In this installment of the Rock is Lit Season 4 Reading Series, Eric Jay Sonnenschein discusses and reads from his novel ‘Rocked and Rolled’, a story set in New York’s ’70s and ’80s New Wave scene that follows a young writer-turned-musician navigating the cutthroat music industry while balancing ambition with creative integrity.
‘Rocked and Rolled’ conveys the perpetual human struggle to express, invent, and reinvent oneself amid scarce opportunities, annihilating competition and a recording industry that raises barriers at every turn to make artists fail.
Eric Jay Sonnenschein is a novelist, essayist, poet, journalist and blogger living in New York. He has published five novels: ‘Rocked and Rolled’ (2024), ‘Ad Nomad’ (2012), ‘Mad Nomad’ (2015), ‘Spontaneous Revolution: The Lost Savior and the Bottomless Pit’ (2022), and ‘Spontaneous Revolution 2: The Hall of Phenomena and The Dark Parade’ (2023); four volumes of essays, ‘Making Up For Lost Time’ (2011), ‘All Over the Place: Essays from A to Z’ (2013), ‘Sartre in the Subway’ (2017), and ‘Self Helpless’ (2021); as well as a collection of poetry, ‘The Lost Poem and Others Like it’ (2011). His fifth novel, ‘Rocked and Rolled’, was published August 6, 2024. In addition, Eric Jay Sonnenschein has published more than 50 articles on a variety of topics, including politics and culture in a variety of newspapers and magazines. Since June 2014, he has posted more than 230 essays on politics, fine arts and culture on LinkedIn Pulse.
MUSIC IN THE EPISODE IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:
- Rock is Lit theme music
- [Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
- “Jump Into the Fire” by Harry Nilsson
- “Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division
- (No Copyright Music) Upbeat Indie Rock [Rock Music] by MokkaMusic/Drive
- “In the City” by The Jam
- [Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
- Rock is Lit theme music
LINKS:
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Eric Jay Sonnenschein’s website: https://www.ericjaysonnenschein.com/
Eric Jay Sonnenschein on Facebook: @EricJaySonnenschein
Eric Jay Sonnenschein on X: @ejsonnenschein
Eric Jay Sonnenschein on LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/ericjaysonnenschein/
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One of the rarest, the last one I needed for my set. Shiny like this. Designer handbag of my dreams. One of a kind. eBay had it and now everyone's asking, "Ooh, where'd you get shared?" Windshield wipers. eBay has all the parts that fit my car. No more annoying. Just beautiful. Whatever you love, find it on eBay. eBay, things people love. Rock is lit. Rock is lit. Rock is lit. Rock is lit. You're listening to Rock Is Lit with Christy Halberg. Rock on, Christy. [Music] Rock is lit. [Music] Hey there, lit listeners. Welcome to season four of Rock Is Lit. The first podcast devoted to rock novels and also the 2024 American Writing Awards podcast of the year in the categories of music and arts. Rock Is Lit is a proud member of the Pantheon Podcast Network. Hey, I'm John Stewart and you're listening to the Pantheon Network. Rock Is Lit is hosted, executive produced, and edited by me, Christy Alexander Halberg. Author of my own rock novel, "Searching for Jimmy Page." Big shout out to this season's incredible team, social media intern Keeley Clats, and our three production interns, Major Lagulin, Tyler Elcock, and The Air Lower. This season we're shaking things up with a fresh new format. Instead of our usual author interviews, we'll be rolling out a weekly reading series, giving you a deeper dive into the world of rock novels through curated readings and literary explorations. To keep up with all things Rock Is Lit, follow me on Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube at Christy Halberg and @rockislitpodcast on Instagram. For more info, head to ChristyAlexanderHalberg.com. Got a rock novel you'd like to see featured? Drop me a line at ChristyAlexanderHalberg@gmail.com. I'd love to hear from you. If you're enjoying the show, please subscribe, leave a comment, and give us a five-star rating on your favorite podcast platform. Wyatt, the Rock Is Lit mascot, and I thank you for your support. Hello, my name is Eric J. Sonenshine, and you are listening to Rock Is Lit. [Music] You can climb a mountain, you can swim a sea, you can jump into the fire, but you never need free. [Music] Let me start by saying a few words about who I am. I'm a novelist, essayist, poet, journalist, and blogger living in New York. I've published 10 books, five novels, four volumes of essays, and a collection of poetry, and more than 50 articles on topics ranging from politics to fine arts, to artist profiles, to music, to housing, to slang, and publications like "Newsday," "The Village Voice," "Art News," and "The Albuquerque Journal." Since 2014, I've also posted 234 essays on a range of topics on LinkedIn Pulse. These posts have reached millions of readers worldwide. Today, I'd like to discuss and read passages from my new novel, "Rock and Rolled," which is available in