Neil Barrett, Jr. R.I.P.

Neil Barrett, Jr. has died.

That fucking sucks.

I first read Barrett as a mystery author, which might make sense for folks who know me now (I'd say that about 75% of my non-PW fiction reading these days is in mystery/crime), but wasn't the case back in '97. In fact, back then the only mystery/crime author I was reading regularly was Joe Lansdale, and I was reading him as much because of his work in horror. But I'd seen Lansdale's Hap and Leonard books compared to Barrett, and I picked up Dead Dog Blues on a whim. It was a blast, literally the only good book to start with the death of a dog*, and got me hooked on the guy. I grabbed some more of his mysteries, and then his strange clockpunk/athopomorphism dualogy The Prophecy Machines/The Treachery of Kings. I started grabbing his books at used bookstores, and even his weaker books (I've got an Ace Double of his, and he adapted Stallone's Judge Dredd, a sow's ear with very limited silk purse potential; I still can't bring myself to read his adaptation of the D&D movie).

It took me ages to finally get to The Hereafter Gang. THG is the Great Texas Eschatological Novel. It might be the only one, but it would hold that title against a thousand competitors. It's a book filled with sex and death and a sense of unreality that's just wonderful and occasionally absurd. Clute called it "one of the great American novels," (I can't find the link, but a Google Books search suggests this is from The Washington Post) and he's damned right.

The Hereafter Gang's going for $.99 on Kindle (and since I'd bought the print edition from Amazon over a dozen years ago, I was able to snag it for free!); it's worth all that and more, and it sucks that I only thought to look it up on getting the news. Barrett was 84, but had been writing for over 50 years (he first published in 1960, and he's got short fiction that was released this year, according to ISFDB). That's one hell of a career.

*Yes, I know that there is at least one other book that starts this way. And it's an overrated piece of tripe.

Neil Barrett, Jr. R.I.P.

Neil Barrett, Jr. has died.

That fucking sucks.

I first read Barrett as a mystery author, which might make sense for folks who know me now (I'd say that about 75% of my non-PW fiction reading these days is in mystery/crime), but wasn't the case back in '97. In fact, back then the only mystery/crime author I was reading regularly was Joe Lansdale, and I was reading him as much because of his work in horror. But I'd seen Lansdale's Hap and Leonard books compared to Barrett, and I picked up Dead Dog Blues on a whim. It was a blast, literally the only good book to start with the death of a dog*, and got me hooked on the guy. I grabbed some more of his mysteries, and then his strange clockpunk/athopomorphism dualogy The Prophecy Machines/The Treachery of Kings. I started grabbing his books at used bookstores, and even his weaker books (I've got an Ace Double of his, and he adapted Stallone's Judge Dredd, a sow's ear with very limited silk purse potential; I still can't bring myself to read his adaptation of the D&D movie).

It took me ages to finally get to The Hereafter Gang. THG is the Great Texas Eschatological Novel. It might be the only one, but it would hold that title against a thousand competitors. It's a book filled with sex and death and a sense of unreality that's just wonderful and occasionally absurd. Clute called it "one of the great American novels," (I can't find the link, but a Google Books search suggests this is from The Washington Post) and he's damned right.

The Hereafter Gang's going for $.99 on Kindle (and since I'd bought the print edition from Amazon over a dozen years ago, I was able to snag it for free!); it's worth all that and more, and it sucks that I only thought to look it up on getting the news. Barrett was 84, but had been writing for over 50 years (he first published in 1960, and he's got short fiction that was released this year, according to ISFDB). That's one hell of a career.

*Yes, I know that there is at least one other book that starts this way. And it's an overrated piece of tripe.