Product Description

Is it possible to share your life with someone whose record collection is incompatible with your own? Can people have terrible taste and still be worth knowing? Do songs about broken hearts and misery and loneliness mess up your life if consumed in excess?

For Rob Fleming, thirty-five years old, a pop addict and owner of a failing record shop, these are the sort of questions that need an answer, and soon. His girlfriend has just left him. Can he really go on living in a poky flat surrounded by vinyl and CDs or should he get a real home, a real family and a real job? Perhaps most difficult of all, will he ever be able to stop thinking about life in terms of the All Time Top Five bands, books, films, songs - even now that he's been dumped again, the top five break-ups?

Memorable, sad and very, very funny, this is the truest book you will ever read about the things that really matter.

Product Details

• Amazon Sales Rank: #5645 in Books
• Published on: 2000-10-05
• Binding: Paperback
• 256 pages

From Amazon.co.uk
It has been said often enough that baby boomers are a television generation, but High Fidelity reminds that in a way they are the record-album generation as well. This hilarious novel is obsessed with music; Hornby's narrator is an early thirtysomething bloke who runs a London record store. He sells albums recorded the old-fashioned way--on vinyl--and is having a tough time making other transitions as well, specifically to adulthood. The book is in one sense a love story, both sweet and interesting; most entertaining, though, are the hilarious arguments over arcane matters of pop music. --Christine Buttery

Amazon.co.uk Review
It has been said often enough that baby boomers are a television generation, but High Fidelity reminds that in a way they are the record-album generation as well. This hilarious novel is obsessed with music; Hornby's narrator is an early thirtysomething bloke who runs a London record store. He sells albums recorded the old-fashioned way--on vinyl--and is having a tough time making other transitions as well, specifically to adulthood. The book is in one sense a love story, both sweet and interesting; most entertaining, though, are the hilarious arguments over arcane matters of pop music. --Christine Buttery

Synopsis
Nick Hornby's first novel, an international bestseller and instantly recognized by critics and readers alike as a classic, helps to explain men to women, and men to men. Rob is good on music: he owns a small record shop and has strong views on what's decent and what isn't. But he's much less good on relationships. In fact, he's not at all sure that he wants to commit himself to anyone. So it's hardly surprising that his girlfriend decides that enough is enough.

Customer Reviews

Laugh out loud
I really enjoyed this book. It's quite tragic but funny at the same time. Typical British humour. I couldn't put it down.

If you regularly re-organise your music collection, you'll identify with this novel
Yes, I'm willing to own up - I was once a female equivalent of Rob, well at least the side of our hero who constantly makes top 5 lists and reorganises their record collection regularly.
Anyone with slight librarianish tendencies will love the comedy in this novel in which the stories of Rob's relationships with the fairer sex are told through his record collection. Rob is no new man, which has led many women to criticize the book, but he's also too intelligent to be just a lad. I loved this novel so much I even bought some of the records mentioned!

Still very faithful
I read this a couple of times about ten years ago, and it immediately became one of my favourite books: I recall that sharp pang of identification as Rob, the narrator, described his relationships, family and (especially) music. The latter is the thing that stayed with me the longest - indeed, at times it seemed like it was almost a licence for my own feelings about songs, records, films and - let's face it - snobbery.

Rob, Dick and Barry (the latter forever identified in my mind with Jack Black in the film of the novel) don't have opinions, they have lists, and they fight over tiny details in a way that seems unbelievable until you recognise those traits in yourself. The way in which Rob is gradually rescued from this emotional desert by the love of a good woman is heartwarming, and contains some hilarious moments - for example, he's aghast when she says that she sings along with the chorus of "Hi Ho Silver Lining", or goes "Woooh!" at the end of "Brown Sugar" ("there's no greater crime than that, as far as you're concerned, is there?"), or thinks that "Bright Eyes" is different from "Got To Get You Off My Mind" because one song is about rabbits and the other features "a brass band" ("A brass band! A brass band! It's a *horn section*!")

Re-reading it (as light relief in the midst of a much heavier book) after all these years, I enjoyed it all over again. It's Hornby's attention to detail that really makes this work: of course, there's the casual tossing of the names of bands and records into the narrative in a way that expects the reader to understand the references (and the frisson of excitement that's generated when you do), but there's also the way he precisely evokes memories of a time and place just by mentioning the names of defunct stores ("a VG supermarket", "Harlequin Records").

I'd forgotten, however, just how immature Rob was (there's a telling conversation he has on the way to a funeral which displays a breathtaking degree of self-centredness), and some of the technical detail has dated (I imagine that new readers from the download age can't understand why anyone should have so many CDs and records cluttering up their living space), but it's still a brilliant book, and an indirect warning about the dangers of valuing things over people. Or writing about things too much. Like this, for example.