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The Song Is You
Julian Donahue is in love with his iPod.
Each song that shuffles through that greatest of all human inventions triggers a memory. There are songs for the girls from when he was single; there's the one for the day he met his wife-to-be, and another for the day his son was born. But when his family falls apart, even music loses its hold on him, and he has nothing.
Until one snowy night in Brooklyn, when his life's soundtrack "and life itself" starts to play again. He stumbles into a bar and sees Cait O'Dwyer, a flame-haired Irish rock singer, performing with her band, and a strange and unlikely love affair is ignited.
Over the next few months, Julian and Cait's passion for music and each other is played out, though they never meet. In cryptic emails, text messages, cell-phone videos, and lyrics posted on Cait's website, they find something in their bizarre friendship that they cannot find anywhere else. Cait's star is on the rise, and Julian gently guides her along her path to fame "but always from a distance" and she responds to the one voice who understands her, more than a fan but still less than a lover.
As their feelings grow more feverish, keeping a safe distance becomes impossible. What follows is a love story and a uniquely heartbreaking dark comedy about obsession and loss.
Called one of the best writers in America by The Washington Post, the bestselling author of Prague delivers his finest work yet in The Song Is You. It is a closely observed tale of love in the digital age that blurs the line between the longing for intimacy and the longing for oblivion.
Each song that shuffles through that greatest of all human inventions triggers a memory. There are songs for the girls from when he was single; there's the one for the day he met his wife-to-be, and another for the day his son was born. But when his family falls apart, even music loses its hold on him, and he has nothing.
Until one snowy night in Brooklyn, when his life's soundtrack "and life itself" starts to play again. He stumbles into a bar and sees Cait O'Dwyer, a flame-haired Irish rock singer, performing with her band, and a strange and unlikely love affair is ignited.
Over the next few months, Julian and Cait's passion for music and each other is played out, though they never meet. In cryptic emails, text messages, cell-phone videos, and lyrics posted on Cait's website, they find something in their bizarre friendship that they cannot find anywhere else. Cait's star is on the rise, and Julian gently guides her along her path to fame "but always from a distance" and she responds to the one voice who understands her, more than a fan but still less than a lover.
As their feelings grow more feverish, keeping a safe distance becomes impossible. What follows is a love story and a uniquely heartbreaking dark comedy about obsession and loss.
Called one of the best writers in America by The Washington Post, the bestselling author of Prague delivers his finest work yet in The Song Is You. It is a closely observed tale of love in the digital age that blurs the line between the longing for intimacy and the longing for oblivion.
250 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2009
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 362 reviews
April 1, 2010
I read the gorgeously written prologue at the bookstore, and was convinced that it was well worth the $10.05 I'd pay with my employee discount. Boy, was I wrong.
I have to say, skimming through the reviews that I'm a little bit surprised by the comments. Am I the only one who didn't enjoy the prose in this book? I found the vast majority of Phillips' sentences to be poorly constructed. Half of them ended in a place so far removed from the beginning of the sentence that I had to read them twice in order to make sense of them. Dear Mr. Phillips: enough with the commas.
The end result is Julian, a completely uninteresting character with no emotional depth -- it was impossible to empathize with him in any way. Phillips attempts to use music to make the emotional connections, in a way reminiscent of High Fidelity, and it was hard not to picture John Cusack as Julian. However, the emotional connections that Phillips and Julian have with the music simply do not find their way off the page. I barely sludged my way through fifty pages of this atrocity before deciding I couldn't handle him anymore.
I have to say, skimming through the reviews that I'm a little bit surprised by the comments. Am I the only one who didn't enjoy the prose in this book? I found the vast majority of Phillips' sentences to be poorly constructed. Half of them ended in a place so far removed from the beginning of the sentence that I had to read them twice in order to make sense of them. Dear Mr. Phillips: enough with the commas.
The end result is Julian, a completely uninteresting character with no emotional depth -- it was impossible to empathize with him in any way. Phillips attempts to use music to make the emotional connections, in a way reminiscent of High Fidelity, and it was hard not to picture John Cusack as Julian. However, the emotional connections that Phillips and Julian have with the music simply do not find their way off the page. I barely sludged my way through fifty pages of this atrocity before deciding I couldn't handle him anymore.
April 14, 2009
And there I was, minding my own business on a Sunday afternoon, when suddenly I could not put down "The Song Is You" by Arthur Phillips. It was like I got hit over the head with a love mallet. It had to be, because for the first third of the book I was trudging through Phillips' metaphor mud, wondering why a character couldn't just wave his hands. He had to be "waving at the air as if bees were approaching his ragged beard with colonial intent." Etc., etc., etc.
(As a metaphor abuser myself, I'm especially keen to this infraction in others. Just like I notice other women who have the same bald spot that I'm growing.)
This easy-to-read-in-one sitting novel stars Julian: a middle aged music fan who is glued to his ipod. He has a genetic link to music. His father can be heard on a live Billie Holiday recording requesting "I Cover The Waterfront," a moment that changed his life. Now, years later, Julian is separated from his wife after the fluky death of their young son. He's shopping for toilet paper, but finds himself in a bar listening to live music with kids a fraction of his age. From his vantage point -- sitting at the bar, and as an advertising genius -- he fills 11 coasters with tips for the young singer on stage, Cait O'Dwyer, an Irish woman two blinks from becoming a pop sensation.
The bartender gives Cait O'Dwyer the coasters, and Julian's words appear in a song, a vague idea of him in an interview, and his makeup tips in her next live show. Then it is on like Donkey Kong, this wicked game of cat and mouse. He calls her while she is on a telethon, she writes a song inviting him into her apartment and telling him where to find the key. They email, talk on the phone, he goes to her shows. Only occasionally do they ever talk about meeting. But it is understood that they will, soon, when they are both ready.
So what is so big about this book. I have no idea, other than it is so charming. Julian has this socially inept genius of a brother who belly flops in front of the entire country in the worst way as defending champion on Jeopardy! and Julian's wife Rachel is unglued with grief over their son and the separation. The singer is only interesting when Julian is looking at her. Otherwise, she seems to be looking for someone to tell her who she is and convince her that she is unique. And every time I sensed an annoying plot deviation, Phillips avoided taking the tiresome route I feared he would take. He also either chilled out on the metaphor fest, or else I just became bilingual in his language and it wasn't so painful anymore.
I don't know. I just really loved this story.
(As a metaphor abuser myself, I'm especially keen to this infraction in others. Just like I notice other women who have the same bald spot that I'm growing.)
This easy-to-read-in-one sitting novel stars Julian: a middle aged music fan who is glued to his ipod. He has a genetic link to music. His father can be heard on a live Billie Holiday recording requesting "I Cover The Waterfront," a moment that changed his life. Now, years later, Julian is separated from his wife after the fluky death of their young son. He's shopping for toilet paper, but finds himself in a bar listening to live music with kids a fraction of his age. From his vantage point -- sitting at the bar, and as an advertising genius -- he fills 11 coasters with tips for the young singer on stage, Cait O'Dwyer, an Irish woman two blinks from becoming a pop sensation.
The bartender gives Cait O'Dwyer the coasters, and Julian's words appear in a song, a vague idea of him in an interview, and his makeup tips in her next live show. Then it is on like Donkey Kong, this wicked game of cat and mouse. He calls her while she is on a telethon, she writes a song inviting him into her apartment and telling him where to find the key. They email, talk on the phone, he goes to her shows. Only occasionally do they ever talk about meeting. But it is understood that they will, soon, when they are both ready.
So what is so big about this book. I have no idea, other than it is so charming. Julian has this socially inept genius of a brother who belly flops in front of the entire country in the worst way as defending champion on Jeopardy! and Julian's wife Rachel is unglued with grief over their son and the separation. The singer is only interesting when Julian is looking at her. Otherwise, she seems to be looking for someone to tell her who she is and convince her that she is unique. And every time I sensed an annoying plot deviation, Phillips avoided taking the tiresome route I feared he would take. He also either chilled out on the metaphor fest, or else I just became bilingual in his language and it wasn't so painful anymore.
I don't know. I just really loved this story.
October 20, 2009
In The Song is You, reformed philanderer Julian pursues Cait, a musician half his age rising to fame on her regrettably named demo tape, Your Very Own Blithering Idiot. It's easy enough to predict how this one is going to go, because you've seen it before.
At its heart, the novel is Philips's attempt to share his love of music, but that's a difficult thing to write about. Either the references chosen are so pedestrian that they're dated and tedious (Audrey Niffenegger we're looking at you), or they are just meaningless nostalgia, affecting only the author. Perhaps the worst example of this is the unreadable Love is a Mix Tape, which I had to abandon after not being as touched as the author apparently was by the equation of memories of his deceased wife with early '90s radio hits. So, indeed, the most tedious parts of The Song Is You are Julian's thoughts on what exactly is playing out of his iPod, and unfortunately he thinks about this a lot. The novel makes a convincing case for a legal limit on the number of times the word "iPod" should be allowed to appear in a single work of fiction.
