Ketil Bjørnstad is a musician and an author, and this book is about a musician who’s also an author. And then there’s a Hardy Boys plot about terrorism and the Steiner School.
The bits about being a musician are better than the terrorism bit. There’s a sort of vigorous charm in the writing, and there are funny bits. But it all feels so unnecessary.
It’s written in 1980, and I apparently bought this in 1995 at a sale, dirt cheap. Which explains why I hadn’t read it until now.
But it’s difficult to imagine anybody wanting to read this now, at all. It was probably a much more entertaining read in 1980, but now it’s mostly just annoying. Not actually bad or anything, but “eh”.