No One Left to Come Looking for You

No One Left to Come Looking for You by Sam Lipsyte (2022) Besides the writing, which is tight and consistently surprising and funny, I really like the scope of this book—a few characters in a defined neighborhood—a specific place and time—so you get to know everyone and feel like you’re there. The scene is woefully small—struggling punk bands in NYC East Village—though, of course, the villains run the spectrum—local thugs, cops, poseurs, real estate moguls. It’s winter, cold as hell, and first-person protagonist Jack Shit is out to find his stolen bass (guitar) and missing lead singer (who may have stolen the bass for drug money). That’s a great setup as far as I’m concerned. As with a classic mystery, the rot goes all the way to the top and the movement is complicated by romance in the air. What I liked best was Jack’s inability to not be a smartass—just can’t help it—so he reminded me somewhat of the Elliott Gould version of Philp Marlowe. Anyone who’s been in a band (or endured someone in a band) might love this story—even more so if you’re nostalgic for the early Nineties, when it’s set. I am very much not nostalgic for that time—and interestingly, I found that the mere decade I have on Jack (and the author) has built a wall of cynicism that even humor can’t erode—but that’s my problem, not the book’s. If you have even the slightest belief in the power of music or love or helping someone less fortunate than you, you might find it here. Ultimately, Jack Shit warmed my heart, even if pretty much everyone around him didn’t. I’m a little sad that it effectively pointed out, for me, my hopelessness, but then, if reading is all I have left, I’m thankful for nothing so much as books like this one.

1.15.23