This is a well-written post-biopocalypse rock and roll novel. I gave it such a middlin' rating mostly because it skimps on plot for a froth of (admittedly awesome) psychadelic quantum physics ambient music sensawunda.
Kamikaze L'Amour concerns the adventures of a burned-out synaesthetic rock and roll megastar following his post suicide attempt breakout from an Oregon celebrity rehab center. He finds his way down the West coast to San Francisco. Somehow (ecoterrorist? Bioengineering gone bad? Magico-musical summoning?) the Amazon has grown all the way up into Marin County. All of California is a mess. Yage-snorting South American tribes have followed game all the way north, aggregating with the indigenous homeless to battle the scraps of US forces struggling weakly to maintain a toehold in all of the chaos.
Our nameless hero stumbles through an almost completely collapsed San Francisco in a haze of vodka and pills. Along the way, he meets a hot rollerblading waitress whose real gig is recording the ambient sounds of the invasive rainforest and reworking them into a sort of psychomusical gestalt, a sort of techoshamanic musique concret. The protagonist begins to feel as though his own path lies in this direction, somehow attaining the spiritual city of light of his sensory bleed by uncovering the music of the city.
His old life will not let him go so easy. In a too-quickly settled plot development, his former manager conspires with a SOMA hustler with dreams of rock stardom to entice him south to LA and back to the rock star grind. This part of the novel is pretty much blah blah blah, skip to the next cool image. And the cool images do abound. One just feels as though he could have strung them together with a bit more characterization. By the end of the novel, when the rock star has cobbled together a working studio in the Capitol Records building, and is well underway on his great work, we're given to believe that he has reached some kind of artistic epiphany, that his music will be the city and the former rollerblading waitress' will be the jungle (a rather essentialist establishment of duality, if you ask me). When their works reach their peak, a sort of high sample-rate alchemical wedding will come about and harmony will return to the world or some shit. Which is great, I'm a sucker for that sort of thing, but there's really no build up to this point.
All that being said, Kamikaze L'Amour is a fun read, and has some great ideas. At points, it is beautifully written. But what's frustrating is that these come couched in such a thin, quick-and-dirty package.
Oh yeah,I didn't mention the whole fractal chaos math mumbo jumbo aspect, did I? Well, it was published in 1995, and what's a drugged-out mid 90s urban shamanic initiation tale without some Mandelbrot series nonsense thrown around?
I guess that part of my ambivalence with this work lies in that damned pseudocool posturing that was so rife in the genre in this period. Even when a character is a sad sack of psychotic shit, you know that they look elegantly rumpled as they scrape matted vomit off of their distressed Armani lapels. That's part of the baggage of the genre, I suppose. Even the best of its authors have some heroic ideal self that they project onto their characters. I sure it's not limited to the genre either.