paperback and e-book on amazon.com. "Rock and Rolled" is a historical comic novel set in the new wave scene of New York City in the late 1970s and early 1980s. It immerses the reader in neighborhoods, a cityscape, and a way of life that has since disappeared. In this world, we witness the stratagems, pratfalls, triumphs, and disappointments of a young man named Trevor, who seeks to make it in the competitive music industry without the typical trappings of the successful musician. Trevor is not blessed by virtuosity or connections, and he must overcome these deficits to succeed. As Trevor finds his way into the music business, he meets a rose gallery of intriguing and outrageous characters, who, like himself, are inventing and reinventing themselves. As Trevor struggles to share his self-expression with others, his relentless effort to convert his passion into a career raises essential questions about the creative impulse. What spurs humans to make music? And in the larger sense, what drives us to create it all? In Rockton Rolled, I focused on the how of music making as well as the why. The standard trajectory of the musician who gets his start in garage bands and high school parties and develops his chops is well established. However, Trevor's calling to music comes late, so he must learn how to write, sing, organize a band, and manage and market his music as he goes along. Thus, Rockton Rolled provides an inside view of how to make music and bring it to the stage, the studio, and beyond. Just as Moby Dick combined high-seize adventure and the obsession to dominate nature with a comprehensive account of whales and whaling, Rockton Rolled weaves the tale of a musician's pursuit of popularity and success, with a guidebook for how to make and market popular music. When you hear and read Rockton Rolled, you may ask how much of this novel is autobiographical. It's my observation belief that all writing from the Gettysburg address to Kafka's metamorphosis are autobiographical, to the extent that they reveal the minds and characters of their authors in the words they use and the thoughts and emotions they convey. Flaubert once famously declared, "I am Madame Bovary. In this spirit I totally identify with Trevor, the embattled and resilient protagonists of Rockton Rolled. In fact, like Trevor, I was deeply involved in Rockton Roll and my experience as music informed and inspired the writing of this novel. Like Trevor, I also was smitten by the sirens that call so many poets and music lovers to make music and to bring it to the stage. Like Trevor, I struggled to learn the practical steps I needed to make a dream a reality. Like Trevor, I had to deal with a host of difficulties putting bands together, acquiring club dates, producing recordings, and the interminable efforts to sell the music to the record industry. As you can probably tell, my research for Rockton Rolled is all firsthand based on personal experience. This is standard for all of my writing, whether it's fiction, essays, blogs or articles. I view myself as a literary descendant of beat writers like Kerouac and Ginsburg and such slide form writers as Henry Miller and Erica Zhang. My first objective is always to induce the reader to see what I see and to learn what I know. When you read Rockton Rolled, I want you to feel like you're right there with Trevor on the streets of New York's East Village. I want you to smell the pizza and the cappuccinos, the fresh boarched and stale beer. I want you to hear the clanging cords and horse curses in the raucous clubs and walk the exhausted deserted streets at dawn. I loved writing Rockton Rolled, visualizing the setting, plotting the scenes and hearing the character's voices were easy. I'd say the most challenging part in writing the novel was to believe in its essential story and strip the novel down to its core, which is as simple as if one gets. A hero's quest for a boom, which in this novel is a singer-song writer's pursuit of a recording contract, a tour, a hit record and the trappings of success. I had initially framed this musical narrative and another one until I realized I didn't need the scaffolding and should tell Rockton Roll in its naked form. Some readers and reviewers have noted that Rockton Rolled is the kind of anti-Rock novel since many conventional tropes about rock and roll musicians ramping alcohol and drug use and groupies, for instance, are either absent or play just a small part in the action. It's also been noted that this novel is a musical update of the classic hero's journey as the late Joseph Campbell described it with the whole to action, the initiation and the return. And since Rockton Rolled is full of humor has also been compared with Don Quixote, which was itself a satire on the heroic journey. Some readers have asked if Rockton Rolled makes me nostalgic for my time and music. To the contrary, I enjoyed writing this novel so much that it often seemed to me that I made music so I could write this novel. I often put myself in the mood to write and revise Rockton Rolled by listening to the CD that contains one hour