One man’s prime numbers

When you are a bestselling novelist you get to do things your way. So this isn’t 32 Songs, which would at least be a power of two, or even 30 Songs, but the defiantly prime 31 Songs, because that, says Nick Hornby, is how long the book needs to be. But then the millions of us who read High Fidelity know that Hornby feels rather strongly about pop music. Call it a novel if you wish, but the sorry and thwarted emotional life of that book’s protagonist clearly reflected its author’s profound dedication to all things rock and, moreover, roll. You do not write so keenly and accurately about the art of making cassette compilations of your favourite songs unless you have made an awful lot of them yourself. Fortunately for Hornby there was an audience of sad blokes out there who identified with this behaviour. They will love this book too. It’s a fine piece of work.

Hornby, of course, is known primarily for his novels, which have made him a trillionaire. But over the past couple of years he has also been writing about pop music for the New Yorker, and so either made pop criticism more respectable or sent the New Yorker spiralling downmarket, depending on your point of view. I have to admit I like his journalism, and am one of about 23 people who remember a splendid column he wrote for the Independent on Sunday a decade or so ago. He gave that up, as I recall, because it used up too many ideas – which is why it was worth reading in the first place. 31 Songs is in a similar mould. It’s an intelligent and highly distinctive overview of modern pop music, built around this pile of songs Hornby happens to adore.