{"product_id":"deep-cuts-isbn-9780593799109","title":"Deep Cuts","description":"\u003cb\u003eNATIONAL BESTSELLER • “Tender as a ballad and pleasurable as a pop song, \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e is both a romp into the indie sleaze era of the early aughts and a timeless love story.”—Coco Mellors, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of\u003ci\u003e Blue Sisters\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSoon to be a major motion picture from A24!\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Warm, nostalgic, totally engrossing. I loved this novel.”—Liz Moore, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe God of the Woods\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eBOOK RIOT\u003c\/i\u003e BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLook, the song whispered to me, that day in my living room. Life can be so big. \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a Friday night in a campus bar in Berkeley, fall of 2000, and Percy Marks is pontificating about music again. Hall and Oates is on the jukebox, and Percy—who has no talent for music, just lots of opinions about it—can’t stop herself from overanalyzing the song, indulging what she knows to be her most annoying habit. But something is different tonight. The guy beside her at the bar, fellow student Joe Morrow, is a songwriter. And he could listen to Percy talk all night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoe asks Percy for feedback on one of his songs—and the results kick off a partnership that will span years, ignite new passions in them both, and crush their egos again and again. Is their collaboration worth its cost? Or is it holding Percy back from finding her own voice?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoving from Brooklyn bars to San Francisco dance floors, \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e examines the nature of talent, obsession, belonging, and above all, our need to be heard.“This is so good it makes me want to puke.”\u003cb\u003e—Haley Pham\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Warm, nostalgic, totally engrossing. I loved this novel.”\u003cb\u003e—Liz Moore, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe God of the Woods\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is fair to say that I am the target audience for this book . . . I had no idea where this book came from or how far away from me the author lives, but she spotted me through some kind of insane telescopic sight and fired. . . . I haven’t read anything quite like \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e before, because part of its subject matter is a contemplation of the educated, deeply-focused music fan’s relationship with talent. . . . Brickley isn’t aiming for immortality, which is maybe why it has a chance of lasting.”\u003cb\u003e—Nick Hornby, author of \u003ci\u003eHigh Fidelity\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Permit me a confession. As a music lover, I collect definitive listening experiences. The DLE is that rare moment when a song so exquisitely captures a time or a person or a feeling that it stakes a forever-claim in your heart. Years later, that exact feeling can return like an emotional landslide, in a single chord. It’s the great gift of music, or in this wonderful case—Holly Brickely’s \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e. It’ll forever transport me to a time in late-winter, the fog on the San Francisco Bay, and the gift of these funny, deep-feeling characters I never want to leave behind. \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e is my latest treasured DLE, in book form, and it will live alongside all the unforgettable music that Holly writes about so beautifully, with her whole heart.”\u003cb\u003e—Cameron Crowe, Academy Award–winning filmmaker and journalist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A captivating love letter to the early aughts and the era of ‘indie sleaze.’ . . . \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e delves into the raw, relatable realities of artistic ambition, toxic dynamics, and the complexity of growing up.”\u003cb\u003e—Isaac Fitzgerald, \u003ci\u003eTODAY\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s perhaps inevitable that Holly Brickley’s \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e will be likened to other noteworthy (feeble pun intended) books that incorporate music—most recently \u003ci\u003eDaisy Jones and the Six,\u003c\/i\u003e possibly \u003ci\u003eHigh Fidelity,\u003c\/i\u003e etc. What could have been a straight-up romance turns into something far more interesting.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Minnesota Star Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[R]ock novels are historically lame. Or a reboot of truth . . . But something brand new, that encompasses the reality and truth of being a music fan? I’m not sure any book exists that nails it as well as \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—Bob Lefsetz, \u003ci\u003eThe Lefsetz Letter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[D]azzling.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s a banger.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I absolutely loved \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e—clever and heart-wrenching and addictive, the kind of novel that grabs you in an instant and takes you reeling through its pages.”