We Sold our Souls by Grady Hendrix

I am vaguely disappoint. I was kinda hoping for a more Horror-inflected take on This Is Spinal Tap (add your own fucking umlaut, there) but instead it's as though Hendrix has read Martin's The Armageddon Rag and decided that if Martin can write a novel about mediocre hippie music saving the world, he can write a novel about mediocre metal saving the world. The novel is not improved by Hendrix's attempts to write lyrics, nor by his decision to repeat them. Maybe someone who liked crappy metal more than I do would dig this novel more than I do, but it never really feels witty or self-aware--or even arch--the way Hendrix's better novels do.