David Mitchell’s ‘Utopia Avenue’ is my next ‘sort of’ read of the year.
I say ‘sort of’ because I couldn’t bring myself to finish the book. I got a few hundred pages into it and realised I wasn’t having a good time. It took me a while to understand that I was not fond of the book because I’ve enjoyed Mitchell’s stuff before. I loved ‘The Bone Clocks’ and ‘Slade House’. Also, the book is set in the sixties, with which I have a semi-obsession. Enigmatic characters, such as Pink Floyd’s Syd Barrett, fascinate me. On paper, I ought to love ‘Utopia Avenue’.
And yet I didn’t.
It’s difficult to pinpoint why I wouldn’t say I liked the book. There are too many ‘main’ characters introduced in such a short time frame that you struggle to care for any of them. The book makes the swinging sixties – the hippie era – colourless and dull. There’s no straightforward story besides these folks coming together and making music. There’s no hook established in the chunk of the book I read. The name drops and cameos of famous bands and gigs feel goofy. And not in a good way.
I found the book rather exasperating because I could have loved it. I should have loved it.
Or, instead, Mitchell should have made me love it.
joshuainsole.com 