\u003cb\u003e—Miranda Cowley Heller, author of the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller \u003ci\u003eThe Paper Palace\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I find it hard to remember the last time I found a novel so relatable and enjoyable. Prepare to fall in love with Percy and Joe this spring.”\u003cb\u003e—Gillian McAllister, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eWrong Place, Wrong Time\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eHolly Brickley\u003c\/b\u003e studied English at UC Berkeley and received an MFA in fiction from Columbia University. Originally from Hope, British Columbia, she now lives in Portland, Oregon, with her husband and their two daughters. Her debut novel \u003ci\u003eDeep Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e has been translated into 15 languages and is being developed into a film by A24 Studios.\u003cb\u003eSara Smile\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe caught me singing along to some garbage song. It was the year 2000 so you can take your pick of soulless hits—probably a boy band, or a teenage girl in a crop top, or a muscular man with restricted nasal airflow. I was waiting for a drink at a bar, spaced out; I didn’t realize I’d been singing until his smile floated into the periphery of my vision and I felt impaled by humiliation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Terrible song,” I said, forcing a casual tone. “But it’s an earworm.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe knew each other in that vague way you can know people in college, without ever having been introduced or had a conversation. Joey, they called him, though I decided in that moment the diminutive did not suit him; he was too tall, for one. He put an elbow on the bar and said, “Is an earworm ever terrible, though, if it’s truly an earworm?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But it’s doing what it set out to do,” he said. “It’s effective. It’s catchy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dick Cheney is effective,” I said. “Nazis were catchy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe grin spread again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe bartender slid me a beer and I took it gratefully, holding the cold pint glass against my cheekbone. The song ended and a clash of bar sounds filled its void: ice shaking in tin, shuffleboard pucks clacking, a couple seated at the bar hollering in dismay at a TV suspended above the bartender’s head. Joe ordered a drink and began pulling crumpled bills from his jeans pocket. I was about to walk back to my booth when “Sara Smile” by Hall and Oates began to play, and he let out a moan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What a perfect song.” His hand shot into the tall dark pile of curls atop his head, then clawed its way down his cheek as he listened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHall and Oates! I loved Hall and Oates! They were a rare jukebox selection for the time—a band whose ‘80s sound was seen as cheesy by most people I knew, too recent to be recycled, though that wouldn’t last much longer. I leaned against the bar next to him and listened to the gorgeous, sultry first verse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Actually,” I said, unable to stop myself, “I would call this a perfect track, a perfect recording. Not a perfect song.” I could tell he already halfway understood but I explained anyway, with a level of detail befitting an idea of far greater complexity: “A perfect song has stronger bones. Lyrics, chords, melody. It can be played differently, produced differently, and it will almost always be great. Take ‘Both Sides, Now,’ if you’ll excuse me being that girl in a bar talking about Joni Mitchell—any singer who doesn’t completely suck can cover that song and you’ll be drowning in goosebumps, right?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was a leap of faith that he’d even know the song, but he gave a swift nod. “Totally.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI ducked to avoid being swallowed by the armpit of a tall guy receiving a drink from the bartender. Joe’s eyes stayed on me, focused like spotlights, so I kept going. “Now, ‘Sara Smile’—can you imagine anyone besides Daryl Hall singing this, exactly as he sang it on this particular day?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoe cocked his ear. Daryl Hall responded with a long, elegant riff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI jabbed my finger in the air, tracing the melody. “See? The most beautiful part of the verse is just him riffing. A great song—and I’m talking about the pop-rock world here, obviously—can be improved by riffing, or ruined by riffing. But it cannot rely on riffing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoe didn’t look smug or bored, which were the reactions these kinds of tangents had historically won me. He didn’t give me a lecture about relativism while air-quoting the phrase “good music.” He just lifted his bottle of Budweiser, paused it at his lips, and took a drink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe tall guy beside us smacked his shoulder and Joe’s eyes lit up with recognition, so it seemed we were done. But before I could leave, he turned back. “What’s your name again?” He squinted at me rather severely, like I was a splinter he was trying to tweeze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Percy,” I said. “Bye.