of my songs and letting that music carry me back the way only music can to the most important and passionate moments of our lives. And now I'd like to read to you two passages from Rockton Rolled. The first one relates how Trevor becomes friends with Jack Mulvey, a once successful rock manager. Jack is the mentor Trevor has been hoping for in seeking a seasoned hard-bitten guide advisor and coach. Jack introduces Trevor to the downtown New York music scene that Trevor will later try to conquer. So without further ado, let's visit Rockton Rolled. Some were in the middle of my rudderless existence. I eked out a living for the Chelsea Sentinel, a neighborhood paper that aimed to be influential but rarely ventured beyond Monday. The publisher was a portly, a vernacular soul who had earned a fortune on Wall Street and believed he was improving the world with weeklies the public largely ignored. This walrus mustache local mogul squandered his Wall Street millions at a large desk paying young sycophants to bark headlines and follow irrelevant stories. I yearned to be part of this irrelevance and wrote many articles hoping to catch on as a reporter or arts critic for the Chelsea Sentinel. But in the infinite wisdom he derived from his excessive wealth, the publisher viewed me as an ad salesman and paid me a weekly salary to confirm his preposterous hunch. I had been at the Chelsea Sentinel for a month when another salesman joined the staff. His dedication to the job was as minimal as my own, although he had done it successfully before. His name was Jack Mulvey. He was hired because he had worked with our advertising director, a squawking, good-hearted woman named Sally. Sally and Jack had seen better times at a successful weekly paper, but she got fired when her commissions were too high and he left sales shortly afterward to work full-time in the music industry. Jack Mulvey had managed a successful rock band that nearly made the big time before he went broke. He had gray teeth and wore tight-fated jeans, white sneakers, a leather jacket, and thick glasses with a dark tint. Though he had quit smoking, Jack flashed a gold Dunhill lighter as a talisman of better times and he knew had a dress for any crowd and occasion. He called himself a hustler and defined this term as an actor on the stage of life. After our daily sales meetings, which generally concluded with Sally signing heavily and rolling her eyes, Jack and I tramped out into the dense pungent atmosphere of a New York summer. We would stop for a fast lunch at a Fifth Avenue counter before circulating on the Upper East Side to make our sales calls. "Why are you working here, Trev?" Jack asked me one day. "You're meant for bigger things," I shrugged and said I didn't know, but his question was the first signal that Jack might be the mentor I was looking for. During one of my futile days of seeking advertisers for our low circulation rag, I found an organic pizzeria near the mayor's mansion. I told Jack about it and we went there together. He loved the taste of the pizza, but more importantly, he claimed it made him feel better. "I gotta thank you, Trev," Jack told me days later. "I'm hypoglycemic and most foods make me feel weak and sick, but I had no problem digesting the organic whole wheat pizza. You saved me. You and I are now friends for life." After the life-saving whole wheat pizza, Jack and I hung out more together. I found out that he still did freelance public relations work for musical acts now and then, setting up photo ops that hit the tabloids if nothing more important was going on. One night, he invited me to a chute. His clients were a pop trio, three tall women in spangled gowns. The shock was simple. They ran to a horse-drawn handsome across from the plaza and clapped around in a circle. The picture was on page six the next day. Though Jack was relieved when the chute was over, I marveled how smoothly the promotional job had gone. One of the city's secrets he confided was that even the busiest streets were vacant after 9 p.m. A public relations pro could create illusions with no traffic, pedestrians, or cops to dispel them. It was clear to me that Jack had the skill and experience to help me launch my music career, but he seemed disgusted and disinterested with the entertainment industry. Within a month of his higher, Jack said he couldn't sell ads anymore, so he quit. I had less integrity and stayed on. A few weeks later, he invited me to a party where he said I would mingle with some cool people. When I arrived at the address, he was waiting outside so we could crash the bash together. We sneaked in and weren't bounced. Jack saw someone he knew and moved to the center of the room to talk to him. Within moments, he was in a heated dialogue. Jack knew how to get people to listen. New rivals thought it was highly amusing just to watch and hear him chatter, dance than dialogue, arms waved, hands played, feet stomped. Words poured out of him with relentless force and volume, testing and overwhelming, the sense logic and ear of his interlocutors. Jack's tour to force that