Product Description

A riotously funny, razor-sharp indictment of America's cultural wasteland by one of its most merciless critics.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #553825 in Books
• Published on: 1999-04-14
• Released on: 1999-04-14
• Original language: English
• Number of items: 1
• Binding: Paperback
• 194 pages

Amazon.com Review
"How bad could it be?" With this simple question, Joe Queenan embarks on a nightmare journey through the depths of American pop culture, subjecting himself to Broadway musicals, Red Lobster Captains' Feasts, and John Tesh concerts: "With his shopworn, lounge-lizard stage gestures, eviscerated salsa compositions, and studied reveries, Tesh was a human Cuisinart of every hack musical stunt, effecting a strange synthesis of various mongrel styles where half the songs sounded like generic background music for promotional videos ... and the other half sounded like retreads of Mason Williams's sixties hit Classical Gas."

Queenan sets out to find music, movies, books, and TV that transcend awful, and the most remarkable thing about this book is that one never doubts for a moment that he actually subjected himself to all of the horrors he describes (including the literary efforts of Joan Collins). In an era where references to Burt Reynolds movies are used as hipster currency by people who have never endured Cannonball Run II, Queenan mocks nothing without experiencing it first. His odyssey throws up a few surprises--including the discovery that Barry Manilow is actually pretty good, and that most of the junk that clogs the arteries of popular culture never reaches the stratospheric level of badness achieved by someone like Michael Bolton. This leads Queenan to coin the term scheissenbedauern ("shit regret") to describe "the disappointment one feels when exposed to something that is not nearly as bad as one hoped it would be."

But generally, the answer to the question posed at the beginning of the book is "Really, really bad." Making fun of bad middlebrow entertainment may seem like a no-brainer, but when a writer as sharp as Queenan gets his claws into something like the collected works of Billy Joel, the results are hilarious. Like Jonathan Swift with a remote control, he gleefully shoots every fish in the pop-culture barrel. --Simon Leake

From Publishers Weekly
"I was beginning to suspect that snobs like me were cutting ourselves off from all the sun in this society, that in our obsession with books by Umberto Eco and concerts by the Kronos Quartet, we had deprived ourselves of the boundless joy to be derived from a quiet evening with Yanni." Thus does Queenan explain the impetus for his hilarious venting of spleen here against American mass culture. The TV Guide columnist and author of If You're Talking to Me, Your Career Must Be in Trouble sallies forth to skewer many popular icons. Among them are the musical Cats ("I was not a complete stranger to the fiendishly vapid world of Andrew Lloyd Webber"), Robert James Waller ("No one will ever write a book worse than Border Music. The government wouldn't allow it"), John Tesh ("almost supernaturally vacant"), Joan Collins ("a thrillingly inept writer"), the Olive Garden restaurant chain (colorful wording on the menu transforms a "repellent morass into a truly wondrous zuppa toscana") and the home of aging performers, Branson, Mo. ("a Bayreuth for Bozos"). Cynics in general and fans of Queenan in particular will find many pleasures in this wonderfully comic diatribe. Editor, Jennifer Barth; agent, Joe Vallely. British rights sold to Picador; author tour.
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Library Journal
Outspoken cultural critic Queenan (The Unkindest Cut, LJ 1/96) travels through America in search of bad taste and then goes back to 16 cities to promote his book.
Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.

Customer Reviews

A worthy cause, misses the greater point.
I picked up Queenan's "Red Lobster" book after hearing a favorable review on NPR and was thrilled to discover that someone was finally willing to expose the utter classlessness of the staples of "unculturalized" Americans. And they are all here - Red Lobster, The Olive Garden, Kenny G, Robert James Waller, Stephen King, et al. Queenan observes in a most deft manner how these sacred cows achieve success not my being excellent, but by appearing to be excellent. In short, they sell it and there's always a fool to buy it.

It's a worthy endeavor because let's face it - Kenny G is NOT jazz. Not even smooth jazz. Andrew Lloyd Webber IS incredibly overrated. The Olive Garden is not a "fancy restaurant" no matter how much your Aunt Meg dresses up before you take her there. And the main problem is not the entities themselves, but the fact that most Americans ALLOW this continued celebration mediocrity due to sheer laziness. In truth, every twenty or thirty-something female who tearfully devoured "The Bridges of Madison County" probably never bothered to pick up a copy of "Madame Bovary." If she had, she would certainly see that she'd been ripped off by a hack.

