The Song is You by Arthur Phillips

I believe in radio omens. Or these days, given that I rarely listen to the radio, iPod omens. Like, if I'm feeling nostalgic for the zaniness of college, my iPod turns up that song that happened to be playing in the background at Spring Weekend 2002. Even this morning, I was on the subway, thinking about how much has changed in the past few months, and the Whiny Frat Rock song that dominated my summer playlist came on.

Of course, they're not really omens. These songs are on my iPod because I've sought them out, and kept them in the rotation for their sentimental attachments. But part of me believes in the possibility that the universe knows what I really want to hear. (And sometimes, that's just gonna be Justin Timberlake--let's be honest.) And that's part of what made me so receptive to Arthur Phillips's novel The Song is You. Like Phillips, I'm happy to suspend logic and cynicism as long as there's a patina of pop music gloss.

The Song is You follows another iPod omen believer, Brooklynite Julian Donohue, a commercial director whose sense of self is largely defined by his music collection. (This isn't a Nick Hornby novel, I swear.) He sees his iPod as an extension of his old portable CD player, which was in itself an extension of his Walkman, which provided the soundtrack to his days as a young and soulful stud. But Julian hasn't just been pining for his youth--in the intervening years, he's gotten married, started a family, even given up his casual infidelities. But a family tragedy pushes all of that aside, and pretty much all he's left with is the music collection. This isn't to say he's a sad sack--just a more philosophical version of his younger self. Julian, like so many Modern Men (literary and otherwise), couches his shallowness and narcissism in existential hooey. He convinces himself that his aesthetic preferences are just so much more refined than everyone else's, and that's why he only sleeps with models.

This is about where he is when he wanders into a Brooklyn bar and scoffs at the hipsters assembled there to hear Cait O'Dwyer, spunky Irish lass (do we know any other kind?), perform with her backup band. Cait, we see, is upwardly mobile. Her demo CD has already been optioned by a label, the hipsters whisper over pitchers of PBR. Julian isn't really impressed, one way or another--but he does pick up her demo, which works its way into his iTunes rotation. Suddenly her poignant pop songs are getting to him like nothing else can, and he starts attending her shows around the city. At one, he leaves her a gift, which he doesn't really expect will get to her--but it does, and she, in turn, starts becoming fascinated with him as well.

Thus begins a game of stops and starts, of borderline stalking, of infatuation, of wistful song lyrics posted online. Both Julian and Cait get off on the thrill of their hidden Svengali relationship. They're both in love with the idea of a shared future of passionate love and creative fulfillment, but they can't figure out how to make the jump into physical reality--or at least they can't figure out how to do it without turning into the mundane. So they whip themselves into a frenzy of potential, as her career starts to flourish and he stokes it.

Both Julian and Cait come with entourages trying to pull them away. There's Ian, Cait's guitarist, who puts up with a more-than-friends-and-less-than-kind relationship with her, because their unconsummated co-dependency pushes their music further. Ian, suspicious of the stranger who leaves cryptic messages for Cait wherever they go, has a vested interest in taking the guy down--as does a has-been rockstar who sees Cait as his path back to the A-list. In Julian's corner, there's a sweet-but-neurotic estranged wife, and a socially inept brother--both of whom have strong (and valid) reasons for not wanting him to follow a cute pop star around the world.

The book follows both Julian and Cait pretty closely, but Julian is by far the more clearly defined. Cait is a little too perfect. By the middle of the book, you realize that's because Phillips himself is probably a little too in love with her. And because it's hard to get a real perspective on her, it's difficult to get 100% behind the Julian-Cait relationship--especially by the time things take a definite "Every Breath You Take" turn.

But as with Prague, what Phillips does well, he does exceptionally well. I do love his writing style. And the bonus point? A critical scene is set in a college bar in Storrs, Connecticut. Well played, Arthur Phillips. Brooklyn landmarks + UConn landmarks + pop songs = high score.

Some of my favorite parts:

"The choice was mutual but they had opposite reasons: he was a coward, she was ruthless. In his defense, he hadn't known the choice was going to be inscribed as eternally as grave marble law. That was her will, enforced from that moment on with flinchless discipline. If he'd known, he told himself, he would have chosen her over the music, over anything. He would have."

"When they wrote together, or when one presented the other with something prepared in private, with no audience to absorb the excess, he felt the room crowding with their other selves, lives unled and correspondences unwritten, happinesses opted against, and he could not believe she did not see it too."

"...He laughed at himself, and he laughed at Cait O'Dwyer's sorcery, and he wondered if, in real life, she required a steady diet of recent heartbreak in order to manufacture fresh emotion for her consumers. Two months ago, she was raw and unblended; tonight she was reasonably effective; someday very soon she would be in danger of marbling over into a slick cast impression of herself. The target was only mircons wide, and history's great singers may simply have been those who happened to make a record in the brief time between learning and forgetting how to manage their power."