night was when he dueled another paralyzed soul, an English roadie. After they had made preposterous claims and dropped celebrity names back and forth like confetti for an hour, the roadie windbag's eyes glazed over and he bowed out from sheer verbal exhaustion. I admire Jack's muscular liquidity. When we left, he was quiet and drained, but evidently satisfied. "I feel like I'm getting my bullets back," he said. I asked him how he could talk for so long and so intensely. I talked for the same reason runner's run, Trev. When I get into it, my mouth takes over and I'm high. I hope Jack would return to the music business and take me with him, but he gave no sign of being willing to do either one. Still, Jack must have intuited my town how much I wanted to break into music because a few weeks later, he invited me to CBGB, where his pal, Killer Crocs, new band The Corpse Grinders, was gigging. It was Sunday, the graveyard of the Rock Week. On Sunday night's friends were the only crowd, tough and enthusiastic, but non-paying. Was Jack trying to turn me off of music by showing me at its worst? Possibly. But he was also letting me witness the second step in his music business comeback. Jack was managing The Corpse Grinders. Even in its heyday, after it became a legendary hotbed of new music, CBGB was a big hole-in-the-wall dive bar. While working men's taverns like Blarnie Stones and Clancy's bars that dotted Manhattan attempted respectability by looking tidy and clean, CBGB eschewed these amenities. As soon as you entered, your nose was buffeted by a reek of sour beer and stale smoke. The room was a tube that sucked a visitor's attention toward the large boxy stage in the back. The high admission and overpriced drinks made people hostile, and the violent discordant music and harsh essence of the place gave license to the crowd's aggression. Yet bands played and people paid because CBGB was where new music was heard on the best sound system in New York. Jack claimed that The Corpse Grinders friends were who's who of the local punk rock scene. I met Narl's Nickerson of the boob tubes, Garvin Blaster of the Slabs, and had a brew with Billy Balls, who looked at me with one eye wide and the other one closed and uttered words to live by. I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy. To show he was no hypocrite, Mr. Balls then drained a bottle of but in one long swallow. The Corpse Grinders played hard rock with spastic moves and a cool attitude. Killer crot resembled a corpse, tall gaunt and white to his follicles. He lurched in various directions, frequently gnashed his teeth, jabbed the air with his bays and even bit the neck a few times. Then midway through the set, the band hit their stride and threw raw chicken livers on themselves and the crowd. Raw chicken livers was Jack's idea. As an attention grabber and conversation piece had worked in so far as the sparse audience noticed or discussed anything. But after the show, Killer Croc reminstrated with Jack about the chicken livers. He said they made a bloody mess and weren't cool enough. He demanded an alternative. Jack listened calmly to Croc's critique but defended chicken livers. He believed no matter how good you were, you needed a gimmick. And once you had one, you owned it. Why mess with success, Jack asked? If you change a gimmick, people will get confused. They expect chicken livers so don't disappoint them. Nobody expects chicken livers. Nobody even likes chicken livers, Killer pointed out, unless they're fried at the dojo. I had ordered fried chicken livers with teriyaki sauce and a whole wheat pita at the dojo. And I knew what Croc meant. He also had a point about the corpse grinders fans and critics. They might not love chicken livers as much as Jack said they would. But in the end, it was a matter of the band's reputation and legacy. Killer Croc told Jack in no uncertain terms. Listen man, when I croak, I don't want my obit to read. Bass player who hurled chicken livers dead. Who could blame him? What do you want? Next, gizzard, Jack retorted, mozziballs, pigs and blankets? That set off what sounded like an argument over cheap hors d'oeuvres. Killer Croc suggested deviled eggs, stuffed mushrooms, or meatballs. He was even okay with pierogies. But Jack was in no mood to compromise his vision or his menu. He summarily resigned as the corpse grinders manager and stormed out. It was a Sunday night with a has-been band, but it was my first exposure to the local rock scene and I didn't care that the club was empty and the music was bad. For the first time, I saw performing on stages of possibility for myself. At any rate, I knew I could do better than the bands I saw and I was eager to prove it to Jack. In the second passage I want to share with you, a half a year or so has passed since Jack introduced Trevor to the music scene. Since then, Trevor's developed his rock and roll credentials by playing hoops, dating a crazy New York woman, and driving a cab at night. It's now early spring. Trevor now fully committed to music and encouraged about his chances to make it does what