TILL THE WHEELS FALL OFF

A novel about the power of music for a misfit teen in 1980s small-town Minnesota—like a more rueful, meditative High Fidelity.

It's 1999, and Matt Carnap is back in his dying hometown, living in the apartment his uncle has created for him in the press box of a disused municipal football stadium. Matt is spinning his wheels, wandering downtown to catalog its ruins and reminiscing about what he now considers his golden age—the tween years, when his mom (now dead) was married to Russ, a charming, unambitious record collector who spent his time and passion DJing in the roller rink he owned. Matt's mother was distant, even neglectful, and the marriage was never hardy, but she couldn't fail to see the value in the alliance her awkward boy, suffering from attention-deficit issues and a lifelong, horrendous case of insomnia, forged with his stepfather around rock and funk and skating. Eventually she took up with another man, a nightmarish theater and music teacher/blowhard in a nearby town, and Matt had to move with her into what seemed wretched exile. The rink closed, and Russ took up the itinerant life of the DJ who insists on naming his own tunes. In the years since, Matt's lost track of Russ, and part of the impetus for moving back is the hope of reconnection. This novel has several features that sound fatal: It's relentlessly inward (the insular Matt rarely engages with anyone), backward-looking (about 90% flashback), with minimal plot; the tone is nostalgic, even in the end a little hokey; long sections consist largely of playlists of cool music of the 1970s and '80s. And yet it's a pleasure: smart, with lots of sentence-level snap, and with much to say about the way that music—really any of life's animating pleasures and passions, but especially music, for a lonely child of late-20th-century America—becomes not merely a backdrop or soundtrack, but the thread along which one strings a life.

Can a book that's languidly paced and discursive also be a joy? Yes.