It will be littered with the occasional clump of hippie throwbacks (who make for some dreary reading, no matter how deeply rooted they are in the freak-friendly history of western Ireland) and the odd joke about Roger Daltrey’s trout farm (which, come on, is fair game). Their path to the island will not be a straight line, by any means. “Why would you want to do that?” Cornelius asks. We know John never made a sea mammal-inspired album. “It’s a technique for getting at buried pain and childhood trauma,” John says. Beatlebone, the novel, reads as brilliant liner notes for a nervous breakdown, a hip, alternative history for Lennon's lost years. “What’s it you’ll be screaming about?” Cornelius inquires, since that seems to be the purpose of the trip. Its most delicious swaths trace the odd-couple adventure of John and Cornelius, a brawny man who regards the spindly artist with a paternal air and a good dose of puzzlement. This novel is a sort of hybrid, with parts of it written in dialogue and stage directions, as if it were a play, and another section that feels like pure journalism, as a reality check. He turns out to be exactly what John needs, partly because he doesn’t really care that his charge is a rock star - Cornelius’s taste runs more to country singers - and partly because he’s determined to protect him anyway, in his own fashion. The driver’s name is Cornelius, and County Mayo is in his bones.
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