A kaleidoscopic cornucopeia of a novel, with roots in James Joyce and gonzo journalism. It tramples upon taboos big and small, from the arguments rehearsed by two main characters in favour of paedophilia down to reflections on the Pope's heartburn ('surely the breath of Satan').
Switters stiffened his legs and dropped his arms to bring the bouncing to a halt, but the springs continued to contract and expand in a gradually diminshing action that sent him stumbling and staggering about on the bed, largely out of control.
Suzy's mouth was agape, the expression on her face one of shock, disbelief and horror. Abruptly she turned and fled.
'This was a joke!' he yelled after her. 'I've got other music! I've got ... Frank Zappa!' Shit! She's probably never heard of Zappa. 'I've got ... I've got Big Mama Thornton!' Sixteen, living in suburban Sacramento, would she even know Big Mama? 'The Mekons! There we go! Mekons? Suzy!'
Then, perched on the edge of the bed like a stone cherub urinating into a fish pond, it occurred to him that music wasn't the issue.