Luckily, the plot moves the reader along steadily, with a few truly wonderful paragraphs and bits of dialogue spread throughout it. Phillips begins to redeem himself recounting the hilarious story of Julian's brother Aidan's unfortunate Jeopardy! mishap, and Julian is at his best when he responds to Cait's constant need for affirmation with "On the other hand, if you want a mix tape of people calling you incompetent, I can have one professionally engineered and piped through dedicated speakers hidden in your home, so that you shower and eat and shave your legs and fall asleep to disquieting abuse and then awaken to laughter and caitcalls."
Unfortunately Phillips balances his wit with an occasional dreadful phrasing. On Cait: "She lived in a one-bedroom, like so many people." Ian, the band's guitarist, "intubates" women. Not content to look through his CDs peacefully like the rest of us, Julian "caroms." And so on.
So really, it's hard to feel very sorry for Julian when, after he has annoyed us for nearly a whole novel with the constant cacophony of his iPod and iTunes and CDs and live bands and reel to reel players, he has managed to tune out everything important in the actual, real world. Time after time, Julian misses the world around him because he's got his music turned up too loud. Phillips's New York is a place populated solely by arrogant artists with improbably British names and dog parks, though, so maybe that's not such an awful thing.
At its heart, the novel is Philips's attempt to share his love of music, but that's a difficult thing to write about. Either the references chosen are so pedestrian that they're dated and tedious (Audrey Niffenegger we're looking at you), or they are just meaningless nostalgia, affecting only the author. Perhaps the worst example of this is the unreadable Love is a Mix Tape, which I had to abandon after not being as touched as the author apparently was by the equation of memories of his deceased wife with early '90s radio hits. So, indeed, the most tedious parts of The Song Is You are Julian's thoughts on what exactly is playing out of his iPod, and unfortunately he thinks about this a lot. The novel makes a convincing case for a legal limit on the number of times the word "iPod" should be allowed to appear in a single work of fiction.
Luckily, the plot moves the reader along steadily, with a few truly wonderful paragraphs and bits of dialogue spread throughout it. Phillips begins to redeem himself recounting the hilarious story of Julian's brother Aidan's unfortunate Jeopardy! mishap, and Julian is at his best when he responds to Cait's constant need for affirmation with "On the other hand, if you want a mix tape of people calling you incompetent, I can have one professionally engineered and piped through dedicated speakers hidden in your home, so that you shower and eat and shave your legs and fall asleep to disquieting abuse and then awaken to laughter and caitcalls."
Unfortunately Phillips balances his wit with an occasional dreadful phrasing. On Cait: "She lived in a one-bedroom, like so many people." Ian, the band's guitarist, "intubates" women. Not content to look through his CDs peacefully like the rest of us, Julian "caroms." And so on.
So really, it's hard to feel very sorry for Julian when, after he has annoyed us for nearly a whole novel with the constant cacophony of his iPod and iTunes and CDs and live bands and reel to reel players, he has managed to tune out everything important in the actual, real world. Time after time, Julian misses the world around him because he's got his music turned up too loud. Phillips's New York is a place populated solely by arrogant artists with improbably British names and dog parks, though, so maybe that's not such an awful thing.
January 6, 2010
The critically lauded Arthur Phillips and his fourth novel, The Song Is You, is a 21st century meditation on love and music that washes the reader in poetic prose and imagery, but ultimately amounts to ‘old wine in a new bottle’ or for me, just plain old bullshit.
Phillips’ writing is amazingly good, and it’s on constant display throughout. He’s a natural at writing prose that’s poetic and effective. Much of the praise this novel has amassed is due in part to his skillful writing that weaves narration and description into characters that perfectly fit between the covers of this book. The dialog feels real and fits his character’s mindsets without overindulging the author’s mission to communicate their raison d’etre. However, the dialog alone cannot keep this book afloat for me while the story drowns deeper and deeper into the quicksand of romantic mushiness.
Dialog on display: A conversation between a detective and Cait O’Dwyer, the Irish pop singer that propels half the book.
“I’m performing on Thursday night. Do you think I’ll be in danger from that dirtbag?”
“Difficult to say. I’m not psychic. But if you’re inviting me to the show, I’ll think I’ll pass.” She nodded twice – he finally landed a jab after all her swings – but she quickly laughed.
“I wasn’t. You have to work late, solving a nice murder?”
“No. No excuse. I just don’t necessarily think I’ll see the best of you under those circumstances. Pop music, you know.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“I think you know that what you do is temporary. Cheap. It’s for kids. I understand – a person’s got to make a living. I don’t think less of you for doing that to pay your rent. But it’s not the most interesting part of you by a mile.”
“And you can see the most interesting part?"
“If your job was dressing up as rabbit in a theme park, would you want me to come visit you and pretend you were a real rabbit? I hope you’re laughing because you see how right-on the comparison is. You go sing; I’d worry if you really thought it was a big deal.”
The story follows a middle aged commercial artist named Julian that once had high ambitions of creating meaningful art, but is now broken of his younger dreams by the death of his two year-old son and subsequent failed marriage. On a snowy night in New York City, he finds himself in a bar watching the aforementioned Cait O’Dwyer sing with her band. Somewhat impressed, he buys her demo CD and eventually transfers it to his iPod. Through the MP3 player her music comes alive and seems to speak to him personally in a special way that ignites his passion for Cait and for life again. As Julian is already a musical junkie that’s always plugged into the world that his iPod contains, Cait’s music inspires him to become a fan in a shadowy, deceptive way that’s usually called stocking. He contacts her via cryptic notes scribbled on beer coasters and online forums that eventually piques her reciprocated interest in him and fuels her creativity. And so the story plays out with the two following, stalking, and playing a game of tease and chase that ultimately comes to an unsatisfactory end. While the end generally does avoid clichés in an expected way; it’s nothing new to trade an expected ending for a less expected but equally banal finale.
One funny thing about this book, is that it’s completely contemporary right now, but in the future it will fade and age into a period piece like, Hemingway’s, A Farewell To Arms. Whether this is intentional, I don’t know, but while I read of websites, cell phones, text messaging, usernames, emails, web forums, iPods, search engines; it makes me kind of chuckle because it will date the book just like the music Cait seems to passionately sing will date her like the real singers she reminds me of. Think; Jewel, Paula Cole, Joan Osborne. Like the detective’s words above, it’s temporary music – especially so when compared to Janis Joplin, Patti Smith, Ani DiFranco; artists that exude longevity.
The story ain’t bad, but what hurts this novel even more is the believability of the characters and their actions. The genres of Fantasy and Magical Realism are not present here, but I feel that I’ve been lied to when I read this in the supposed realistic setting of present day America. One can tell the truth in so many ways, but when there’s a connection that seems not to fit very well, forcing the truth comes off as tripped up and ultimately a lie. Validity escapes reality and succumbs to a world of spectacle that is more fit for an average dramatic movie. In fact I think this story would work better as a movie than a book. Give it to the Coen Brothers and I’m sure once they inject it with their trademark dry wit and irony, and adapt the already good dialog, a fine movie would result. But that’s not a reality. Yet Phillips’ way of telling a tale of lost and found love has garnered him critical fame as a great writer – which is true of his prose – but for me, the pretty writing just serves a mediocre story that is shallow and empty. I’ll give Arthur Phillips another chance one day, but for now he’s going to have to go to the back of the line and wait a long time!
Phillips’ writing is amazingly good, and it’s on constant display throughout. He’s a natural at writing prose that’s poetic and effective. Much of the praise this novel has amassed is due in part to his skillful writing that weaves narration and description into characters that perfectly fit between the covers of this book. The dialog feels real and fits his character’s mindsets without overindulging the author’s mission to communicate their raison d’etre. However, the dialog alone cannot keep this book afloat for me while the story drowns deeper and deeper into the quicksand of romantic mushiness.
Dialog on display: A conversation between a detective and Cait O’Dwyer, the Irish pop singer that propels half the book.
“I’m performing on Thursday night. Do you think I’ll be in danger from that dirtbag?”
“Difficult to say. I’m not psychic. But if you’re inviting me to the show, I’ll think I’ll pass.” She nodded twice – he finally landed a jab after all her swings – but she quickly laughed.
“I wasn’t. You have to work late, solving a nice murder?”
“No. No excuse. I just don’t necessarily think I’ll see the best of you under those circumstances. Pop music, you know.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“I think you know that what you do is temporary. Cheap. It’s for kids. I understand – a person’s got to make a living. I don’t think less of you for doing that to pay your rent. But it’s not the most interesting part of you by a mile.”
“And you can see the most interesting part?"
“If your job was dressing up as rabbit in a theme park, would you want me to come visit you and pretend you were a real rabbit? I hope you’re laughing because you see how right-on the comparison is. You go sing; I’d worry if you really thought it was a big deal.”