every hero must do. He equips himself for his mission. He descends into the subterranean Bowery rehearsal studio managed by the trollish Dorian Finkler, a talented guitarist in his own right and an incorrigible row to purchase a microphone and an amplifier. By small degrees I was becoming a musical performer. I had a mentor to advise me and a girlfriend to inspire me. I was writing songs making friends and even potential fans, but this was all prelude. I needed equipment and musical collaborators. It was early April and spring was a promise I meant to keep. One bright Thursday morning shirts waved in the morning breeze under the wacky zacks baggy awning across First Avenue, Manhattan's widest thoroughfare. Sanitation trucks were parked next door and from the old market whose white facade and green glass roof I often admired from my little John. That afternoon, after breakfast at the Kiev, I bumped into Dorian Finkler, a legendary parasite I had met in college who never went to my school but had plenty of friends who did. To Finkler's credit he was an equal opportunity mooch. He had his hand out to friends, lovers, strangers, anyone. His lips, nose and jaw were massive. His slick black hair hung to the sides of his face like greasy claws. Everyone who knew Finkler said he played great guitar. This was probably why they tolerated his obnoxious and shady behavior. Finkler was kicked out of his parents suburban home for good after he was arrested for burglary gambling and drugs. He joined the Navy and worked in a ship kitchen before a large cook knocked them unconscious in a dishwashing dispute. Later during his tour of duty his ship capsized under mysterious circumstances and Finkler found himself bobbing in an inner tube in shark infested water. He was one of the sole survivors. I was never able to confirm the factuality of this account but according to Finkler this incident convinced him he was destined for greater things though he had no idea what they were. Despite all the baggage his reputation carried I was glad to see Finkler because of his fabled guitar prowess. I had no idea if he was still involved in music but I believe Fink made us cross paths at that very moment so he could guide me to the next step in my career. Maybe he was interested in forming a band. If not he had to know a bowload of musicians and could help me find a few good ones to work with. I asked Finkler to join me for my fourth coffee of the day. I was dynamic and enthusiastic full of a sense of possibilities and Finkler was equally outgoing and interested in what I was doing. I was talking as fast as my mind was turning like Jack circulating at a party and based on Finkler's energy level I was sure he'd asked me to join his band. Finkler patiently listened and nodded when I rhapsodized about my songs and musical plans the positive feedback I received from taxi passengers and the many omens that foretold my success. But when I paused to catch my breath he swept aside my account like I was the opening act for his main event. He claimed he was no longer making music. After deflating my hopes he pivoted. He assured me he was glad to see me because he had equipment to sell that would be perfect for me. He told me to meet him at the underground rehearsal space he managed and lived in. At 4 p.m. a wind slid down the bowry like a cold fat snake. I was afraid. I lived two blocks from the bowry but avoided it and dreaded its proximity. It was here that Stephen Foster the father of American music was found in a flop house in a pool of blood with a gas in his neck and three pennies in his pocket. To me the bowry meant failure dereliction and shame a hole so deep that no one came out of it. It was a void where poverty ruled and humans were worthless. It was also a no man's land where desperate characters with nothing to lose could kill you for a quarter. I had to be cautious because my eagerness and lack of street smarts made me an easy mark. It seemed like poetic justice that I had a descend into the commercial catacombs under America's mile of failure to reach its summit of success. Going under the bowry was like mining the earth's crust for gold. The street number thinkler had scrawled on a matchbook was painted red on a wall behind a padlocked cellar door. I pounded no reply. I stomped on a second cellar door and another until I had banged on every hatch from Bond Street to Great Jones. Outside the bowry deli locals loitered with beers and paper bags. They didn't sell much juice at the bowry deli. One guy stopped sucking a butt and slurping from his bag can of beer to tell me the studio was under door number one. Like I was a contestant on Let's Make a Deal. I wrapped at them hatch until I heard an irascible voice. Finkers face appeared in a crack between the door and the pavement like a ground shadow. He lifted the door with an iron poker. I squeezed in to follow him down and he slammed the hatch behind us. The odor of unventilated fried eggs hung to the air like sour incense. Crud bottom skillet's chip plates and smeared glasses containing ashy liquid were scattered