We’re not talking the measured bleeps and blips of pop music: we’re talking about the unkempt margins of rock-and-motherfucking-roll, son. Or any garage band playing music that isn’t about perfection but about what lies beyond and within each note - the messy thump of a bass drum, the fuzz of a grinding guitar, the trippy vertigo strains of an organ. Think if you will of the The White Stripes. So, when I say “messy” and “strange,” I mean it in the truest rock-and-roll sense. Contained within the story is this ghostly vein of the supernatural, a delicate component of good versus evil that never shows its full face, that always remains hidden in the margins of shadow that McCammon paints.
See, this is a novel about the last days of a hardscrabble indie rock band - the titular “The Five” - and the horror they endure at the hands of a schizo sniper, a horror that ultimately brings them together before properly setting them apart. THE FIVE is Robert McCammon’s messiest, strangest work of fiction.
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