The story follows a middle aged commercial artist named Julian that once had high ambitions of creating meaningful art, but is now broken of his younger dreams by the death of his two year-old son and subsequent failed marriage. On a snowy night in New York City, he finds himself in a bar watching the aforementioned Cait O’Dwyer sing with her band. Somewhat impressed, he buys her demo CD and eventually transfers it to his iPod. Through the MP3 player her music comes alive and seems to speak to him personally in a special way that ignites his passion for Cait and for life again. As Julian is already a musical junkie that’s always plugged into the world that his iPod contains, Cait’s music inspires him to become a fan in a shadowy, deceptive way that’s usually called stocking. He contacts her via cryptic notes scribbled on beer coasters and online forums that eventually piques her reciprocated interest in him and fuels her creativity. And so the story plays out with the two following, stalking, and playing a game of tease and chase that ultimately comes to an unsatisfactory end. While the end generally does avoid clichés in an expected way; it’s nothing new to trade an expected ending for a less expected but equally banal finale.
One funny thing about this book, is that it’s completely contemporary right now, but in the future it will fade and age into a period piece like, Hemingway’s, A Farewell To Arms. Whether this is intentional, I don’t know, but while I read of websites, cell phones, text messaging, usernames, emails, web forums, iPods, search engines; it makes me kind of chuckle because it will date the book just like the music Cait seems to passionately sing will date her like the real singers she reminds me of. Think; Jewel, Paula Cole, Joan Osborne. Like the detective’s words above, it’s temporary music – especially so when compared to Janis Joplin, Patti Smith, Ani DiFranco; artists that exude longevity.
The story ain’t bad, but what hurts this novel even more is the believability of the characters and their actions. The genres of Fantasy and Magical Realism are not present here, but I feel that I’ve been lied to when I read this in the supposed realistic setting of present day America. One can tell the truth in so many ways, but when there’s a connection that seems not to fit very well, forcing the truth comes off as tripped up and ultimately a lie. Validity escapes reality and succumbs to a world of spectacle that is more fit for an average dramatic movie. In fact I think this story would work better as a movie than a book. Give it to the Coen Brothers and I’m sure once they inject it with their trademark dry wit and irony, and adapt the already good dialog, a fine movie would result. But that’s not a reality. Yet Phillips’ way of telling a tale of lost and found love has garnered him critical fame as a great writer – which is true of his prose – but for me, the pretty writing just serves a mediocre story that is shallow and empty. I’ll give Arthur Phillips another chance one day, but for now he’s going to have to go to the back of the line and wait a long time!
May 3, 2009
phillips has a knack for looking deeply into his characters and extracting something that his readers can understand and empathize with.
on the surface, this seems like a love story. it is, in fact, a love story. its also a lust story, a sad story, and an unrequited love story.
i'm providing this review just mere hours after completing the book, and, honestly, i almost think i need a week or so of digestion before writing a fitting review. this i will say: it is painstakingly real human emotion. this i will also say: i felt slightly alienated from the characters in this one, as i never have in previous phillips novels. not to an alarming degree, but to a point where i could at times, while reading, be aware of the fact that i was reading about characters i didn't have much in common with. maybe its that i didn't understand their lifestyles enough. the surface level (career, environment) of these characters kept me at a distance, until i could fade back in to the story by concentrating on what was happening inside them. phillips is an incredible writer, and i have to assume this is intentional on his part.
i was pleased and displeased with the end of the story -- a compliment in both cases to phillips. it felt right, but maybe not satisfactory. and i mean the story itself, like how life can be disappointing. the writing does not falter at the end.
i give this 4 stars based on those weird times i began to feel alienated and because for me, unfortunately, it took a little bit from my experience. but high praise, still, to a great writer of "the human condition." this book is receiving high praise (deservedly) but i will still toss out there -- call me crazy -- that my favorite of his books remains the under-appreciated "the egyptologist."
on the surface, this seems like a love story. it is, in fact, a love story. its also a lust story, a sad story, and an unrequited love story.
i'm providing this review just mere hours after completing the book, and, honestly, i almost think i need a week or so of digestion before writing a fitting review. this i will say: it is painstakingly real human emotion. this i will also say: i felt slightly alienated from the characters in this one, as i never have in previous phillips novels. not to an alarming degree, but to a point where i could at times, while reading, be aware of the fact that i was reading about characters i didn't have much in common with. maybe its that i didn't understand their lifestyles enough. the surface level (career, environment) of these characters kept me at a distance, until i could fade back in to the story by concentrating on what was happening inside them. phillips is an incredible writer, and i have to assume this is intentional on his part.
i was pleased and displeased with the end of the story -- a compliment in both cases to phillips. it felt right, but maybe not satisfactory. and i mean the story itself, like how life can be disappointing. the writing does not falter at the end.
i give this 4 stars based on those weird times i began to feel alienated and because for me, unfortunately, it took a little bit from my experience. but high praise, still, to a great writer of "the human condition." this book is receiving high praise (deservedly) but i will still toss out there -- call me crazy -- that my favorite of his books remains the under-appreciated "the egyptologist."
May 14, 2009
I wanted to like this book more than I did. I tried. When I found out it was a love story that included music and I-pod addiction - it grabbed my interest. I wanted to get into the love story and feel what the characters did, but I couldn't. I did connect with them through their music addiction, but that is about it. At first, I liked the idea of the mysterious love affair and how it started. Then it ended up getting to the point where it was downright creepy! (and honestly, it takes a lot to creep me out.) I couldn't figure out why she didn't call the cops on the guy with most of the stuff he did. (that she found endearing somehow) Sorry, can't connect with that.
It is a rather short book, but it felt so much longer. I don't know why.
We were introduced to characters and then we never found out what happened to them - why? To me, it just sort of ended. The lovers got to a certain point in their "relationship" and then it was over.
I think I liked the *idea* of the book more than the actual book.
It is a rather short book, but it felt so much longer. I don't know why.
We were introduced to characters and then we never found out what happened to them - why? To me, it just sort of ended. The lovers got to a certain point in their "relationship" and then it was over.
I think I liked the *idea* of the book more than the actual book.
August 22, 2009
This book barely made it past the 50 page test, but I persevered, sure I would eventually like it. Then on page 101, this sentence appeared and I knew it was over:
"Like an arrogant government minister forced by revolution into faraway exile where he can only find work as a cabdriver and who then assumes that all his fares despise him as completely as he would have despised immigrant cabdrivers in his home country back when he was a man of power, so it now was with the former lead singer of Reflex."
Seriously?
Doesn't it remind you of Mike Myer's Harriet poem on "So I Married an Ax Murderer"?
"He wants you back he screamed into the night air like a fireman going to a window that has no fire...except the passion of his heart."
I do not crave this book fortnightly. :) And I won't be finishing it.
"Like an arrogant government minister forced by revolution into faraway exile where he can only find work as a cabdriver and who then assumes that all his fares despise him as completely as he would have despised immigrant cabdrivers in his home country back when he was a man of power, so it now was with the former lead singer of Reflex."
Seriously?
Doesn't it remind you of Mike Myer's Harriet poem on "So I Married an Ax Murderer"?
"He wants you back he screamed into the night air like a fireman going to a window that has no fire...except the passion of his heart."
I do not crave this book fortnightly. :) And I won't be finishing it.
February 26, 2011
And I can't get it out of my head...
This book is a ballad, a haunting ballad that continues to play its plaintive notes in my head, like a refrain. Don't be fooled by the product description (of a man in love with his ipod). This is not a jaunty, trendy escape tale. This is for serious readers who love literature, and who love literature to descant.
Julian Donahue is middle-aged, affluent, and adrift. After his son's death, his marriage unravels, but he remains tightly wound. He has a successful career producing commercials, yet he is increasingly filled with self-loathing and dread. He spends dissolute nights seducing beautiful, indifferent women or drearily bantering with his eccentric, cunning brother. The consummate and lugubrious loner, Julian is unable to pursue happiness. His ipod shuffle is his only source of bliss; each song is a monument to a moment in time, a memory stilled or distilled, a dream of an image of a life. Julian's opaque existence is thrown into sharp relief through the prism of his songs. As his father before him, only music and his past can pierce his diamond-hard heart.
And then one night Julian walks into a bar and is struck by the young Irish rock singer on-stage, Cait O'Dwyer. A rising star, a supernova, a red-haired songbird, Cait commands his attention with her saucy but vulnerable charisma and nubile essence. After the show, he buys her CD, returns home and googles her, downloads her music into his ipod--and so begins their love affair. But this is an unprecedented romance. They decide not to meet right away; rather, they circle one other. They spend time together alone. They shadow each other. He illustrates her on cork nightclub coasters--images of her vibrant potential--each with a title--and leaves them for her at the bar. One is entitled "Bleaker and Oblique." She responds, writes an eponymous song and leaves him clues and a key under her mat. Yet they tacitly understand that it isn't the right time to meet. Julian captures her on film from a distance, enters her home when she isn't there. They email, occasionally talk on the phone, and correspond, paradoxically, in ways even more intimate than can be imagined in person. Their relationship is a sensuous aria and they are each others' accompaniment.
