Format:
Book
Author:
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Publisher, Date:
Boston : Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2014.
Description:
242 pages ; 22 cm
Summary:
Anna Brundage is a rock star. She is tall and sexy, with a powerhouse voice and an unforgettable mane of red hair. She came out of nowhere, an immediate indie sensation. And then, life happened. Anna went down as fast as she went up, and then walked off the scene for seven years. Without a record deal or clamoring fans, she sells a piece of her famous father's art to finance just one more album and a European comeback tour.
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LCCN:
2013019523
ISBN:
9780544074811 (hardcover)
0544074815 (hardcover)
Other Number:
847537368
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1
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4
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0
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Disappearing for years after a meteoric rise in the indie rock scene, powerhouse singer Anna Brundage sells the last of her resources to finance a comeback album and reclaim a transcendent moment on the stage. - (Baker & Taylor)

Disappearing for years after a meteoric rise in the indie rock scene, powerhouse singer Anna sells the last of her resources to finance a comeback album and reclaim an ultimate transcendent moment on the stage. By the award-winning author of The Art of Intimacy. 40,000 first printing. - (Baker & Taylor)

Anna Brundage is a rock star. She is tall and sexy, with a powerhouse voice and an unforgettable mane of red hair. She came out of nowhere, an immediate indie sensation. And then, life happened.

Anna went down as fast as she went up, and then walked off the scene for seven years. Without a record deal or clamoring fans, she sells a piece of her famous father’s art to finance just one more album and a European comeback tour.

Anna is forty-four. This may be her last chance to cement her place in the life she chose, the life she struggled for, the life she’s not sure she can sustain. She falls back easily into the ways of the road—sex with strangers, the search for the perfect moment onstage. To see Anna perform is something—watch her find the note, the electric connection with the audience, the transcendence when it all comes together and the music seems to fill the world.

A riveting look at the life of a musician, Wonderland is a moving inquiry into the life of a woman on an unconventional path, wondering what happens next and what her passions might have cost her, seeking a version of herself she might recognize. It takes us deep into a world many of us have spent hours imagining and wishing ourselves into—now we have a bit of that wish come true.

- (Houghton)

This breakout novel from a brilliant stylist—dropping us into the life a female rock star—centers on that moment when we decide whether to go all-in or give up our dreams - (Houghton)

Flap Cover Text

Time passes. We only really hear the song the second time.

Anna Brundage is a rock star. She is tall and sexy, with a powerhouse voice and an unforgettable mane of red hair. She came out of nowhere, an immediate indie sensation. And then, life happened.

Anna went down as fast as she went up, and then walked off the scene for seven years. Without a record deal or clamoring fans, she sells a piece of her famous father’s art to finance just one more album and a European comeback tour.

Anna is forty-four. This may be her last chance to cement her place in the life she chose, the life she struggled for, the life she’s not sure she can sustain. She falls back easily into the ways of the road—sex with strangers, the search for the perfect moment onstage. To see Anna perform is something—watch her find the note, the electric connection with the audience, the transcendence when it all comes together and the music seems to fill the world.

Wonderland takes us deep into that unknown, dreamed-of world—music, fame, and art. It examines the life of a woman on an unconventional path, wondering what happens next and what her passions might have cost her, seeking a version of herself she might recognize. It stares boldly and steps bravely into the wonderland that is the future, calling a tune out to anyone facing change.

- (Houghton)

