The Composer May Be Dead, but the Book Lives On

I realize I'm a bit behind here since The Composer Is Dead was published in 2009, but it's never too late to review a book if it is still in print, whether it was published last month, last year, or in the last century.  

I can happily recommend this one. I quite enjoyed this offering from Lemony Snicket. I never went to and I regret it. But life is full of regrets, and I'm still much better off than the composer in the story, who after all, is already dead on the first page. But it's not like I'm spoiling anything. I mean it's right in the title, so you can't say you weren't warned.

Snicket's playfulness with words is one of his great strengths. And this book provides some wonderful examples of that. After it is established that the composer is indeed no longer among the living, Snicket writes that he is decomposing (the composer, not Snicket). And my favorite play on words happens when the inspector is interrogating the percussion instruments who answer: "We drummed. We percussed. We employed xylophoniness and cymbalism."

In the tradition of Peter and the Wolf—but done in a much funnier way—Snicket introduces the instruments in an orchestra and reveals aspects of their personalities, such as explaining that Second Violins are more fun at parties than are First Violins. Which is funny because everyone knows is true. I did think that the bitter victim-like behavior assigned to the violas was unjustified, however. That's just stereotyping pure and simple.

The inspector is not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. Once he decided who the murderer was, he didn't even bother to question him. There was absolutely not a shred of evidence pointing at the conductor. One wonders what sort of training this so-called inspector had if indeed he had any at all. It's never mentioned in the book if he was part of the local  police force or a private detective. He wore no uniform, and his clothes were unlike anything worn in the last century. Probably someone's eccentric brother needed a job. Nepotism is alive and well, my friend.

The ending will disappoint those who purchased this book in hopes of hunkering down to read a good murder mystery. There's little in the way of intrigue, and there wasn't even a red herring.

However, if you are a fan of words put together in an interesting and amusing way and mildly drawn to orchestral music, this may be just the ticket.

(But don't actually try to use the book as a ticket to gain admission to a symphony because the ticket taker will look at you as if she has no idea what you're doing and the manager that she calls over will not have the slightest sense of humor about the whole thing.)