"Show me don't tell me" seems like a rule the author has set out to deliberately ignore and flaunt, as the entire "novel" is more like a huge creative writing exercise in how to string together endless paragraphs of similes and reflections. No one really does or says anything; instead, the author spends pages describing the incident, the character, the moment, the sunrise, and everything else in terms that appear to put it all within its proper context of the entire universe and all of human history.
The "story" that all this hangs on--really, the author could glom this onto any human activity, or maybe even the activity of a cow or a parked car--is about the Brown family, a close harmony group who were popular in the 1950s and 1960s who lived a kind of Zelig-like existence, with nearly every name imaginable from that era spending a weekend hunting and fishing with them or stopping by for a bite of pie at their folks' restaurant in Poplar Creek, Arkansas. Elvis, Chet Atkins, Jim Reeves, even the Beatles are all on a first-name basis with the Browns. It was so ridiculous that I almost gave up half-way through, turning to the back to see how long I had; and there I found myself at the Acknowledgments page.
And it was on that Acknowledgements page that I read the subject of the story was, in fact, real: the Browns were a real group with real hits and a real influence on pop music, and really did know all those big names, even the Beatles. Only after I went to the website of Maxine, the oldest sister, did I realize that I too knew the Brown family, from their huge hit The Three Bells, about a man who lives his entire existence in a bucolic valley marking his life events with the ringing of the church's bell.
So some of this is true. Maybe even most of it. Knowing that rekindled my interest in finishing the book and changed my perspective from chortling at the ridiculousness of having the Beatles fly to Arkansas to learn harmony from The Browns to wondering just where the line is between truth and story here. In essence, this is a work of historical fiction.
But the wall of descriptive prose that passes for storytelling is still ponderous. The only redeeming quality is in the midst of all this bloviation, the author occasionally strings together a phrase or two that is memorable and quite beautiful. Near the end of the book, for example, he mentions Maxine fueling herself for an argument over her drinking by, well, drinking, and describes it as "fire in her veins, fire in her brain." So the author can turn an amazing phrase on occasion. It's almost worth wading through the gorp to read them.
It might be worth reading too, if you're already an aficionado of the mid-twentieth-century Nashville scene, and can find that line between fact and fiction easier than someone like me who is not. But on the whole I think this is just a wordy exercise.