As the story crescendos toward its fascinating denouement, I actually broke out in a sweat. This is an emotional, psychological, and romantic thriller that creates a bubble of tension so taut that it will leave you breathless and drenched. During the last 60 pages, I was heaving. This novel was an emotionally athletic experience that exhilarated and moved me into strange and intoxicating places.
I have read two earlier novels by Phillips--The Egyptologist and Prague, which I thoroughly enjoyed. However, this novel is distinctly different in narrative style. What a virtuoso--I didn't recognize him in this book by his erstwhile prose or any previous patterns. I was stunned by his ability to engulf me with this story. Although his prose is cerebral, it is also poetic. You could lift almost any sentence from this novel, place it on a clean, white sheet, and contemplate it, ponder it, reflect on its individual acuity. And yet, inclusively, the sentences connect beautifully into a quiet explosion, a bonfire of a book. Like a poet, he can be simultaneously precise and circumspect--a razor and a rhyme, canny and uncanny, at once and out of time.
Read it the first time for the hot chill, and then read it again for the quiet thrill.
"Breakdown on the shoreline,
Can't move, it's an ebbtide.
Morning don't get here till night,
Searching for her silver light."
---Electric Light Orchestra
This book is a ballad, a haunting ballad that continues to play its plaintive notes in my head, like a refrain. Don't be fooled by the product description (of a man in love with his ipod). This is not a jaunty, trendy escape tale. This is for serious readers who love literature, and who love literature to descant.
Julian Donahue is middle-aged, affluent, and adrift. After his son's death, his marriage unravels, but he remains tightly wound. He has a successful career producing commercials, yet he is increasingly filled with self-loathing and dread. He spends dissolute nights seducing beautiful, indifferent women or drearily bantering with his eccentric, cunning brother. The consummate and lugubrious loner, Julian is unable to pursue happiness. His ipod shuffle is his only source of bliss; each song is a monument to a moment in time, a memory stilled or distilled, a dream of an image of a life. Julian's opaque existence is thrown into sharp relief through the prism of his songs. As his father before him, only music and his past can pierce his diamond-hard heart.
And then one night Julian walks into a bar and is struck by the young Irish rock singer on-stage, Cait O'Dwyer. A rising star, a supernova, a red-haired songbird, Cait commands his attention with her saucy but vulnerable charisma and nubile essence. After the show, he buys her CD, returns home and googles her, downloads her music into his ipod--and so begins their love affair. But this is an unprecedented romance. They decide not to meet right away; rather, they circle one other. They spend time together alone. They shadow each other. He illustrates her on cork nightclub coasters--images of her vibrant potential--each with a title--and leaves them for her at the bar. One is entitled "Bleaker and Oblique." She responds, writes an eponymous song and leaves him clues and a key under her mat. Yet they tacitly understand that it isn't the right time to meet. Julian captures her on film from a distance, enters her home when she isn't there. They email, occasionally talk on the phone, and correspond, paradoxically, in ways even more intimate than can be imagined in person. Their relationship is a sensuous aria and they are each others' accompaniment.
As the story crescendos toward its fascinating denouement, I actually broke out in a sweat. This is an emotional, psychological, and romantic thriller that creates a bubble of tension so taut that it will leave you breathless and drenched. During the last 60 pages, I was heaving. This novel was an emotionally athletic experience that exhilarated and moved me into strange and intoxicating places.
I have read two earlier novels by Phillips--The Egyptologist and Prague, which I thoroughly enjoyed. However, this novel is distinctly different in narrative style. What a virtuoso--I didn't recognize him in this book by his erstwhile prose or any previous patterns. I was stunned by his ability to engulf me with this story. Although his prose is cerebral, it is also poetic. You could lift almost any sentence from this novel, place it on a clean, white sheet, and contemplate it, ponder it, reflect on its individual acuity. And yet, inclusively, the sentences connect beautifully into a quiet explosion, a bonfire of a book. Like a poet, he can be simultaneously precise and circumspect--a razor and a rhyme, canny and uncanny, at once and out of time.
Read it the first time for the hot chill, and then read it again for the quiet thrill.
"Breakdown on the shoreline,
Can't move, it's an ebbtide.
Morning don't get here till night,
Searching for her silver light."
---Electric Light Orchestra
August 2, 2010
Beautiful cover, brilliant prologue, interesting premise, terrible execution. That pretty much sums up my review of "The Song Is You" by Arthur Phillips. Don't get me wrong, I love beautiful lines of prose (and Arthur Phillips can write very well - my hat tips to him) and I love music-themed books, but this was one of the examples of how not to use music within a story. The references to Julian Donahue's Ipod in this story were too much and more telling than they were showing in natural veins. As a result, the songs and the way they play out read very clunky and difficult to digest in spurts without really allowing the reader to digest the character personalities and situations naturally.
One thing to keep in mind, this book is chock full of characters with very big flaws, and appropriate since it is tabbed as a "dark comedy". Even for that particular label, it's not well matched. It's not a particularly strong romance either, particularly since the scheme of events plays out the way they do to the very end.
To summarize, the story revolves around the growing, yet distant relationship of the middle aged artist Julian Donahue and the flaming red-haired Irish rock singer Cait O'Dwyer. The two are an unlikely pair - Julian's a man who lacks passion in his career and has a dysfunctional relationship with his wife over a set of tragic events. Cait is a singer on the rise who has rather unstable relationships of her own. Julian and Cait form a relationship from a distance starting with one evening at a local pub when Julian leaves her a series of messages on illustrated coasters.
I was concerned because Julian's pursuit of this relationship borders on stalkerish, as does Cait's relations with him as well, and for a developing relationship, I didn't like that aspect. I also didn't like how Julian's playlist isn't very clear cut (there's too many songs and they tend to get lost in the fray) and tends to be more "noise" than genuine ties to the scenes that Phillips illustrates.
Overall, it had the potential to be a better novel than what it was, I think. There were parts of the prose I did like and that flowed quite naturally (like the prologue), while others seemed to overshoot the perspective. In addition, as much as I followed the characters throughout, I didn't care for them. It was hard to truly identify with Julian despite the problems in his life, and Cait was far too at odds for me to really like (though there were points where I thought I could like her). Very disappointing despite an interesting theme and plot tag.
Overall score: 1.5/5
One thing to keep in mind, this book is chock full of characters with very big flaws, and appropriate since it is tabbed as a "dark comedy". Even for that particular label, it's not well matched. It's not a particularly strong romance either, particularly since the scheme of events plays out the way they do to the very end.
To summarize, the story revolves around the growing, yet distant relationship of the middle aged artist Julian Donahue and the flaming red-haired Irish rock singer Cait O'Dwyer. The two are an unlikely pair - Julian's a man who lacks passion in his career and has a dysfunctional relationship with his wife over a set of tragic events. Cait is a singer on the rise who has rather unstable relationships of her own. Julian and Cait form a relationship from a distance starting with one evening at a local pub when Julian leaves her a series of messages on illustrated coasters.
I was concerned because Julian's pursuit of this relationship borders on stalkerish, as does Cait's relations with him as well, and for a developing relationship, I didn't like that aspect. I also didn't like how Julian's playlist isn't very clear cut (there's too many songs and they tend to get lost in the fray) and tends to be more "noise" than genuine ties to the scenes that Phillips illustrates.
Overall, it had the potential to be a better novel than what it was, I think. There were parts of the prose I did like and that flowed quite naturally (like the prologue), while others seemed to overshoot the perspective. In addition, as much as I followed the characters throughout, I didn't care for them. It was hard to truly identify with Julian despite the problems in his life, and Cait was far too at odds for me to really like (though there were points where I thought I could like her). Very disappointing despite an interesting theme and plot tag.
Overall score: 1.5/5
November 12, 2015
Quotes:
"I tried to turn on your television, but your vast array of remote controls stymied me. You obviously buy the same brand for each device to make it impossible for visitors to control your environment, and then you take narcissistic pleasure in being called to rescue them, infantilizing them and making of yourself a heroic figure." --pg. 42
"One November dawn, Julian came upon a basset hound sitting on a bench on the Promenade, staring out at Manhattan. A few joggers in winter caps and Lycra pants bounded by, but no one seemed to be with the long dog and heavy ears. It sat on the bench and watched the sky lighten across the East River, watched the city awaken to the day. At some signal that escaped Julian, the hound began to bay at the towers, calling New York to order. This struck Julian as quite exactly how he behaved as well: thinking his voice mattered, content to imagine himself ruling the world around him, never noticing that the world would tick along with or without his howling. He had become, at some point, a ridiculous person, though he couldn't say just when it happened."
