Unbelievable but true: a rock novel that doesn’t inspire embarrassment. To make matters worse, Utopia Avenue (Random House Literature) is the latest creation of David Mitchell, an English author who broadly specializes in fantasy and horror. We already know that in the areas of rock, reality often surpasses imagination: the coffin stolen from an airport’s cargo terminal so that the deceased (Gram Parsons) could be cremated in the desert. The Samson (Jim Morrison) who quits rock to end up in Paris, where it turns out he doesn’t have the stamina of the lost generation. The retired guitarist (Peter Green) who threatens his accountant with a shotgun because he insists on paying his royalties.
In general, rock fiction is a parade of cliches and archetypes: the sucking manager, the groupie with a secret plan, the guitarist preparing to fly solo, the keyboardist with a superiority complex, the 24/7 camel, the ruthless turntable .
I must warn that these creatures do not feature in Utopia Avenue, which chronicles the emergence of the eponymous group in explosive London in 1967-1968. Four musicians from very different backgrounds: a folk singer who also plays keyboards, including the massive Hammond organ; a jazz-trained drummer; a bassist-singer with the ability to compose hits; a guitarist with a psychedelic imagination who may suffer from schizophrenia…or belong to the meta-universe already outlined in Mitchell’s earlier works.
Do we believe in fairy tales? Already with some professional experience, the four protagonists are not surprised when their logistics, their accommodation and the mythical record deal are clarified overnight. Overcoming the angry animosity of WWII-scarred adults, they are fortunate enough to record without trauma and make their way to the promised land, that is, the United States. They are the second, the third wave of the so-called British invasion: they no longer come out as hillbilly about American food or television, they can give concerts that last for hours, they take precautions regarding drugs (at least before they go out on stage).
Deftly, David Mitchell guides his creatures through the crossroads of countercultural rock, from the Chelsea Hotel in New York to the home of the Grateful Dead, through Laurel Canyon. Which warrants brief encounters with Bowie, Marc Bolan, Janis Joplin, Gene Clark, Leonard Cohen, Zappa. Not to mention a fantastic evening in Soho with Francis Bacon and his painter friends.
Cover of the Spanish edition of the book ‘Utopia Avenue’ (Random House Literature) by David Mitchell.
Now the million dollar question: is what we’re being told on Utopia Avenue believable? Hmmm: I think I’ve already indicated that this is all too easy for her. Apart from an attempted blackmail by the police in Italy, they have not stumbled. The musicians’ speeches seem to anticipate the current waking sensibility: Neither feminism nor Marxism were common topics of conversation in the music world of 1967-1968.
On the other hand, Mitchell has worked hard on the scoring and even describes in detail, including the lyrics, the group’s repertoire. Utopia Avenue’s journey comes to an abrupt end, but now we live in the era of technological marvels: the group’s third LP, thought hopelessly lost, is being revived. Happy endings are also a rarity in the rock fiction wasteland.
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