Let me start by saying that a serious review of this book would be hard to write. I was going to say “difficult to write”, but then I’d already be missing the point, wouldn’t I? One cannot look at this book and hold it to the same scrutiny as At Swim, Two Boys or Blinded by the Right. “Apples and oranges” is a cliché for a reason.
This book is a piece of fluff. It’s a little bit of mystery, a little bit of fantasy, and a whole lot of fun. There is a place in the genre for such books, and as fluff, it is one of the best. Each chapter begins with the name of a tarot card followed by an interpretation of the card. Does the card match the chapter? I have no idea. The pursuit of the question required vastly more intellectual energy than I was willing to spend. Either that, or the book read so fast that I just didn’t care about checking back. Anyway, I suppose that they do match, but even now, thinking about it, I don’t care enough to investigate.
Our protagonist was born to fiercely liberal parents who named him Milton. Mind you, his last name is Bradley, so you already feel sorry for him and don’t blame him for selecting other names throughout the story. His siblings are named Storm and Rain. “Milton” was the obvious selection to comply with (and simultaneously mortify further) grandparents who demanded that the pattern of meteorological event names be stopped. I must say, I love the conflict of fluff.
Scotty, as our protagonist prefers to be called, is a gifted psychic who receives day and night visions from his “Goddess,” which gives you the tie-in to the tarot. Scotty is also in an elite class of gay men who are of sufficient beauty, buff, and endowment to be a go-go boy at the very best New Orleans bars. (This is a good time to call your attention to the author’s photo inside the back cover of the book. Mr. Herren may have himself been a “Dick Dansoir” in his younger days.) Anyway, Scotty’s visions point to a big problem: lots of death coming to New Orleans, and soon. Fortunately for us, the visions aren’t telling the whole story, but that’s OK. Scotty soon becomes ground zero of the central mystery, which launches when he discovers a disk in his boot. How does a psychic go-go boy who avoids drugs not notice a 3.5-inch or larger disk in his boot? Are go-go boy boots that big?
All the essential elements of a mystery are present: A mugging, a murder, a Molotov Cocktail, and a big beefy FBI agent. Add to that crooked politicians, rides through a swamp, dynamite, sex, (dynamite sex, you might say) and you’ve got a fun read. Does it ruin the story to say that Milton/Scotty/Dick saves the day? And all of gay New Orleans? I think not.
One of my colleagues at the book club referred to this book as “relentless.” Yes, but keep in mind that this is fluff and fluff cannot afford to get stuck in the mud. Gratefully, this story does not. Appended at the end of this book is the first chapter of Herren’s sequel, Jackson Square Jazz, which appears to pick up where Blues leaves off. The cover of the sequel is even sexier, but I won’t be rushing out to buy Jazz any time soon. With fluff, but a little goes a long way.
So, to wrap, this book is a bit like soft porn with a really good plot. If you are in need of beach reading or if you’re copy of John’s Bathroom Reader is worn out and expended, this book will serve you well.