The best novel yet from award-winning, Booker Prize-shortlisted Magnus Mills--a hilarious and surreal exploration of power, fanaticism, and really, really good records. I remained convinced that my original theory was correct: there were some records that were never heard on planet Earth unless I (or James) happened to be playing them. Two men with a passion for vinyl create a society for the appreciation of records. Their aim is simple: to elevate the art of listening by doing so in forensic detail. The society enjoys moderate success in the back room of their local pub, The Half Moon, with other enthusiasts drawn to the initial promise of the weekly gathering. However, as the club gains popularity, its founders' uncompromising dogma results in a schism--and soon a counter group forms. Then the arrival of a young woman called Alice further fractures the unity of the vulnerable society. As rifts are forged and gulfs widen, Magnus Mills, the master of comic deadpan, humorously examines the surreal nature of ordinary lives.
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Mills uses his blokes in the back of a pub to tell a massively ambitious story . A story that could be read as a disguised retelling of the Russian revolution, or the Reformation, or the Sunni-Shia schism, or any great human falling out. As soon as you form any kind of "us", Mills suggests, a "them" will form in response. In this, The Forensic Records Society is like Animal Farm but with blokes for pigs, and much better songs Guardian