"He'd had his own version of "Sorry, my heart," he realized as he sat next to the singing basset hound and looked at Manhattan turning on its lights at the dog's call. Rachel had left him that voice mail: 'You're like a teenager, Julian,' with Cait singing in the background. Unlike his father, Julian had lost it, deleted it, that only recording on earth of something important, while he was using two legs to run after impossibilities. His father would have been ashamed of him. 'Cannonball, being broken is a bore for everyone around you. Try to remember that. I hope you'll remember me as having enough legs not to be a bore.'" --pg. 246
"I tried to turn on your television, but your vast array of remote controls stymied me. You obviously buy the same brand for each device to make it impossible for visitors to control your environment, and then you take narcissistic pleasure in being called to rescue them, infantilizing them and making of yourself a heroic figure." --pg. 42
"One November dawn, Julian came upon a basset hound sitting on a bench on the Promenade, staring out at Manhattan. A few joggers in winter caps and Lycra pants bounded by, but no one seemed to be with the long dog and heavy ears. It sat on the bench and watched the sky lighten across the East River, watched the city awaken to the day. At some signal that escaped Julian, the hound began to bay at the towers, calling New York to order. This struck Julian as quite exactly how he behaved as well: thinking his voice mattered, content to imagine himself ruling the world around him, never noticing that the world would tick along with or without his howling. He had become, at some point, a ridiculous person, though he couldn't say just when it happened."
"He'd had his own version of "Sorry, my heart," he realized as he sat next to the singing basset hound and looked at Manhattan turning on its lights at the dog's call. Rachel had left him that voice mail: 'You're like a teenager, Julian,' with Cait singing in the background. Unlike his father, Julian had lost it, deleted it, that only recording on earth of something important, while he was using two legs to run after impossibilities. His father would have been ashamed of him. 'Cannonball, being broken is a bore for everyone around you. Try to remember that. I hope you'll remember me as having enough legs not to be a bore.'" --pg. 246
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 25, 2011
I really wanted to like this book. There was so much potential. I absolutely loved the beginning ("Julian Donahue's generation were the pioneers of portable headphone music, and he began carrying with him everywhere the soundtrack to his days when he was fifteen."). Even though I am just beyond the main character's generation, I get the soundtrack to life thing - how to hear a song reminds you of some past time and it's hard to separate that memory from the song. Good songs can get ruined by personal experiences. So I was hopeful and expecting a story that discussed this idea. Instead, I felt like I was inundated with words (I enjoyed the descriptiveness but I feel like it lasted too long at times) and while Julian searched or listened to his iPod, as the reader I wasn't always sure what the soundtrack was like. I did enjoy the use of Cait's lyrics and how it applied to his life, and the struggle to make sense that it absolutely perfectly applied to him, but was it just self-centered to think she had known. I guess I just wanted more to the story, and I feel unfulfilled - and maybe that's the point, because I feel like the main characters were left that way, too.
September 11, 2017
Anyone who has seen the evolution from 33 1/3 to compact disc to digital download will be able to relate to this book, at least parts of it if not the plot romance. The part that music plays in contemporary life if visceral, and the ability to have an entire library in your pocket is to me still a miracle. Julian is described as not knowing the names of the sharps and flats, but knowing the emotional trigger they can provide. The beautiful prologue, for instance, describing his father's love for Billy Holliday, why he loves in particular a recording of "I Cover the Waterfront," could stand alone.
September 3, 2009
I didn't get past page 25. I could not have cared less about the mysterious song he heard the day he got laid three times, the Irish girl half his age that he is obviously going to become entangled with, his failed marriage, or his great love for his iPod. Buh-bye.
October 26, 2019
This is a gorgeously written, intelligently crafted, expertly disguised run-on sentence. It's a beautiful novel but it amounts to almost nothing. There's no compelling story here; just 250 pages of an obsessive, insufferable narrator talking in circles until he reconciles himself with reality.
July 23, 2021
I didn’t get past page 34! The dust jacket synopsis made this book sound like something I would enjoy reading. OOPS, I tried, but figured there were lots of other books out there I would enjoy & rather spend my time reading. I couldn’t get past the kitschy prose - NOT even interesting AT all! Also, I think I gave it a try because of the author’s book the Egyptologist.
May 25, 2015
I was intrigued by the premise of The Song Is You, the latest offering by Arthur Phillips, the bestselling author of Prague: the power of music, its ability to invoke emotion and bring to mind memories, both the good and the not so good.
Julian Donahue is a 40-something director of commercials in Manhattan. Julian inherited his love for music from his father, who lost his leg in the Korean War. Before his deployment, he attended a Billie Holiday concert at the Galaxy Theater, where he met his future wife. The concert was recorded and released on vinyl, and Julian’s father can clearly be heard calling out to Miss Holiday to sing “I Cover the Waterfront.”
After he loses his leg, it’s Julian’s mother who pursues Julian’s despondent father into marriage.
Flashing forward 50 years, Julian fills his iPod with the tunes that chronicle his life─music that recalls for him the important memories of his life: his past loves, the day he met his wife-to-be, the day his son was born.
The story picks up shortly after the tragic death of his three-year-old son, victim of a virus diagnosed too late. Separated from his wife, the depressed Julian finds little solace in work and no escape in the casual sex in which he indulged during the early years of his marriage, prior to the birth of his son.
Then one night at a club, he sees Cait O’Dwyer, an Irish singer in an emerging rock band soon to release their first CD. Initially, he views her with his director’s eye and leaves, for the bartender to give to her, a series of cartoons with captions on several coasters, ideas on how she can improve her stage presence.
Thereafter he becomes known to Cait and her band mates as Cartoon Man, and the two trade text messages and email, never meeting. Julian quickly becomes Cait’s muse, as evidenced by lyrics written to him that appear on her Web site; yet he comes to fear his growing obsession as that of an adolescent.
Arthur Phillips is a writer of no small amount of talent, and he comes with solid credentials. Winner of the New York Times Notable Book (Prague) and the Los Angeles Times Seidenbaum Award for First Fiction, The Washington Post calls him one of the best writers in America. The Song Is You is ambitious, the plot elaborate but, in places, unconvincing.
Phillips tries to paint Julian as a sympathetic character. The reader is expected to admire him for giving up his philandering ways, to become a better husband, after the birth of his son.
The plot features events that are as unlikely as faster-than-light travel. Cait writes and posts to her Web site lyrics that invite Julian to help himself to the key to her apartment, which she has left for him under the mat. He subsequently lets himself in when he knows she is not home.
Julian eventually follows Cait to Europe, where her band tours several cities, and her star is on the rise. Their cat and mouse game ends on the final night of the tour with Julian waiting for Cait, naked in her bed, while Cait waits for Julian in his room.
While some readers may view Julian’s fixation on Cait, more than half his age, as the great love of his life, it is what it is: the midlife crisis of a mostly unlikeable protagonist who plunges headlong into stalking the object of his obsession.
Phillips’ writerly talent is evident. His narrative is sharp, his dialogue witty. Yet the characters, with the exception of his brother Aidan, fall flat. His estranged wife, Rachel, is weak; her insistent love for Julian, despite the pain he has caused her, will leave many readers rolling their eyes in disbelief.
Despite Phillips’ credentials, I found this, his fourth novel, a disappointment.
J. Conrad Guest
Julian Donahue is a 40-something director of commercials in Manhattan. Julian inherited his love for music from his father, who lost his leg in the Korean War. Before his deployment, he attended a Billie Holiday concert at the Galaxy Theater, where he met his future wife. The concert was recorded and released on vinyl, and Julian’s father can clearly be heard calling out to Miss Holiday to sing “I Cover the Waterfront.”
After he loses his leg, it’s Julian’s mother who pursues Julian’s despondent father into marriage.
Flashing forward 50 years, Julian fills his iPod with the tunes that chronicle his life─music that recalls for him the important memories of his life: his past loves, the day he met his wife-to-be, the day his son was born.
The story picks up shortly after the tragic death of his three-year-old son, victim of a virus diagnosed too late. Separated from his wife, the depressed Julian finds little solace in work and no escape in the casual sex in which he indulged during the early years of his marriage, prior to the birth of his son.
Then one night at a club, he sees Cait O’Dwyer, an Irish singer in an emerging rock band soon to release their first CD. Initially, he views her with his director’s eye and leaves, for the bartender to give to her, a series of cartoons with captions on several coasters, ideas on how she can improve her stage presence.
Thereafter he becomes known to Cait and her band mates as Cartoon Man, and the two trade text messages and email, never meeting. Julian quickly becomes Cait’s muse, as evidenced by lyrics written to him that appear on her Web site; yet he comes to fear his growing obsession as that of an adolescent.
Arthur Phillips is a writer of no small amount of talent, and he comes with solid credentials. Winner of the New York Times Notable Book (Prague) and the Los Angeles Times Seidenbaum Award for First Fiction, The Washington Post calls him one of the best writers in America. The Song Is You is ambitious, the plot elaborate but, in places, unconvincing.
Phillips tries to paint Julian as a sympathetic character. The reader is expected to admire him for giving up his philandering ways, to become a better husband, after the birth of his son.
