"In short, this is one of the best books I've read this year."
From The Guardian, 7/24/13:
Last year, Ted Heller released his third novel, a book called Pocket Kings. It was about a man called Franklin W Dixon. Dixon, among other things, is unlucky enough to share his name with the collective pseudonym used by the writers of the Hardy Boys. Unlucky especially, because Dixon himself has written a few novels, none of which has sold well; inevitably, comparisons are made. Worse still, he can't sell his current novel for love nor money. (Definitely not money.) So he gets addicted to online poker and - worse still - takes the ignominious step of self publishing.
Can you see what's coming?
Well, Pocket Kings was published by a big US house and got plenty of good reviews. It was featured in Vanity Fair and was an editor's choice in the New York Times book review. The Vanity Fair piece ends by encouraging readers to "just pick up" the book. Sadly, few did. Which is why, as Heller relates it, when his agent came to submit his next book, West Of Babylon, to publishers, they "passed on it like it was a terrible virus. Even Amazon passed on it. That was a big slap in the face."
In last year's article, The New York Times reviewer jokingly asked: "we all know that fictional characters almost never resemble the authors who invent them, right?" But following the failure of West Of Babylon to attract any editors, Heller too was forced to self-publish. "I had become my own character," he says.
Oh, and yes, his father is the guy you're thinking of, and did write a book called Catch-22; and, yes, that does only add to the irony.
But the real kicker about the Joseph Heller link is that it shouldn't be the first thing that journalists like me jump on when writing about his son. Sure, it's an interesting connection, but if there were any justice Ted would now be recognised as an author in his own right. He's definitely good enough, if West of Babylon is anything to go by.
At this moment in time, judging by what Heller has told me, I'm just about the only journalist alive who has read the book. And so it falls to me to tell you more. West of Babylon is the story of four ageing rockers dragging their increasingly sorry hides around bad hotels and stinking concert halls where they perform as the Furious Overfalls. Decades ago, TFO (as they often call themselves, even more absurdly) had a few hit singles, a few big albums and a few cocaine habits. They were even big enough to hire a country house and go completely nuts inside it while trying to record an album that no one bought. But such decadence is long behind them. The band have managed not to burn out; they have, however, rusted. If people now remember who they are, it's as a blast from the past. And as the lead singer Danny notes, "the 'blast' part of it rocked, sure, but it was that 'past' part which was excruciating."
Now, Danny has back problems, bassist Howie is a slave to OCD, and lead guitarist Jules needs Viagra to maintain his incessant womanising and Flomax to rein in his incessant urinating. Joey, the drummer, meanwhile, is just plain old-fashioned sick, but fortunately too dumb to care. He is someone who wouldn't understand the gravity of a situation "if it hit him on the head from twenty flights up".
You'd be forgiven for thinking that there isn't anything particularly new about stupid drummer jokes or, indeed, the entire tired old rocker scenario. But what is fresh is the life Heller breathes into the characters and the skill with which he tells their story. In the abstract, the band are pretty much despicable, and Heller doesn't flinch from displaying their most unsavoury details. But as you travel with them they quickly become adorable. Their mission to play down-in-the-gutter rock and roll starts to seem like a sacred creative duty, their determination to wring every last drop from their fading career a noble rage against the dying light. Heller never slaps you with the thesis, but West Of Babylon is actually an intelligent and interesting take on ageing and artistry. Just as importantly, the band's buddy dynamic is endlessly entertaining and the novel is packed with quality one-liners and in-jokes (hunting out the song titles hidden in the text is a joy in itself). By the time the band are limping towards the conclusion, it's also moving. In short, this is one of the best books I've read this year.
Given that praise, and in keeping with the Guardian's new self-publishing strand, I'd like to be able to say that the fact that such a good novel can be put out there without any input from a publisher is vindication for independent authors. In a way it is. There were a couple of moments in the book that I'd have liked to have edited. Maybe a few rough edges. But really, it's all there, and, more importantly, all good. But here's the thing. Did you know it existed? Would you have taken a punt on it if you'd happened across it, somehow, out there in the internet ether? The only reason I heard of the novel is that Ted Heller took the trouble to hunt me down on Twitter. And when I say "trouble", I mean it. He told me:
"For the last 3-4 months I have spend every weekday contacting newspapers, magazines, book blogs, rock magazines and websites, in the US and the UK (which is how I found YOU) trying to draw attention to the fact I have a new book out. This has been the absolute low point of my writing career."
This is not the best use of a talented man's time. West of Babylon may well provide further proof that there are good self-published books out there, but what it really made me think is that Ted Heller needs and deserves a good deal from a proper publisher.
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