Of course, some of this comes down to simple opinion. As Queenan criticizes Rush (the band, not the talk-show idiot), he admits to not even being able to remember a single Rush song - and loses a little credibility for taking an easy stab at art rock. But upon finishing "Red Lobster," I was disappointed on two levels. One, for all his cultural snobbishness, Queenan never once sells his side of the equation. What is so much better about HIS tastes, other than the fact that they help him perpetuate the appearance of a refined New Yorker? There's not a hint. Two, in his observations, Queenan seems completely lost on the concept of guilty pleasures. I consider myself a fairly intelligent guy, but I also have those moments when I listen to Kiss and watch an episode of Hawaii 5-0. Why not? It doesn't define me, but boy is it ever entertaining!

That said, this is a good read, especially for anyone who had to suffer through a single note from Yanni in any circumstance.

I only wish he wrote about "Titanic" and Ticketmaster, too!
My pointed sense of cynical humor just about matches Joe Queenan's to a tee--I thought I'd just reveal that bias now and get it out of the way. "Red Lobster" is a surgical expose of Queenan's foray into pop culture, but let's face it--it's also snobbery to the nth degree. Insightful snobbery, sharply written snobbery, downright enjoyable snobbery--but snobbery nonetheless. For that reason alone, "Red Lobster" is not going to be everyone's cup of tea.

But it sure as hell was mine. Queenan's skewering of pop culture icons is pretty thorough and pretty hysterical (I just wish he waited for the "Titanic" phenomenon before he wrote this book), but it's almost unrelenting. However, he's forced to admit that at least a couple of those things he expected to hate really aren't that bad after all--chiefly because those things don't pretend to be anything more than they are. Queenan doesn't have a problem with simple, chinzy and shallow--just as long as it isn't pretentious.

That is Queenan's real gripe with most pop culture--shallow stuff wrapped up as high art. The best chapter by far deals with literary hacks, and delivers the finest backhanded complementary essay I've ever heard in my life! His tirades on such things are often poisonous--but come on. In your heart, you know he's right.

There Is No Cure for the Common Scold
Queenan set an extremely peculiar task for himself in writing this book: he would spend a year reading books, watching movies, and listening to music that he desperately wanted NOT to read, watch, or hear. Masochism on this scale is rare even in the back rooms of adult bookstores.

Although Queenan is a good writer and actualy made me laugh out loud a couple of times, there are two fatal flaws that doom the project.

He's certainly not the first to tackle the subject mattter. Early in the 20th century H. L. Menken made the statement that "Nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American middle class," and used the term "booboise" to describe this group. Then in 1964 Susan Sontag's "Notes on Camp" came on the scene.

Worse yet, he confuses fact and opinion. He uses the terms "good" and "bad" in describing popular culture, terms that are more properly used in the realm of morality.

Billy Joel and Phil Collins are singers. That is a fact. Billy Joel and Phil Collins are bad singers. That is an opinion. Queenan's, not mine.

His targets are so easy. Michael Bolton, THE CELESTINE PROPHECY, the musical CATS, Kenny G., Joan Collins, Joe Pesci, Renaissance Fairs, Molly Ringwald, CANNONBALL RUN 2.

Along the way he finds some things that he enjoys more than he expected to. Sizzler Restaurants, CHILD'S PLAY, and Barry Manilow are unexpected sources of pleasure to him.

Although I'm often in agreement with Queenan's opinions, there's no real need for him to express them. What is admired in the arts is very much a product of the time in which the art is produced. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, who opened his novel PAUL CLIFFORD with the immortal phrase, "It was a dark and stormy night," was highly admired in the 19th century; today his name is on a prize given by San Jose State University for authors who deliberately produce the worst writing they can for the competition.

Queenan sets himself as the authority, oops, make that The Authority, the supreme arbiter of taste. This could be fun in a magazine article; at 194 pages he wears out his welcome.

As I read, I finally remembered where I had heard this particular cricket perched on my shoulder. The 1960's. A Houston station would broadcast a double feature of 1950's horror movies. My mother would sit up and offer a running commentary on the acting, writing and directing of these movies (she taught Drama at the college level so they may have really grated on her). I ignored her and kept on watching. Finally, around midnight she'd weary of this and go to bed. I could get another bottle of Coke and more Doritos and watch the second feature in peace.

If the publishers really wanted to have fun, they should go to a NASCAR Race or Untimate Fighting Championship and find a good old boy with his gimme cap on backward. Pay him to watch Bergman films (Ingmar, not Ingrid), listen to string quartets and read Umberto Eco for a year. That could be fun.