Neal Pollack is dead. And Neal Pollack killed him, but probably just for now. This time, the author’s fictional namesake surfaces as a dead rock critic – or, as his pompous rival-turned-biographer Paul St. Pierre calls him, ”the living, breathing essence of America’s music, its dark Baudelaire Rimbaud genius, its Celine, its Brecht.” Pollack the character has a Zelig-like (or is it Forrest Gump-y?) knack for showing up for great moments in rock – and a talent for getting kicked in the teeth once they happen. Conduit or parasite, he’s a handy delivery system for Pollack the author’s brief history of modern music. This lively but mortally attenuated in-joke will likely be lost on all but the most scholarly of music geeks.
Never Mind the Pollacks Neal Pollack is dead. And Neal Pollack killed him, but probably just for now. This time, the author's fictional namesake surfaces as a dead rock...Never Mind the PollacksFictionNeal Pollack Neal Pollack is dead. And Neal Pollack killed him, but probably just for now. This time, the author's fictional namesake surfaces as a dead rock...2003-10-03
Genre: Fiction; Author: Neal Pollack
Posted October 3 2003 — 12:00 AM EDT
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