everywhere among quality musical hardware. Marshall Am silver tone drums, fender roads, keyboards, guitars, synthesizers, echo boxes and mics were plentiful. Finkler was the caretaker of a rock musician's treasure trove. A studio where band stored equipment. He lived gratis as long as he cleared out when the groups practiced. Finkler's thick lips were dry and cracked. His mouth hung slack despite the old factory evidence of a fried egg he claimed he hadn't eaten for days. He said he lived on sandwich scraps that musicians left after he fetched them refreshments. But lately they had been devouring everything. I had apparently caught Finkler in an arts and crafts moment. He was cutting and spray painting cardboard shapes, gluing on little buttons and glittering gigaws and calling it jewelry. He claimed that this was the next fashion craze and he would sell it on consignment at next empire, the punk boutique above the studio. However, since the owners had just chased him from the store with a baseball bat, he wasn't sure the deal was still on the table. New York was tough even on a con like Finkler. What chance did I have? Still, I guarded against empathizing with him. Like a pan handler, he had a knack for tapping split seconds of compassion. And once he did, he pleaded harder for something more. I wasn't street smart, but I knew that once you say yes, it's harder to say no. I came right to the point. "How about starting a band with me?" I asked. "No can do, man, but I'll play a song." Got one? As I sang the first song, the first and first valley of the dead, Finkler plugged in and played along in a smooth, intuitive groove of Middle Eastern modal riffs that floated then wailed on his guitar. Everything I had heard about Finkler's musicianship was true. It might have been the only true thing about him. I sang baritone while Finkler's guitar cried like a tragic soprano. Within minutes, valley of the dead sounded like a multi-platinum hit we had performed for years. After living with the song and my head for eons, hearing it on voicing guitar was a thrilling confirmation. The fact that a musician who barely knew me heard my song understood and made it sound so beautiful was proof of life for my improbable dream. When we had jammed on the song for 10 minutes, I told Finkler, "It sounded great. It's a good tune," he replied. "You write it." I said I had and he nodded appreciatively. "You're as good on the guitar as your friends say you are." I said, "It's too bad you've given up music." Finkler shrugged and waved me off. "I can't do it anymore. I promised myself and my parole officer no more music. Why not?" The music's okay. It's the peripherals that get me in trouble. Finkler replied as he scratched his unshaven face. "I might have known that this simple personal statement was sincere and that Finkler was telling me something of value, but in my zeal I barely heard him. Instead I spelled out my plan to emerge out of nowhere to become the next avatar of rock." He looked at me amused and incredulous and then cruned, "Hey there, you with the stars in your eyes." After I had fantasized about music for so long, Finkler was dismissing my project as naive and smacking my mojo in the mouth. At the same time, he was selling me equipment to further my quest. Maybe I put too much trust in town and luck and assumed the rest would work out, but I wasn't ashamed of dreaming. It gave me the courage to try. I brushed off Finkler's put down yet it lingered in my mind. He had been where I was and look where he was now. "Are you doing anything these days?" I asked him. "I'm starting a band called The Finklers," he retorted, flashing a yellow tooth grin. "Think America's ready for that?" "Seriously, why aren't you doing music?" I asked. "Look, I've got two illegitimate kids in Toronto," he replied. "I'm pressed for cash and there's no money in music." After exhausting my many entreaties to start a band, Finkler got down to our business. He plugged the sleek black Sennheiser mic for sale into a noisy buzz amp that he swore would amplify a kick-ass practice and urged me to sing my heart out one more time with feeling. It was the first time I heard my voice amplified and I was ecstatic. I mimicked Bing Crosby, Rudy Valle, Abdul Aleem Hafez and Jim Morrison. It was spooky how good a mic made me sound. My enthusiasm infected Finkler out of spontaneous generosity to sweeten the deal he threw in a vocoder, an echo box that would make my voice sound deep and distant like it came from a computer or a faraway planet. "It's for when you want to sing a song that's impersonal, weird, or hostile," Finkler explained. "That's half my repertoire," I conceded. I tried the vocoder. Finkler was right. It made me sound as resonant as God in the Ten Commandments. The vocoder gave my voice more range and versatility with vibrato and rhythmic gulps I could vocalize a funky bass line. The cellar door started clanging again. Finkler dismissed the commotion as bored Winoflack but when it persisted he went up the ladder to check out who was there. It was this pal tie from Toronto, a new