Utopia Avenue, by David Mitchell

The story of an unlikely fledgling rock group in the late 60s, this is an extraordinarily detailed tale of rise and fall, with promising careers cut short by tragedy. Aspiring manager Levon brings together impoverished working class bassist Dave, ethereal guitar virtuoso Jasper, jazzy northern drummer Griff and folky keyboard player Elf. Each chapter is named for one of the band’s songs and is mostly told from the point of view of the writer of the song, which means Griff and Levon get less airtime than the three songwriters. The characters are interesting and the way their lives inform the songs is depicted well, although providing full song lyrics is unnecessary excess. The band has lots of encounters with other performers and artists inhabiting swinging London – Pink Floyd, Steve Winwood, David Bowie, Francis Bacon, John Lennon, Brian Jones. Was it really such a small scene that they all ran into each other? Maybe, but it doesn’t read as believable, particularly Bowie. Mitchell allows himself more onanistic touches, referencing his previous novels and introducing a bizarre element of magical realism that links to one in particular. There is a lot of exposition, declamation and clunky dialogue used to set the scene and explain context. The result is a sprawling, self-indulgent mess of a novel that could have used a good edit.