The plot features events that are as unlikely as faster-than-light travel. Cait writes and posts to her Web site lyrics that invite Julian to help himself to the key to her apartment, which she has left for him under the mat. He subsequently lets himself in when he knows she is not home.
Julian eventually follows Cait to Europe, where her band tours several cities, and her star is on the rise. Their cat and mouse game ends on the final night of the tour with Julian waiting for Cait, naked in her bed, while Cait waits for Julian in his room.
While some readers may view Julian’s fixation on Cait, more than half his age, as the great love of his life, it is what it is: the midlife crisis of a mostly unlikeable protagonist who plunges headlong into stalking the object of his obsession.
Phillips’ writerly talent is evident. His narrative is sharp, his dialogue witty. Yet the characters, with the exception of his brother Aidan, fall flat. His estranged wife, Rachel, is weak; her insistent love for Julian, despite the pain he has caused her, will leave many readers rolling their eyes in disbelief.
Despite Phillips’ credentials, I found this, his fourth novel, a disappointment.
J. Conrad Guest
April 16, 2009
I must say, I was rather pleased with The Song Is You. It's not that I didn't expect to enjoy this, because I did, but I also expected to feel like it was missing a small something. That's how I felt about Prague and The Egyptologist, both works that I enjoyed, but ultimately finished feeling a teensy bit dissatisfied (and also feeling like they went on just a touch too long). No matter what, though, I still really enjoy Phillips' writing style -- which is why I keep reading his stuff. When LibraryThing listed The Song Is You as an early reviewer's option for the monthly books they offer for free, I threw my hat into the ring and snagged a copy. (Oddly enough, the day I received it in the mail, my friend who gets free books via a literary site that he runs, also offered me a copy, which I passed along to another friend.)
I began reading this without the faintest idea of the plot, beyond a vague knowledge that it must have something to do with music and a relationship. The title supplied me with the music idea and the cover (featuring a young man and a young woman) suggested the relationship bit. That's it. So perhaps I shouldn't summarize the plot, but suggest that you, too, should take a chance on this and just read and fall into it. Perhaps, but I won't. Instead, I'll provide a hazy sketch, because really, the plot is a bit hazy, too -- in a good way. Our main character is named Julian and the book focuses on his relationship to music in his life, and his relationships with two other women. To a great degree, the novel portrays people whose relationship to music can often be seen as a means of pushing back on actual human interactions and how music can be more than just the background soundtrack. The novel starts with a scene involving Julian's father at a Billie Holiday concert. Sure, this was the concert where his future wife and mother of his children was seated beside him, but above all, the siren and her music meant so much that it seems to overpower even the events set into motion on that night. Julian is instilled with a great respect for music, raised by a widowed father alongside an older and antisocial brother. He marries, he has a child, that child tragically dies, and his marriage essentially ends, though the final divorce decree has not yet come down. And then Julian is introduced to a new siren, an Irish redhead whose fame is growing, and they become involved in an intricate dance of longing for connection.
The book jacket calls one's attention to the fact that Phillips is a writer for people who both think and feel. And we all know that "think" can often mean "overthink." This particular book is a beautiful portrayal of characters who perhaps aren't looking for romance and meaning, but once it becomes an option, they are hungry to have it, but constantly overthinking in their attempts to create something perfect and potentially lasting.
I shall certainly be recommending this novel to those who have previously enjoyed Phillips' work... and to those who were not perhaps won over, I shall urge them to give it another shot with this, because I think Phillips has really done something remarkable here. The novel shows incredible growth, away from the somewhat arrogant youth of Prague, and while there is a certain indulgence to the melancholy of romance here, the emotions feel real and true. An excellent work, and I shall continue reading whatever Phillips puts out next.
I began reading this without the faintest idea of the plot, beyond a vague knowledge that it must have something to do with music and a relationship. The title supplied me with the music idea and the cover (featuring a young man and a young woman) suggested the relationship bit. That's it. So perhaps I shouldn't summarize the plot, but suggest that you, too, should take a chance on this and just read and fall into it. Perhaps, but I won't. Instead, I'll provide a hazy sketch, because really, the plot is a bit hazy, too -- in a good way. Our main character is named Julian and the book focuses on his relationship to music in his life, and his relationships with two other women. To a great degree, the novel portrays people whose relationship to music can often be seen as a means of pushing back on actual human interactions and how music can be more than just the background soundtrack. The novel starts with a scene involving Julian's father at a Billie Holiday concert. Sure, this was the concert where his future wife and mother of his children was seated beside him, but above all, the siren and her music meant so much that it seems to overpower even the events set into motion on that night. Julian is instilled with a great respect for music, raised by a widowed father alongside an older and antisocial brother. He marries, he has a child, that child tragically dies, and his marriage essentially ends, though the final divorce decree has not yet come down. And then Julian is introduced to a new siren, an Irish redhead whose fame is growing, and they become involved in an intricate dance of longing for connection.
The book jacket calls one's attention to the fact that Phillips is a writer for people who both think and feel. And we all know that "think" can often mean "overthink." This particular book is a beautiful portrayal of characters who perhaps aren't looking for romance and meaning, but once it becomes an option, they are hungry to have it, but constantly overthinking in their attempts to create something perfect and potentially lasting.
I shall certainly be recommending this novel to those who have previously enjoyed Phillips' work... and to those who were not perhaps won over, I shall urge them to give it another shot with this, because I think Phillips has really done something remarkable here. The novel shows incredible growth, away from the somewhat arrogant youth of Prague, and while there is a certain indulgence to the melancholy of romance here, the emotions feel real and true. An excellent work, and I shall continue reading whatever Phillips puts out next.
July 28, 2013
I found The Song Is You to be ridiculous and amateurish, far beneath the level of Prague. The friendship/flirtation "relationship" between "Cannonball" and Cait is strictly schoolgirl-fantasy stuff.
What I do like about the book is how it shows how much some of us are affected by music. For Julian, or Julian's father, music is even more than the soundtrack to real life. It's food, fuel, inspiration, a driving force. It's also what happens to propel both men to meeting their wives (neither of whom are musically obsessive in that way).
Unfortunately, Phillips relies on shorthand to define most of his characters. For example, Julian is mostly defined by his itunes library. And of course, the loss of his child. His career--he's a very successful commercial director--seems to be something the author contrived for him so that he can live in NYC and have a comfortable enough income and lifestyle to pursue Cait, and to follow her to Europe. Otherwise, his life story and his character seem completely disconnected from it. Cait, aside from HER musical influences, has almost no character at all except that she's an up-and-coming pop star. Beautiful, talented, and (can you believe it?) smart, she's the Big Prize! It's all too high-school: the head cheerleader having a secret friendship with the school newspaper-editor instead of with the quarterback of the football team.
Cait's behavior seems completely unreal to me. I don't mean the key-under-the-mat business so much as "Wow, this guy's advice written in cartoon-form is so great that I just HAVE to get to know him!!!!"
That Ian, the guitarist, would attempt to thwart Cait's interest in Julian at all is hard-to-buy. However, his policeman-relative is one of the better-drawn characters in the book.
Alec Stamford, lead singer of the defunct band "reflex" (great band name)turned artist, is also a good character, but the author got carried away with him. I find his obsession with Cait to be far-fetched, and his obsession with Julian's obsession with Cait is absurd.
I do approve of the way the book ended, with Cait and Julian never hooking up.
In my opinion, this book would have been better (certainly more believable) if the infatuation had remained one-sided. The music would still have propelled Julian back to finding meaning in life without Carleton. Instead of spending so much effort contriving ways for Julian and Cait to star in these sexy/suspenseful scenes where they are so-close-yet-so-far-away, I wish Phillps had found a good way to have music propel Julian back to Rachel. Then this book might have felt like it was about real people instead of symbols.
What I do like about the book is how it shows how much some of us are affected by music. For Julian, or Julian's father, music is even more than the soundtrack to real life. It's food, fuel, inspiration, a driving force. It's also what happens to propel both men to meeting their wives (neither of whom are musically obsessive in that way).
Unfortunately, Phillips relies on shorthand to define most of his characters. For example, Julian is mostly defined by his itunes library. And of course, the loss of his child. His career--he's a very successful commercial director--seems to be something the author contrived for him so that he can live in NYC and have a comfortable enough income and lifestyle to pursue Cait, and to follow her to Europe. Otherwise, his life story and his character seem completely disconnected from it. Cait, aside from HER musical influences, has almost no character at all except that she's an up-and-coming pop star. Beautiful, talented, and (can you believe it?) smart, she's the Big Prize! It's all too high-school: the head cheerleader having a secret friendship with the school newspaper-editor instead of with the quarterback of the football team.
Cait's behavior seems completely unreal to me. I don't mean the key-under-the-mat business so much as "Wow, this guy's advice written in cartoon-form is so great that I just HAVE to get to know him!!!!"