First Chapter or Excerpt
Coming Back

Christiania
There is a man fixing a bicycle, or attempting to fix a bicycle, in the lane. I am sitting by the bluish window of a borrowed apartment in Christiania reading a paperback mystery badly translated from Italian. I bought it in the Copenhagen airport. It has something to do with boats—someone was murdered on a boat, salty types haunt the harbor—but I don’t care about boats.
   I do find that I care about Christiania, which, though I’ve never been here before, feels familiar to me, as if I’ve dreamed of it many times. A good-sized island in the center of Copenhagen, surrounded by a river, it was taken over by hippies in 1971 and declared a “free state,” with communal property, no cars, and drugs openly for sale on the main drag, helpfully named Pusher Street. It has been a free state ever since. Now it is a leafy, semi-occluded place, with dirt roads, peculiar hand-built houses—some look like shacks, some look like spaceships—a few streets of stores selling crafts, and a climate all its own: it is warmer and damper here than in Copenhagen proper, as if one has stepped into a vast terrarium. Christiania, shaggy and rural and utopic, is a collective wish, under constant threat of being torn down by the government or turned into condos. There was a riot last week, apparently; a building was set on fire, it isn’t clear by whom, the anarchists or the cops. Christiania’s signature, its export to the unfree world, is innovative, handmade bicycles. Some of them look like the bicycles people, or aliens, might ride on Jupiter. Some of them look as if they were made by Dalí. Some appear to be anticipating a time when people will be much taller.
   Christiania’s melancholic hope loops around my heart. It is the ruins of the future. As soon as we got here, the very first stop on the tour, my comeback tour—coming back from what to what, anyone might well ask—I wanted to stay. But we’re all leaving in the morning. We’re taking the train to Göteborg, whatever that is. In the living room of this borrowed apartment, five enormous windows made out of salvaged glass look onto the dirt road below. The light blue of the glass makes me wonder if it was salvaged from a church. Otherwise, the room is all bookshelves, a long curve of modernist red sofa, and two enormous, identical sleeping hounds with coarse gray fur. The old man with pink gauges in his earlobes who let me in told me not to worry about them, which I don’t, but I wish they would wake up. Instead, they lie on a chartreuse blanket on the floor, paws twitching in twin dreams. It’s cold in here. I would like to wrap a sleeping dog around me for warmth, but settle for a pair of fingerless knit gloves that I find on one of the bookshelves.
   The bicycle wrench goes cling clang . . . clingcling clang. A loud screech, a ping. The man swears. I don’t speak Danish, but by the propulsive sound of the word he makes I know he’s swearing. I look out the window. Short, choppy yellow hair; tools and a sweater on the ground; a bicycle turned upside down, gears to the sky; his round face; a bit of a gut on him, though he’s young. Youngish. He drinks from a dark brown beer bottle, a slender wrench dangling from his other hand. He has stripped down to a T-shirt in his exertions; the indigo-blue edge of a tattoo is visible on one upper arm. He is handsome—almost too handsome.
   My new young manager, Boone, looking, as usual, like he died two days ago, clatters up the wooden stairs and into the room carrying a small velvet bag. “Are you ready, Anna?” he says. “Sound check in an hour. Why did you turn off your phone? You should see where the rest of us are staying—this is nice.” Boone has a face like a chipped white plate. Small, round, questioning dark eyes. An ambivalent beard. A concave chest. He can’t settle, doesn’t sit down, hovering a few feet away. I would like to put him in my pocket and feed him crumbs.
   “It’s cold,” I say.
   “Not really,” he ventures. Boone is still trying to find his way around me. “Take a look at this.” He opens the velvet bag, unwraps tissue paper from a porcelain figurine—a vaguely Turkish-looking man who appears to be singing, smiling face uplifted, and playing a tiny porcelain guitar—which he sets on the coffee table. “Only a hundred fifty euros.” He rocks on his heels.
   “Huh,” I say in what I hope is a neutral tone. Something about the figurine makes me uneasy—its uncanniness, its exorbitant price, its sentimentality. What is actually going on in the world if this kitschy thing is valuable?
   “There was another one there, a Schiffener, but it wasn’t nearly as good. Why did you turn off your phone?”
   “I don’t know,” I say, because I don’t. The jet lag makes me feel a beat or two behind myself. I pretend to go back to reading my book. Sardines, a bloody handkerchief. The pensive, hard-drinking, salty-tongued detective. It smells like licorice in this room; where did I leave it? I’d like some licorice.
   “Anna,” says Boone. “I’ve been trying to call for an hour. What are you doing? Whose dogs are those? They look like van Stavasts—do you think they could be? It’s a really rare breed.”
   “I don’t know.” I turn a page. I hate Boone, I think. “It’s too cold in here.”
   Boone sighs. “Anna. Are you freaking out?”
   I don’t respond. I’m not exactly trying to torment him. It’s just that, for one thing, I’m cold. I hate being cold. For another, I resent the implication, which underlies every exchange we have, that I should be grateful that he agreed to take me on. He’s said I must know how major I am, but we both know I went to him. All of Boone’s other acts are much younger, their beardless pallors glow, they have some sort of Icelandic/Berliner/post-polar-ice-cap handcrafted glamour, they wear peculiar Amish-like outerwear and badly fitting pants, only maybe two of them are junkies. They are all, of course, very serious. Brilliant, even. Their music is the music of the new world, coming over the waves, half translated. If you told me that they cobbled their own shoes out of scrap leather made from the tanned hides of cows they had butchered themselves with knives made in their own smithies, I would believe you. Many of them claim to be my lifelong fans, too, to have the lyrics fromWhale engraved on their hearts, to be unreasonably devoted to my very shadow, but I can’t help feeling that if I were taxidermied and tied to the front of their tour buses, I’d be equally as lovable to them.
   In my darker moments I feel like the Queen of England, bound and gagged by reverence. Tin-crowned and irrelevant. Perhaps I should stay here in Christiania, take up my other life, pass through the hemp-scented membrane of this place and become another Anna Brundage, maybe a better one. An Anna on a distended, futuristic bicycle. Also, for yet another thing, this entire idea was along the lines of a disaster. Music is quicksilver, gossamer; careers are measured in butterfly lifetimes. My butterfly life ended seven years ago in Rome. No one gives a shit about what I do anymore. I’m on a tiny label, albeit a tiny one with some cachet, but I paid forWonderland myself. I begin to feel queasy. What have I started? I eye the sentimental porcelain figurine, singing so witlessly. Why did Boone agree to take me on? Am I a novelty act?
   “I’m just cold. It’s too cold in here,” I say. “How’s the house?”
   He scratches at his chin, grimacing. “Online sales are all right so far. It was a holiday yesterday, everybody was out drinking, we’re expecting more at the door. I mean, given who you are it’s going to be great, but it is the first one, and there’s a big World Cup match on TV tonight, you can’t—”
   “Isn’t there any way to turn the heat up?”
   Boone zips his sweater up to the neck in the way of a man who would like to strangle someone and is strangling himself instead. He puts the terrifying figurine back in its wrapping, its little velvet bag. “I have no idea. It isn’t my house.” He’s so aggravated that he’s barely speaking above a whisper. “I don’t even understand where we are. Is this island some kind of commune deal?”
   “But I can’t sing if I’m too cold. You know that.”
   “Anna. Darling. Put on a sweater. There will be heat in the theater. This place—it’s dirt roads, did you see that? It’s not so surprising that the heat doesn’t work that well.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “But everyone is playing the Bee Palace right now. Right?” He regards me. “This is good.” How young he is. His beard barely on his face, he might scratch it right off one day. But he does work hard, he does.
   “Christiania is a free state,” I offer as an olive branch of information. “The last one in the world, I think. We’re in the ruins of the future. Can you check on the heat at the theater?”
   “Yes,” says Boone. “If you turn your phone on. Anna, it’s nice in here. You have the best one.” He gives me a significant, managerial look and clatters out. Also proving my point about the gratitude thing.
   Beyond the salvaged blue window, the man is squatting next to the broken bike, smoking a cigarette and drawing lazily in the dirt with a stick. He is definitely almost too handsome. Daring myself to open the window, I open the window. I whistle. He lifts his face. “Hey. Want to come up for a beer?”
   Apparently he speaks English, and he’s thirsty.

