We Sold Our Souls

Grady Hendrix' My Best Friend's Exorcism was one of my favourite horror novels of recent years. It was funny, scary, and touching. For his new book he's swerved into the world of heavy metal and legends of musicians selling their souls in exchange for success. The emotional core of the previous novel has been scaled right back (but it's not gone entirely) and been replaced with MASSIVE RIFFS PLAYED VERY LOUDLY. If MFBE was a sensitive singer songwriter who gets under your skin and speaks to your inner melancholy, then this is Slayer and things being set on fire and exploding. There's some excellent pulpy violence and gore, along with cosmic horror of the kind Stephen King occasionally dabbles in. It's also very good on being a jobbing musician, playing dive bar after dive bar and spending hours and hours in a cramped and shabby van. It is also important to acknowledge the shoutouts to various excellent bands (Wolves In The Throne Room! Earthless!). Ultimately, it's a story of redemption and winning against untold odds, the kind of internal fantasy played out on a hundred metal album covers.

Like all the best metal, this is deadly serious and completely daft at the same time. I'm looking at you, Manowar bandana. Hendrix' last book before this one was a nonfiction work celebrating the covers of horror paperback originals, and this one fits firmly in that lineage. Make no mistake, this is a trashy horror novel. But you know what? I love trashy horror novels, and I'm happy for Grady Hendrix to keep providing my fix.