waiver in a black turtleneck, leather pants, a biker jacket, and black grease back hair. Tie's face showed the control board of a guy who never worried because he knew what people wanted or was too rich to care. Finkler and Tie discussed concerts they wanted to see. Concept bands whose music meant less than their costumes. They were particularly taken with my mother's falsies, three women and two men whose act parody 1960s sitcoms. While the women channeled Lucy Ricardo, June Cleaver, and the flying nun, the two male members shared a Mr. Ed suit singing respectively out of the horse's head and rump. I commented that such gimmicks debase the essence of music one person communicating to others. Trev starting a band, Finkler told Tie. Tie stifled a yawn and observed me with a curiosity reserved for embalmed specimens. Tie plays bass, Finkler said, "Why don't you ask him to be in your band? Will you be in my band?" I asked Tie. No thanks he replied. I'm open for short projects though. Tie gave me his number to call him when I was ready. I swore silently I wouldn't call Tie because his and Finkler's buzz-a attitude demeaned my exuberance and mocked my resolve. Their indifference made me see what I was up against. I would have to intrigue disbelievers before they would view me as a real artist and not another wannabe. I was excited walking home with my new mic, buzz amp, and echo box, but Finkler and Tie had given me a bad feeling I couldn't shake. They treated me like one more chump in line for a carnival ride. They're just envious I thought because I'm on to something and they're not. Attitude was all some people had so they clung to it but I wasn't going to let defeatist talk me out of becoming the person I wanted to be. [music] Now steady there's a thousand things I want to say to you. But whenever I approach you you may be looking for. I want to say I want to tell you about the other ideas. I thought you'd time them and amends. They're sitting up a thousand things and I'm shining red. I was going to miss it on the 25th. They won't say they're going to tell you about the other idea. [music] Thanks for tuning in Lit listeners. If you enjoyed the show please subscribe and leave a rating and comment on Good Pods and Apple podcast links in the show notes. Wyatt the rock is lit mascot and I really appreciate your support. Until next time keep rockin' and readin' and gettin' lit. Rock is lit. [music] [BLANK_AUDIO]
In this installment of the Rock is Lit Season 4 Reading Series, Eric Jay Sonnenschein discusses and reads from his novel ‘Rocked and Rolled’, a story set in New York’s ’70s and ’80s New Wave scene that follows a young writer-turned-musician navigating the cutthroat music industry while balancing ambition with creative integrity.
‘Rocked and Rolled’ conveys the perpetual human struggle to express, invent, and reinvent oneself amid scarce opportunities, annihilating competition and a recording industry that raises barriers at every turn to make artists fail.
Eric Jay Sonnenschein is a novelist, essayist, poet, journalist and blogger living in New York. He has published five novels: ‘Rocked and Rolled’ (2024), ‘Ad Nomad’ (2012), ‘Mad Nomad’ (2015), ‘Spontaneous Revolution: The Lost Savior and the Bottomless Pit’ (2022), and ‘Spontaneous Revolution 2: The Hall of Phenomena and The Dark Parade’ (2023); four volumes of essays, ‘Making Up For Lost Time’ (2011), ‘All Over the Place: Essays from A to Z’ (2013), ‘Sartre in the Subway’ (2017), and ‘Self Helpless’ (2021); as well as a collection of poetry, ‘The Lost Poem and Others Like it’ (2011). His fifth novel, ‘Rocked and Rolled’, was published August 6, 2024. In addition, Eric Jay Sonnenschein has published more than 50 articles on a variety of topics, including politics and culture in a variety of newspapers and magazines. Since June 2014, he has posted more than 230 essays on politics, fine arts and culture on LinkedIn Pulse.
MUSIC IN THE EPISODE IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:
Rock is Lit theme music
[Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
“Jump Into the Fire” by Harry Nilsson
“Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division
(No Copyright Music) Upbeat Indie Rock [Rock Music] by MokkaMusic/Drive
“In the City” by The Jam
[Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
Rock is Lit theme music
LINKS:
Leave a rating and comment for Rock is Lit on Goodpods: https://goodpods.com/podcasts/rock-is-lit-212451
Leave a rating and comment for Rock is Lit on Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/rock-is-lit/id1642987350
Eric Jay Sonnenschein’s website: https://www.ericjaysonnenschein.com/
Eric Jay Sonnenschein on Facebook: @EricJaySonnenschein
Eric Jay Sonnenschein on X: @ejsonnenschein
Eric Jay Sonnenschein on LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/ericjaysonnenschein/
Christy Alexander Hallberg’s website: www.christyalexanderhallberg.com
Christy Alexander Hallberg on Twitter, Instagram & YouTube: @ChristyHallberg
Rock is Lit on Instagram: @rockislitpodcast
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