Review Revisited: CHICK BASSIST by Ross Lockhart

Editor’s Note: WE ARE IN THE HOME STRETCH for our awesome Kickstarter! While we steam ahead to the final push, we’re going to repost reviews of our awesome slate of authors in case you missed it the first time, and encourage you to drop your contribution into the Kickstarter Bucket!


Ross Lockhart is one of the exciting authors involved in our first anthology, THE WAY OF THE LASER: FUTURE CRIME STORIES and most people who only know him as a prominent editor of award-winning press, WordHorde,  and many renowned anthologies, but he also cut his teeth and proved himself as an author with his gritty, and powerful book from the lost, lamented Lazy Fascist PressChick Bassist.

Rock and roll is a gritty, hazy dreamland. Erin Locke rides through the ruins of the dreams, in the dissolution of one band, she journeys north to join another. Her peripatetic journey forms one line of vignettes exploring the dark side of the dream of fame, on her road to stardom. In another line, one of her former bandmates, a violent lost soul, falls in with a new female lead, a transgender performer that challenges his preconceptions about love and lust and rock and truth. He falls under her musical spell, lust and love wrapped up into the dream of rock.

It’s the kind of book you want people to read before they even think about forming a rock band, taking the stage. The dream of excess is never as beautiful in the daylight, and the work and dedication and sacrifice is incredible. Erin’s going on to rock and roll greatness, no doubt, but she has to crawl over pavement to get there.

I have no doubt Ross Lockhart’s vision as an author will do the same in our new anthology: crawl over the pavement to get to greatness.


Here’s what the cover says:

Erin Locke, the Queen of Rock, wakes up at the crack of noon.

“La Cucaracha” has infested her dream, and now echoes through her hotel room. “What the fuck is that?” Erin’s voice is muffled by the thick blankets that completely cover her. Beside the lump that is Erin lies a black Ibanez bass guitar. A Heroes for Goats sticker adorns its reflective surface. Erin thrusts one arm out from beneath the blankets and fumbles for the nonexistent alarm clock. She’s still slogging off fragments of her dream, that goddamn recurrent creep-out where she’s a praying mantis, translucent green, perched on the crest of a burning city, devouring her still-copulating preymate. This time her meal had worn her father’s face. Those dreams were the worst.

Chick Bassist welcomes you into punk rock hell, the friendless disillusionment of waking up in a shitty motel room in California with half a joint and an empty six-pack, radio blaring Lou Reed, concrete ocean on all sides and a blazing inferno within.


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