studio Two. Everything else—the gossip, the intrigue, the emotional collapse—suddenly becomes moot, irrelevant even, as Ringo keeps the backbeat strong and true on his Ludwigs, while George furrows his brow as he drives his Rosewood Telecaster home. And John and Paul, smiling at each other across the staves of memory, play their hearts out one more time. The rest is silence.”
Kenneth Womack, Long and Winding Roads: The Evolving Artistry of the Beatles

“Close your eyes.
Be with me.
Imagine that I am stepping off of the front stoop of my old apartment building. That I am strolling along the Upper West Side, like always. Just like any other morning.
It is a splendid, sunlit day, and I am wearing my brand-new Gucci pumps. Walking across 110th Street, I take the rustic, parkside staircase into the tiled recesses of the Cathedral Parkway station. It may have originally opened in 1904, but for my money it doesn’t look a day over 60.
I wonder, sometimes, what it must have been like to be alive back then, when all of this was different. Before the city had made, erased, and remade itself fifty times over. In my fantasy world, everything must have been slower—easier, even. I like to think that if we could somehow slow down the passage of time, if we could eke just a little bit more out of each minute, then we could get more depth out of life. That things might taste a bit richer, more diffuse. That we could experience the fullness of sound. That we could feel things more deeply—and longer.”
Kenneth Womack, The Restaurant at the End of the World

“Down here, in our Cajun Magic Kingdom, I’m the Statue of Liberty. La Liberté éclairant le monde. But uptown, where the mold and the mildew still reign supreme, I go by Tiffany Proulx, which sounds like Peru, only without the pesky e inside. Most people call me Tiff, as in a fight, albeit a very small one. More like a squabble. A misunderstanding that’s bound to sort itself out. Just give it a little time is all.”
Kenneth Womack, Playing the Angel

“Down here, in our Cajun Magic Kingdom, I’m the Statue of Liberty. La Liberté éclairant le monde. But uptown, where the mold and the mildew still reign supreme, I go by Tiffany Proulx, which sounds like Peru, only without the pesky e inside. Most people call me Tiff, as in a fight, albeit a very small one. More like a squabble. A misunderstanding that’s bound to sort itself out. Just give it a little time is all.”
Kenneth Womack, Playing the Angel

“As the streets begin to overflow with police cruisers and satellite vehicles, with fire trucks and ambulances on high alert, you continue walking ever northward, back towards the interstate that delivered you into Oklahoma City. And as the news helicopters begin circling overhead, you hitch a ride out of town with a trio of suburban carpoolers eager to flee their city in ruins. Settling into the backseat of a Range Rover next to a dazed, bespectacled CPA—'Who would do such a thing?' she mutters, over and over, in disbelief—you brush your fingers across your forehead, feeling, for the first time, the lumpy, coagulated texture of the dried blood that coats your naked skin like a shell.”
Kenneth Womack, John Doe No. 2 and the Dreamland Motel

“Close your eyes.
Be with me.
Imagine that I am stepping off of the front stoop of my old apartment building. That I am strolling along the Upper West Side, like always. Just like any other morning.
It is a splendid, sunlit day, and I am wearing my brand-new Gucci pumps. Walking across 110th Street, I take the rustic, parkside staircase into the tiled recesses of the Cathedral Parkway station. It may have originally opened in 1904, but for my money it doesn’t look a day over 60.
I wonder, sometimes, what it must have been like to be alive back then, when all of this was different. Before the city had made, erased, and remade itself fifty times over. In my fantasy world, everything must have been slower—easier, even. I like to think that if we could somehow slow down the passage of time, if we could eke just a little bit more out of each minute, then we could get more depth out of life. That things might taste a bit richer, more diffuse. That we could experience the fullness of sound. That we could feel things more deeply—and longer.”
Kenneth Womack, The Restaurant at the End of the World

“In the end—as in the beginning—it is the authentic performance of the Beatles’ peculiar, elaborate, unfettered art that matters. It is the performance that makes the text possible in the first place, that imbues it with the heartbreaking reality of our transitory existence. It is the impermanence of the moment—rendered seemingly permanent by magnetic tape and celluloid—that is so vexing in its realness that it somehow seems immutable. Take the rooftop concert, with London’s blustery, wintry winds swirling up from the streetscape as John, Paul, George, and Ringo make one last play for greatness after a month of soul-destroying misery. They climbed the stairs above 3 Savile Row and willed a final, breathtaking performance for the ages. It is the primal image of the Beatles having become lost in the pure joy of their sound, just as they had done so many years before in the Cavern and not so very long ago in Studio Two. Everything else—the gossip, the intrigue, the emotional collapse—suddenly becomes moot, irrelevant even, as Ringo keeps the backbeat strong and true on his Ludwigs, while George furrows his brow as he drives his Rosewood Telecaster home. And John and Paul, smiling at each other across the staves of memory, play their hearts out one more time. The rest is silence.”
Kenneth Womack, Long and Winding Roads: The Evolving Artistry of the Beatles




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