Books like A Drink with Shane MacGowan — picked by fans

What I love about this short story collection by a true master of the writing craft is how psychedelic it is, without any actual references to drugs or counterculture.

Every story is a mind-bending trip delivered straight to the dome through innovative language and upended logic. I love the rabbit holes Borges sends his readers down, like the first story’s development of an entire other human civilization through the discovery of its never-ending encyclopedia.

The title Labyrinths is so fitting – reading these stories is like making your way through a literary maze with psychic surprises and twists around every turn of the page. 

Early in this book, a character uses his kitchen oven to dry out some psychedelic mushrooms harvested from the rooftop garden at his flat in World War II London. Dosing the characters (and somehow the reader) with Amanita Muscaria is an appropriate way to set the tone of this book.

Mushroom experiences are fun and giggly and clever, at times, but they can also open the mind to the evils mankind is capable of and the intricate conspiracies seemingly hiding in plain sight. Which is what I love about Gravity’s Rainbow – Pynchon’s writing is hilarious, but then he’ll hit you with a gut punch so poignant it will linger in your mind for decades. 

What I loved most about Night Boat to Tangier is the same thing I love about all of Kevin Barry’s books – the delivery.

Whether it’s City of Bohane, The Heart in Winter, Beatlebone, or this book, the best part of a Kevin Barry novel is always the writing and the voice. The story is almost secondary.

You might expect the story of a seasoned drug importer reuniting with his estranged daughter to be a spectacle, but what I loved about this book was the way many of the tendrils of the story were allowed to uncurl slowly, and some not at all.

I like to imagine Kevin Barry was at the ferry station one day and looked at a couple of aging, shaved-head, tattooed Irish thugs leaning against a wall waiting, and asked, “What’s their story?” Then he wrote it. 

When I moved to Scotland for my postgrad year studying writing at the University of Edinburgh, the apartment I rented had one book in it – this collection of short stories, set in the same city.

I was pretty sure Trainspotting was the best novel I’d ever read, but I wasn’t aware of this collection of three works of Irvine Welsh’s short fiction. My first night in the apartment, I sat on the one chair and read the one book. And what a buzz!

I loved the mix of grittiness, euphoria, and dark-as-night humour. The focus on club drugs was more relatable than the heroin culture of Trainspotting (although to my delight, Spud Murphy makes a cameo appearance – twice!). 

The first time I heard Two Hearts Beat As One by U2 was glorious! I was entranced by the driving drums and the bass line and inspired by Bono’s lyrics, which spoke to my burgeoning interest in how to be cool. And U2 was cool in the 80s. And Bono was one of the coolest musicians I looked up to back then.

His memoir goes deep into explaining where his bravado and “cool” come from. It was a darker and more complicated place than I expected.  Having recently endured the death of my own mother, shortly before I read this book, I was moved to read about how the death of his mother impacted him and motivated him. 

I came away with even more respect for Bono’s life philosophy and his commitment to his family, his bandmates, and his ongoing craft as a musician. 

This book is a powerful and often heartbreakingly honest memoir from an artist who was frequently misunderstood throughout her career.

Before her untimely passing, Sinéad offered her own perspective on her life, her activism, and the numerous challenges she faced within the music industry and in her personal life.

One of the most compelling parts of the book for me was understanding how Sinéad saw herself and the fallout from the infamous Saturday Night Live incident, where she tore up a photo of the Pope. This act significantly impacted her career. Her account of Prince, who penned one of her biggest hits, is also quite memorable, though not particularly flattering to him.

Ultimately, it's a sad story of a fiercely independent and deeply emotional individual who often seemed unfairly castigated, and I truly appreciated her raw energy and unfiltered perspective in the book. Her loss is a significant one.

Whenever I think of my favorite book boyfriends, Krit in Bad for You is always number one. I don’t know why he struck a chord with me, but he did. Maybe it’s because he’s in a band, maybe it’s because he’s funny and chaotic, maybe it's because he seems a little lost. But mostly, I think it’s because he loves Blythe so much that he becomes a better man for her. 

That’s right; it’s an entire book of musical notation. Like I said, this list is for players, not civilians.

I love that every note on every original Beatles record is transcribed here, right down to Ringo’s drum fills on “You Won’t See Me” and the guy saying “number nine” a hundred times on “Revolution 9.”

I love sitting down with my kid, who plays guitar, and discovering exactly how to recreate the parts we can’t work out by ear. I love seeing how the Beatles fit the gears together to make the wheels turn on these songs and how they used chords and notes that I have on the piano at my house, too.

I’ve never read an autobiography by anyone as humble, funny, reflective, poetic, and oftentimes downright scary as the bass player Flea from Red Hot Chili Peppers.

I’ve always been in love with his sound and sense of timing, a groove master who has few equals. With this book, I discovered the love, boredom, synchronicities, intelligence, and madness that made up his life, and because of it, I admire Flea and the band like almost no other.

Some time in the 1960s, rock ’n’ roll became rock, and rock became white. That moment forms the core of Jack Hamilton’s exploration of the fraught racial politics of this music in the United States.

Putting different artists into dialogue – such as Dylan and Cooke, or Janis and Aretha – allows Hamilton to excavate the original complexity of genre labels that, over the fifty years since, have too often effaced the original, more complicated story about race, music, and American society.