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI walked back to the booth where my roommate and her boyfriend were planning a party I didn’t want to have. “Finally,” Megan said as I scooted in across from them on the honey wood bench. “Do you think one of those jugs of SKYY is enough? Plus mixers and a keg?” She showed me a Post-it inserted into her day planner. “That would be fifty each. Unless the mixer is Red Bull.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMegan was an art history major but seemed happiest when doing simple math. I tolerated her orderliness by indulging in small acts of rebellion: unscrewed toothpaste lids, late phone bill payments—all calibrated to satisfy an inner urge for chaos without disrupting our friendship, which was important to me if only for its rarity, like an ugly diamond.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I told Trent what we discussed about not inviting the whole world,” she said as she took a sip of her cosmopolitan, casting a significant look at the boyfriend. Poor Trent. I had expected them to be broken up by now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Is Joey Morrow coming?” Trent said to me, with one eye on Megan. When I shrugged, he pushed: “You were talking to him at the bar, right? He’s in my econ.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMegan twisted to peer out of the booth. “Oh, him—Joey and Zoe who both like Bowie. Yeah, they’re cool.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI knew this, that he had a girlfriend. I watched him across the bar and thought of a rom-com I’d seen at an unfortunately impressionable age in which a man says, gazing longingly at the female lead, “A girl like that is born with a boyfriend.” With Joe it wasn’t the flawless jawline, the arching eyebrows over wide-set eyes—those were offset, in the equation of attractiveness I had learned from these same movies, by the hooked nose and gapped teeth, the too-square shoulders atop a gangly-tall body. But the way he held those angular limbs, as if this jerking energy was the obvious way to make them work. The way he smiled so easily, and frowned so easily, tortured by a blue-eyed soul song. A boy like that is born with a girlfriend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Amoeba warning,” Megan muttered, her eyes darting over my shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI felt a rush of fight-or-flight but didn’t turn around. I knew she was referring to staff members of Amoeba Music, the legendary Berkeley record store where I’d worked sophomore year before switching to its inferior cousin, Rasputin Music, just up the street. Amoeba had been a hellscape of pretentious snobs and one thoroughly horrifying sexual encounter; Rasputin had been fine but boring, and nobody ever talked about the actual songs there either. Now I waitressed at a diner for twice the money and felt lucky to be free of the lot of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just the undergrads,” Megan updated. “The guy with the muttonchops and two others. No Neil.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course. Neil would never come to a bar like this, blocks from campus, famous for accepting even the worst fake IDs. My adrenaline eased.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Should you invite them to the party?” she asked, nostrils flaring. “You have two seconds to decide.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis stumped me—I hated them, but I could talk to them. “Okay!” I yelped, just in time for the Amoebans to pass by our booth without so much as a nod, let alone a conversation. Trent whistled a low tone that could be interpreted as either pity or mockery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI recognized all three from behind. We hadn’t been close as coworkers; they had been too focused on proving themselves to the elder statesmen of the staff, the ones with hard drug experience and complicated living situations in Oakland. There was also an incident in which the muttonchops guy had made fun of me for not knowing the Brian Jonestown Massacre and I’d responded by accusing him of being “all breadth, no depth,” a view I still held: music was a collector’s habit to those guys, a sprawl of knowledge more than a well of joy. But still. A hello would’ve been called for.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMegan caught my eye, communicating sympathy with her face. I sent back gratitude. “Let’s just get Red Bull for ourselves,” I said, and she beamed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTrent began dropping hints that the two of them should go back to his apartment, even though it was only ten and our names were on the list to play shuffleboard. At least I’d gotten out for a bit, I figured. At least I wouldn’t have to keep discussing the relative merits of vodka mixers. He slid me his half-finished pint before following Megan out of the booth. It was the kind of beer that tasted like rubber bands but I drank it anyway, urgently, aware of the clock ticking on how long a girl could be alone in a bar before she became monstrously conspicuous. I feigned interest in a stained-glass lampshade hanging low over the booth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Name a song that’s both.”National Bestseller","brand":"Crown","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233078948069,"sku":"NP9780593799109","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593799109.jpg?v=1767724945","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/deep-cuts-isbn-9780593799109","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}