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Trade Reviews

Booklist Reviews

*Starred Review* D'Erasmo avoids clichés in this rhapsodic portrait of a rock-and-roll diva like a champion slalom skier racing downhill without touching a single pole. As she has in her three previous novels, D'Erasmo (The Sky Below, 2008) perceptively aligns insights into the emotional tangles of family relationships with an imaginative and gleaning inquiry into the nature of creativity and how making art coheres and disrupts everyday life. The daughter of artists, Anna stoically navigated an itinerant, bohemian childhood, which she revisits in long, vivid ruminations during her exhausting and exciting European tours, with stops in Rome, Hamburg, a festival in Latvia, a French chateau, and a hippie enclave on a Copenhagen island. She often replays time spent with her famous father, her polestar, who is revered for "reinventing sculpture" by cutting a train in half. Anna, too, has a proclivity for demolition, which she channels into her burrowing, pummeling, and explosive music. Close to excruciatingly observant, often lonely, sharply funny, and prone to problematic love, Anna is an irresistible narrator. D'Erasmo brings us inside the music and the musician's psyche in this transfixing song of a self evolving through discovery, loss, and renewal. Copyright 2014 Booklist Reviews.

Library Journal Reviews

Stegner Fellow D'Erasmo got front-page coverage in the New York Times Book Review for her most recent book, The Sky Below, but this new work is billed as her commercial breakout. Flame-haired, golden-voiced Anna, an overnight indie rock star who just as suddenly crashed, attempts a comeback at age 44. With a 40,000-copy first printing.

[Page 68]. (c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Library Journal Reviews

D'Erasmo's fourth novel (after The Sky Below) tells the story of fictional musician Anna Brundage. Anna is in her mid-40s and touring Europe for what may be the last time, promoting an album recorded on her own dime after a seven-year hiatus. Along for the ride are her attractive young backing band and a nagging manager who attempts to drum up enthusiasm through social media and shared gigs with slightly more famous musicians. While we cannot hear the music they play, the songs are described in rich detail, as they are a key part of our narrator's inner world. The tour gives Anna a chance to reflect on her career and childhood, which was itself a sort of world tour with her artist parents. These vivid recollections create a kaleidoscope of magical experiences and colors, from the black water of the Baltic Sea at night to Anna's wild red hair. VERDICT The plot may remind readers of Jennifer Egan's popular A Visit from the Goon Squad, but D'Erasmo's writing is more dreamy and sentimental than Egan's. The rock-star lifestyle, with its drugs, troubled relationships, and whirlwind tours, has been penned many times; while Wonderland is well written, it serves as just another example. [See Prepub Alert, 11/22/13.]—Kate Gray, Shrewsbury P.L., MA

[Page 80]. (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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