Killer Solo (David Hiltbrand, 2004)

Needed something trivial after that Burnett crap, and this one looked simple and straightforward enough to do a trick. It's been sitting on my shelf for some time, waiting to fill a gap like this. Because, you see, I don't particularly like these stories about some extravagant characters in uncommon surroundings, and recent experiences with shit like Money Shot and The Corpse Wore Pasties surely hadn't improved this.

Killer Solo takes place in the show business, this time in the big-ass arena rock tour, so we know in advance that there will be plenty of weird guys and gals around. At its centre is our hero, private detective Jim McNamara, who used to work for a record company and during this employment had managed to develop his drug abuse from being just a simple pothead to a serious coke addict. After kicking the habit, he ended up being sort of a Rock'n'Roll detective hired by showbiz people to keep their protegees straight and away from the drugs.

It begins classically. Jim gets hired by an insurance company to investigate the accidental (yeah, right!) death of a Shirley Slaughterhouse's tour crew member. Shirley is a kind of Marilyn Manson shock-rocker asshole (looking like Johnny Depp with dysentery) surrounded by even bigger assholes in the likes of his band members, his agent and his neurotic girlfriend. Other interesting characters are introduced as well: a group of right-wing Christians led by a fanatical reverend, Jim's AA sponsor (a bit redundant, in my humble opinion), and finally Paula, the record company's P.R. person. She appears to be the only sane person on the tour's board, but she, too, is a bit redundant and (spoiler!) pretty much serves just for the romantic aspect of a story.

So what I'm basically trying to say is that it starts really fucking promising. The plot is interesting, the pace is rapid (people fly from one city to another, staying in various hotels), and I also enjoyed its style. Hiltbrand uses language that is rich enough and mostly cool and amusing, with lots of references to popular culture, but without too many of the usual "witty jokes".

But then, approximately halfway through, it gradually loses its pace. Instead of focusing on crime, the author begins to concentrate on our hero and his relationships with Paula, his mentor, and especially with Shirley, who, by the way, turns out not to be such an asshole. I started to like the guy myself because he had tested Jim's musical knowledge by playing him Husker Du and choosing Mudhoney as their password keyword.

Everything becomes dull and predictable, and I still wonder what that episode with the guitarist audition was about. There's just one more corpse until the final showdown, and we are not even sure whether it's related to our case or not. Ultimately, everything is resolved in a thrilling fashion, rather than through good detective work.

Shame, disappointing ending after the promising start.

3/5

Facts:

Hero:
Jim McNamara, Rock'n'Roll detective

Location: 
Rock tour across the USA: Portland, Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Nashville, St. Louis, Chicago, Boston, Philadelphia, ...

Body count: 
3 + one security guard left in the dumpster, but we cannot be sure whether he's dead or just knocked unconscious

Dames: 
Paula Mansmann - part matador, part pickpocket and part Geisha

Blackouts: 

/

Title: 
Pretty stupid and not related to the storyline. I'm sure something better could be chosen with one of the main protagonists being named Slaughterhouse.

Cover:
Not very imaginative and also unrelated to the story, as nobody gets shot in the eye through the sunglasses.

Cool lines:  
She laughed and swiveled in her chair, recrossing her legs. My eyes drifted to her skirt and shifting thighs. I reflected on how automatically men respond to visual stimuli and how adept women are at choreographing that response.

[on OD'd junkie]  
He looked like Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic when he starts to drift down under the icy water.[The Coolest!]


Most rockers listen to their music at punishing, Spinal Tap levels... Hearing loss is an ironic occupational hazard of the modern musician. Roll over, Beethoven.

She was leaning against the doorjamb, glaring at me like I was a prom-night pimple.[The Coolest!]


I spent one winter with the Cramps. I still get the willies thinking about it. Lux Interior was like a bargain-basement Iggy Pop. ... Forget Fellini; it was a Quentin Tarantino movie every night.