That Ian, the guitarist, would attempt to thwart Cait's interest in Julian at all is hard-to-buy. However, his policeman-relative is one of the better-drawn characters in the book.
Alec Stamford, lead singer of the defunct band "reflex" (great band name)turned artist, is also a good character, but the author got carried away with him. I find his obsession with Cait to be far-fetched, and his obsession with Julian's obsession with Cait is absurd.
I do approve of the way the book ended, with Cait and Julian never hooking up.
In my opinion, this book would have been better (certainly more believable) if the infatuation had remained one-sided. The music would still have propelled Julian back to finding meaning in life without Carleton. Instead of spending so much effort contriving ways for Julian and Cait to star in these sexy/suspenseful scenes where they are so-close-yet-so-far-away, I wish Phillps had found a good way to have music propel Julian back to Rachel. Then this book might have felt like it was about real people instead of symbols.
March 15, 2012
Beautiful, joyful (yet terribly sad), haunting, frustrating. That's how I'd describe The Song is You in ten words or less.
Now for more words.
Reading it, I often found myself in an intense state of panic. The action itself crawls, and yet the future of the story constantly feels frighteningly urgent. Arthur Phillips completely ignores the rule of "show, don't tell" by filling the vast majority of his story with exposition over action and dialogue, and yet it seems okay. Even necessary. Through so much rambling description and explanation, he is able to craft perhaps the most vivid characters I've ever read. Even the most minor of characters feel like real people. You can imagine what they smell like, how they walk and move, the sound of their voice (even the non-accented ones). And boy, can this guy craft some powerful suspense from the simplest situations.
BUT. I wanted more. That's my major gripe. It feels incomplete. And not cleverly or intentionally so. Rather, it feels slightly stunted and wanting. In a story about two hungry people circling each other, fantasizing about each other, building each other up to impossible heights doomed for mutual disappointment, perhaps it's only appropriate that the story does the same to the reader. Right?
If that is truly the feeling that Phillips is trying to evoke, crafting an emotion to match the flow of the narrative, forcing the reader into submission of the characters' sufferings, then I must say bravo. He succeeds. Still, what an awful feeling to evoke. How cruel to cause such a constant intake of breath and never give the reader a chance to exhale, choosing instead to let them linger in the discomfort of a held breath.
The writing is wonderful. The story feels so unique, fresh, and creative while focusing on such classical themes that could very well be cliches in the hands of a lesser author. Definitely one of the most intriguing books I've read in a very, very long time. And yet (without revealing any particular details) I sincerely will never forgive him for tying things up with -- figuratively as well as quite literally in the case of the protagonist's father -- a fart. I would've rather preferred to exhale my 250-page deep breath, and instead I was coughing. Great book though, truly.
Now for more words.
Reading it, I often found myself in an intense state of panic. The action itself crawls, and yet the future of the story constantly feels frighteningly urgent. Arthur Phillips completely ignores the rule of "show, don't tell" by filling the vast majority of his story with exposition over action and dialogue, and yet it seems okay. Even necessary. Through so much rambling description and explanation, he is able to craft perhaps the most vivid characters I've ever read. Even the most minor of characters feel like real people. You can imagine what they smell like, how they walk and move, the sound of their voice (even the non-accented ones). And boy, can this guy craft some powerful suspense from the simplest situations.
BUT. I wanted more. That's my major gripe. It feels incomplete. And not cleverly or intentionally so. Rather, it feels slightly stunted and wanting. In a story about two hungry people circling each other, fantasizing about each other, building each other up to impossible heights doomed for mutual disappointment, perhaps it's only appropriate that the story does the same to the reader. Right?
If that is truly the feeling that Phillips is trying to evoke, crafting an emotion to match the flow of the narrative, forcing the reader into submission of the characters' sufferings, then I must say bravo. He succeeds. Still, what an awful feeling to evoke. How cruel to cause such a constant intake of breath and never give the reader a chance to exhale, choosing instead to let them linger in the discomfort of a held breath.
The writing is wonderful. The story feels so unique, fresh, and creative while focusing on such classical themes that could very well be cliches in the hands of a lesser author. Definitely one of the most intriguing books I've read in a very, very long time. And yet (without revealing any particular details) I sincerely will never forgive him for tying things up with -- figuratively as well as quite literally in the case of the protagonist's father -- a fart. I would've rather preferred to exhale my 250-page deep breath, and instead I was coughing. Great book though, truly.
February 18, 2016
So I am torn by this book. On one hand it is a great story of an unconsummated love affair. It absolutely captures the obsessive mental energies that can be spent on another person even--no especially--one with whom we have little to no actual contact. The middle sections were funny and cute and wonderful (end of Spring and most of Summer). However, it took me 3 days to read the first part (Winter) and I was rather bored through Fall at the end (although that was a mere 17 pages).
I am also not a music-buff. I am slightly more sophisticated than top-40s or classic rock hits, but not much. High Fidelity was over my head. And so, I fell asleep more than once while Phillips rambled about subtleties of esoteric songs.
I was also absolutely furious with all of the convenient moments. It was kind of funny that a few of Cait's messages were really from other people (Alec and Rachel), but when Alec kept showing up places it was just rather annoying (especially in Europe!).
I did like a few moments well enough to quote:
"But she wasn't a fantasist to believe that life could be better when reassembled from damaged, familiar shapes, rather than frittered away endlessly looking for something new. There was no restoration to factory condition anymore; there was only slowing down the decay."
"But with each day that he didn't just call her, he could hardly understand his resistance to the obvious next step....And still he did not call. It was embarrassing, the combination of immobility and ignorance of its cause."
"The thing about inarguably beautiful women was that they were warped beyond repair by the time they were fifteen. They knew they were always being watched, and they heard the identical salivary subtext of every conversation, and so they were suspicious of any talk at all."
Overall it is worth the time, but definitely not a 5 star; read with caffeine in the morning.
I am also not a music-buff. I am slightly more sophisticated than top-40s or classic rock hits, but not much. High Fidelity was over my head. And so, I fell asleep more than once while Phillips rambled about subtleties of esoteric songs.
I was also absolutely furious with all of the convenient moments. It was kind of funny that a few of Cait's messages were really from other people (Alec and Rachel), but when Alec kept showing up places it was just rather annoying (especially in Europe!).
I did like a few moments well enough to quote:
"But she wasn't a fantasist to believe that life could be better when reassembled from damaged, familiar shapes, rather than frittered away endlessly looking for something new. There was no restoration to factory condition anymore; there was only slowing down the decay."
"But with each day that he didn't just call her, he could hardly understand his resistance to the obvious next step....And still he did not call. It was embarrassing, the combination of immobility and ignorance of its cause."
"The thing about inarguably beautiful women was that they were warped beyond repair by the time they were fifteen. They knew they were always being watched, and they heard the identical salivary subtext of every conversation, and so they were suspicious of any talk at all."
Overall it is worth the time, but definitely not a 5 star; read with caffeine in the morning.
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November 17, 2014I’ve been meaning to read this book for years now, ever since it came out in Hungarian. It looked just like the perfect novel for me: pop music, New York, a love story – what’s not to like? Especially since I grew up on Nick Hornby and his pop culture evangelism. This book, however… this was the biggest disappointment ever.
The premise is somewhat of a cliché (which shouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but in this case, I feel everything is a problem): the burnt out ad director, Julian, who can’t get over a past family trauma, meets up and coming Irish singer Cait in a Brookly bar, and cue the greatest love story ever, based entirely on songs and stalking.
…and here we are. Maybe it’s only my brain that can’t process the equation “stalking = romance,” but from the moment Julian and Cait started their little game – or maybe from the moment Cait started to enjoy and encourage it, instead of running away screaming − I was fighting the urge to have some words with everyone who thinks that this kind of game is the be all, end all of romance. It is not, dear children. It is good, old stalking, it is scary and it should never, under any circumstances be condoned or glorified.
I read the story in Hungarian, so normally I wouldn’t comment on the language, but holy shit, if I ever read some inflated, over-written prose, well, this was it. I’m not really sure what the intention was here – to sound poetic? −, but most of the time it was just annoying. Generally I really enjoy the work of the Hungarian translator, Zoltán Pék, but this text almost made me cry.
PS. Normally I’m not this negative in my reviews, but this novel pushed ALL my buttons.
The premise is somewhat of a cliché (which shouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but in this case, I feel everything is a problem): the burnt out ad director, Julian, who can’t get over a past family trauma, meets up and coming Irish singer Cait in a Brookly bar, and cue the greatest love story ever, based entirely on songs and stalking.
…and here we are. Maybe it’s only my brain that can’t process the equation “stalking = romance,” but from the moment Julian and Cait started their little game – or maybe from the moment Cait started to enjoy and encourage it, instead of running away screaming − I was fighting the urge to have some words with everyone who thinks that this kind of game is the be all, end all of romance. It is not, dear children. It is good, old stalking, it is scary and it should never, under any circumstances be condoned or glorified.
