Jennifer Egan is stylistically fearless and eerily prescient, but what makes her new novel one of summer's best reads isn't solely its unconventional Mobius strip of a plot, its postmodern reconstruction of our pop-culture-and-PR-addled world or even its clever use of the music business to chart our past and future. When all these elements combine with flawed but irresistible characters, A Visit from the Goon Squad flares into
flamboyant life. It mulls the sort of big-picture ideas good novels ought to ponder.
How do our lives get from point A to point B? And - maybe more crucial - how do we handle drastic change? To answer such questions, Egan, who used Gothic sensibilities to explore our obsession with the digital world in her previous novel The Keep, gets even trickier now. But despite its whiff of experimentation, Goon Squad is fast and pleasurable, a page-turner simply because you have no idea in which direction the
narrative will spin next. It's a Coltrane jazz riff. Every chapter could stand alone, but each story resonates with the next, making the whole all the more powerful.
The wellsprings of the novel are corporate music executive Bennie Salazar and his assistant Sasha. Purely for the challenge, she steals things - wallets, notes, bath salts, a screwdriver - and displays them on tables in her apartment. He sprinkles flakes of gold in his coffee. "Gold didn't tarnish, that was the thing. The flakes would look the same in five years as they did right now.'' We all have our bad habits. The goon who menaces
them and everyone else is Time, which may ignore us when we're young but eventually, when we're not looking, paints a bull's-eye on our backs. Don't sense it yet? Don't worry. You will.
Former punk rocker Bennie traded in his Mohawk for success and a palatial house among the WASP enclaves of upstate New York. Though he knows nostalgia is deadly - once you give in to it, you no longer matter in the way you want to matter - he secretly longs for authentic music. "The problem was precision, perfection; the problem was digitization, which sucked the life out of everything that got smeared through its microscopic mesh. Film, photography, music: dead.''
Other characters pick up different threads of this search for authenticity. Some know Bennie or Sasha; others are tangentially connected. Rhea, secretly in love with teenage Bennie, understands that their slamdancing
gang merely plays at being punks: "When does a fake Mohawk become a real Mohawk? Who decides? How do you know if it's happened?'' Bennie's wife Stephanie knows they don't belong among the blonde, conservative couples but is determined to fake her way to acceptance; after all, she can hold her own on a tennis court. Stephanie's journalist brother aches to discover the person behind a young actress' veneer, but his obsession turns a 40-minute interview into a nightmare.
So, yes, there are downsides to this seeking-something-real business. Down-on-her-luck former public-relations queen Dolly - a swanky party featuring hot-oil props went horribly awry and wrecked her reputation - takes an image-primping job for "the General.'' The pay is so magnificent îîthat it almost obliterated the tiny anxious muttering voice inside her: Your client is a genocidal dictator.''
Other characters don't even try to kid themselves about where we all end up. The goon squad never sits still. Bosco, a once-famous musician now fat, middle-aged and in poor health, wants to tour again even though touring will kill him. "We know the outcome, but we don't know when, or where, or who will be there when it finally happens. It's a Suicide Tour. . . I'm old, I'm sad … that's on a good day. I want out of this mess. But I don't want to fade away. I want to flame away.''
Egan deftly examined such notions of identity and reality in her terrific Look At Me, and she's equally adept here at ferreting out our worst impulses and exploring how they will translate in our technologically shifting future. Communication is changing already: Sasha's daughter narrates her section of the book as a sort of Power Point presentation that's shockingly easy to follow. Let's just hope Egan's depiction of infants who demand handsets to download music never comes to fruition.
But of course the future always feels less bearable than the past. Maybe that sensation makes Boscos of us. Better to burn out than to fade away. When one of Bennie's proteges texts "wat nxt?'', we shudder a little. But bright and agile talents such as Egan must stop and ask: "wat nxt? wat nxt indEd.''