Before I start with this review, I should declare an interest. I love Jonathan Coe. Not in any kind of personal way, I’ve never met the man, but I love his work. To an obsessive level. I’m fairly sure my writing tutor got sick of reading ‘Why I Write’ style essays when I name him as an influence (which is cheeky in itself, I really shouldn’t have the nerve to mention him in the same sentence as my writing).
Anyway, all of that makes it somewhat surprising that I’ve never read this book before. It’s the only one of his novels that I hadn’t read (I also haven’t read ‘Like a Fiery Elephant’, his non-fiction biography of avant-garde novellist BS Johnson – from what I’ve read about that book, it is magnificent but I am highly unlikely to be able to understand it, lacking as I am a grounding in literary theory…) so it was about time I rectified this. The book has a plot that is very much about music; unusual in Coe’s novels, as music is an obsession that runs through many of them but only usually on the periphery.
William is a struggling musician living in London – a failed cocktail-bar pianist because his repertoire is far too small and he can’t play requests, and a failing band The Alaska Factory that he is about to leave for a new band The Unfortunates. Aptly named, since William’s first meeting with his new bandmates ends with the murder of their lead singer, which makes William the prime suspect.
So far, so conventional. But Coe doesn’t really do conventional. You would think, with a novel that starts with a crime, that we would be in familiar crime fiction territory, but the rest of the book doesn’t really behave like a crime novel until the ‘twist at the end’ bit. I found this reminiscent of the climax of ‘What a Carve Up!’, which was both a piss-take of those old Scooby Doo style mystery-in-a-big-old-mansion stories and a new exploration of the genre. In fact, after the opening chapters, the murder isn’t mentioned much at all, and instead we get an outline of William and his life.
I find his way with characterisation intriguing; it’s not enough for William to just be rubbish with women, he has to have an entirely dysfunctional relationship that I’m not sure many other writers would have come up with. It is easy sometimes with comic novels for everything to be sacrificed at the altar of the protagonist, so that other characters are just cardboard cut-outs who only exist as vehicles for the protagonist to get into another amusing set-up, but Coe doesn’t do that. All of the characters in this, even William’s flat-mate Tina, who we only see through the notes she exchanges with him, is a fully-rounded character with a life outside of the narrative, and this keeps the novel flowing.
One of the other traits of Coe that I particularly enjoy is his way of injecting what should be bog-standard observations not out of place in the set of a mediocre stand-up comedian with such fury and eloquence that they become something else entirely. He does this to particular effect in the Dwarves of Death, starting with the premise of ‘aren’t buses unreliable?’ and turning it into an hilarious monologue full of pathos and recognition that goes beyond just comic.
What I most love about Coe (and I realise I am gushing now, will stop soon) is that there are no cheap laughs; everything is well-constructed, all of the relationships between the characters are complex and everything fits together perfectly. I can even forgive the little eccentricities of the book, like reproducing bars of music in notation form throughout the text, as it probably does add to William’s character and his obsession, with him not even realising how absurd it is (and, after the utterly brilliant but very geeky footnotes joke in The House of Sleep, it is entirely possible that, were I able to read music, I would find a hidden joke in the notes as well…)
I wouldn’t say this is Coe’s best novel (I can’t decide what that would be, it’s probably a four-way tie between The Rotters Club, The House of Sleep, What a Carve Up! and The Rain Before It Falls, all for entirely different reasons) but it’s certainly a good read and, in my humble opinion, better than a lot of books out there by lesser writers (that includes almost everybody, in my eyes…). A short novel, but not a word wasted.