I read the story in Hungarian, so normally I wouldn’t comment on the language, but holy shit, if I ever read some inflated, over-written prose, well, this was it. I’m not really sure what the intention was here – to sound poetic? −, but most of the time it was just annoying. Generally I really enjoy the work of the Hungarian translator, Zoltán Pék, but this text almost made me cry.
PS. Normally I’m not this negative in my reviews, but this novel pushed ALL my buttons.
April 30, 2010
i saw arthur phillips in a live interview and admit that i was impressed: witty, charismatic, and whip-smart while still maintaining an air of nonchalance. i found his writing to be much the same way. the characters in this book were annoyingly engaging. main character julian donahue's pitiful, yet beautiful, attempt to capture the heart of young up-and-coming irish singer/songwriter/vixen cait o'dwyer was as gorgeous as such a frustrating relationship could ever hope to be. phillips pulls at the notion that things such as music (the kind that pushes you away from yourself and into another world) and new love (like fresh snow: untouched and bound not to last) can only briefly distract you from the truth of life. it is filled with grief and hardships, routines and schedules, unavoidable endings. but those radiant distractions, whether they be the length of a song or the cat and mouse game of love's possibilities, are the absolute core of what makes people feel alive. this book was hard to put down for a multitude of reasons: sharp dialogue, characters that always left a little intrigue behind, and chapters that ended with thought-oriented (as opposed to action) cliffhangers. a very enjoyable novel.
May 31, 2009
I never read 'Prague', and the only reason I picked this up was probably due to a Salon.com interview with the author, all about how music affects the lives of individuals and where it stands in courtship, memory, etc...I was hoping the book would be even more fascinating. Instead, all that stuff about music is more of a quiet backdrop to what boils down to a fairly ordinary midlife-crisis-type love story (ordinary only after you subtract the effects of a disturbingly stalkerly courtship--one that's treated as pretty normal by the author instead of really becoming problematic).
Let's be frank. I didn't like the poor, philandering male protagonist. I didn't like his idealized singer-songwriter. I didn't think Phillips' description of her process had anything new or interesting to say about music or creativity. And I didn't like his overwrought, snarky-clever prose style (worse in the first half of the book--once the story gets some real plot movement, Phillips doesn't seem to stress as much over the need to be syntactically clever).
It was alright I guess.
Let's be frank. I didn't like the poor, philandering male protagonist. I didn't like his idealized singer-songwriter. I didn't think Phillips' description of her process had anything new or interesting to say about music or creativity. And I didn't like his overwrought, snarky-clever prose style (worse in the first half of the book--once the story gets some real plot movement, Phillips doesn't seem to stress as much over the need to be syntactically clever).
It was alright I guess.
June 18, 2010
I couldn't finish this book. The main character is a navel-gazer who bonks models and cheats on his wife, his brother is an annoying savant who is obsessed with entering contests (how original), and the love interest is an annoying Irish "Rock Singer" whose guitarist is in love with her fiery Jimi Hendrix-covering soul (what hipster rock chick really covers Jimi Hendrix now a days? Just seems really 1990s. No offense, Jimi). Plus, it all takes place in MANHATTAN, which I'm sorry, it needs to be a really good story to take place in Manhattan because way too many recently published navel-gazing boring novels with wealthy, jaded characters take place there (most of which I could not finish...I guess I should have learned my lesson). There seems to be a great deal of effort to create these "interesting, complicated" characters, but none of them fully take off from the page or endear themselves to you. And the writing tries to take risks with the language that are more labored than inspired. It's like unfunny Nick Hornby.
July 23, 2010
I love everything Arthur Phillips writes, but this novel, which manages to blend in hundreds of musical references while still maintaining its own poetry, is one of his best.
As usual, his characters are obsessed, with themselves and others, to the point of paralysis and insanity. You want to shake them, slap them, call the police ... but, of course, you see in them the same things you yourself could do if cooler instincts didn't prevail.
In fact, one of the things I loved most about this was the connection I felt to Phillips (and have before; he's roughly my contemporary, a writer with a style I admire more than most others writing today) that could easily mimic Julian's imagined connection to Cait. When he quoted The Sundays, "he and I have so much in common ..." He shows us what an easy slide it can be from that to standing in the bushes outside someone's house.
I can't say enough about his writing: brilliant, spot on and beautiful.
As usual, his characters are obsessed, with themselves and others, to the point of paralysis and insanity. You want to shake them, slap them, call the police ... but, of course, you see in them the same things you yourself could do if cooler instincts didn't prevail.
In fact, one of the things I loved most about this was the connection I felt to Phillips (and have before; he's roughly my contemporary, a writer with a style I admire more than most others writing today) that could easily mimic Julian's imagined connection to Cait. When he quoted The Sundays, "he and I have so much in common ..." He shows us what an easy slide it can be from that to standing in the bushes outside someone's house.
I can't say enough about his writing: brilliant, spot on and beautiful.
September 19, 2010
Okay... this one is complicated. I have to admit that I came into this novel with a lot of trepidation, as 1) both my wife and one of my dearest interweb friends had already read this and HATED it; and 2) I'd read Phillips' debut "Prague" several years back and HATEDHATEDHATED it with a truly unreasonable passion. So to say I was surprised to find myself enjoying this novel is something of an understatement. But I did: Phillips has a gorgeous, lyrical way with words, and he tells his story in great swoops of digression and intricate detail that add infinite shades of color and depth to this story of love and terrible loss and infatuation with beauty and art. Yeah, I know... all those things sound terribly abstract, but as executed here they come together to constitute something strange and lovely. What can I tell you? I'm the only person I know who found this rewarding — but for me, this chimed deep and true.
July 28, 2011
This isn't one I was instantly drawn to, and I was even a bit skeptical, but it turned out to be a case of something being on the shelf and eventually the time will be right. It's similar to Nick Hornby's Juliet, Naked in some ways, though Hornby's writing is breezier.
But no, music lasted longer than anything it inspired. (p. 14)
Great music, his father used to lecture him, was often made by wretched people. The wise fan carefully avoided learning anything about the creators of any music that mattered, shut his eyes to biographies... (p. 171)
"You know, she and you - I wish I had the knack for explaining obvious things to stupid people." (p. 197)
How much of life could he spend aching? Aching is not a stable condition; it must resolve into something. (p. 210)
Paris had to be large enough to contain two separate, nonoverlapping love stories. (p. 213)
"Write your name in the fog with your finger" (lyric, p. 225)
One could do worse than meaninglessness like this. (p. 248)
But no, music lasted longer than anything it inspired. (p. 14)
Great music, his father used to lecture him, was often made by wretched people. The wise fan carefully avoided learning anything about the creators of any music that mattered, shut his eyes to biographies... (p. 171)
"You know, she and you - I wish I had the knack for explaining obvious things to stupid people." (p. 197)
How much of life could he spend aching? Aching is not a stable condition; it must resolve into something. (p. 210)
Paris had to be large enough to contain two separate, nonoverlapping love stories. (p. 213)
"Write your name in the fog with your finger" (lyric, p. 225)
One could do worse than meaninglessness like this. (p. 248)
October 3, 2013
Can't say I enjoyed the novel completely. Phillips is Chabon and Canin placed in a blender. There are sections here--involving Julian's father--that are as breathtaking and brilliant in the vein of 'Carry Me Across the Water.' I wanted Phillips to stay there and ditch the romantic play between Cait and Julian. 2 novels squeezed into one with the less interesting--yet still gorgeously written--novel occupying much of the space. Phillips strained some of his credibility with his plotting only to reel me back to earth with the fine, fine writing about family. There's a better, different novel here that has less to do with the marketable 'love in a digital age theme' and more to do with fathers, sons, and brohers. But I'd probably read Phillips again, for the sheer excitement of the wordplay. If anything, it made me want to write.
December 1, 2011
Evaluation: I rarely get the reading experience I had here of a love story being a page-turning edge-of-my-seat kind of experience. And part of the love story was mine, as I fell for the author’s beautifully engineered phrases (e.g., in addition to the quotes given above, referring to face-to-face encounters as “archaic forms of human interaction” and testing the waters of a relationship as taking an “escargotically slow approach”). This is a wonderful book for reading and discussing in the company of a book club, or for reading alone in a room full of flickering candles, with a soundtrack from the moments of your life you most want to relive, when your life was full of passion, and hunger, and loving and loss.
Rating: 4.5/5
Rating: 4.5/5
July 27, 2009
Every once in a while you come across a book that feels as if it were written just for you. Arthur Phillips does a phenomenal job of capturing a love of music and the emotion attached to endlessly pursuing the idea of a girl who doesn't truly exist, and how the two are so often inseparably intertwined. Aside from subject matter that I adore, Phillips is also a remarkably witty and talented author. Be it his wonderful wordplay or his clever use of song titles as part of the narrative, he has crafted an incredibly enjoyable story that is a delight to read from both a technical and a narrative standpoint.
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