Letham's 2004 novel is a lyrical story that tells the tale of Dylan, a boy growing up in the NYC of the late-70s and early-80s. It's a cliche to say that a novel is poetic, but Letham's writing reads like it requires a soundtrack, a floating jazzy number that effortlessly segues from energetic to downtempo, from happy to sad, from meaningful to bizarre. While at times this lyricism gets in way of the plot, at first, you don't mind because the free-associations that arise are so entertaining. My favorite was his describing a day "like the tongue rolling out of a lazy day's mouth". Plus, as an old comic guy myself, I have a soft spot for anyone who not only knows the comix lingo but also uses it affectionately (and not merely as a springboard for lazy, nihilistic cynicism about picture books and the sorry state of American Culture). However, as the novel continues and Dylan gets older, the plot starts to feel strained; the coincidences are getting stale, and the hyperbolic predictable. Is anyone surprised by the plot developments? Not really, because the supporting characters are only there to define Dylan. For example, when Dylan becomes a teenage punk and starts hanging out with Gabe and Tom, the three of them all are best friends at the start of the chapter, but 10 pages later Tom's drifting away, not because of any definitive action (short of the confrontation with the Puerto Rican over the leather jacket) but just because there's other things to be written about. To be fair, Letham may be trying to make the point that life is this way - people drift apart for no real reason - but I didn't think it made for compelling fiction. Similarly, Letham gets away from the promising urban renewal metaphor of the early chapters, personified by an older woman who strives to improve her neighborhood.
The writing, so strong at first, becomes occasionally weak and passive, relying too much on hyperbolic description. I found myself skipping over paragraphs because they contained the same descriptive sentences - more musings about Mingus' slouching posture or Arthur's desperate gangliness. Having said that, his writing can be powerfully universal, especially when he writes directly to the the reader (like the "so, you want to talk about fathers?" section in the Jr. / Dylan's father moments). One other criticism, there's a lack of strong female characters - no mothers, no girlfriends, no memorable women at all short of the first 100 pages with the older woman and Dylan's mother (the burning crab).
In short, this one starts magically, but burns out quickly, leaving behind a shell of a story and a method of phrasing that becomes increasingly predictable. A shame, because you know Letham's got better in him. I loved his first novel, Gun with Occasional Music, but nothing of his I've read since then has lived up to that promise.
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