Reviews for The neon rain

The average rating for The neon rain based on 2 reviews is 4 stars.

Review # 1 was written on 2019-09-28 00:00:00 Richard Glenister The Neon Rain by James Lee Burke is a 2010 Pocket Books publication. (Originally published in 1987) I suppose it should be downright criminal that I have yet to read one book in this long running, highly respected series, until now. But there is no time like the present, better late than never and that jazz- Lieutenant Dave Robicheaux discovers the body of a young black woman floating in the water while he is out fishing. His investigation into her death exposes layers upon layers of criminal activity and corruption. It also sends Dave down a dark descent where his own personal demons reside. The deeper he digs, the more trouble he finds, until finally he's suspended from the force. This doesn't stop him from going rogue, on a vigilante style mission all on his own… After hearing so many people gush over this series, I felt I owed it to myself to see what all the fuss was about. But when I saw how many books were in the series, initially I balked at having to comb through twenty-two installments to get caught up. It wasn't just the sheer volume of books, it was the daunting task of locating books that were going on thirty years of age. Sometimes that can be a little tricky and expensive. However, there are occasions where one doesn't necessarily have to read a series in strict chronological order, so I fished around trying to see if maybe I could cheat and start with some of the more recent volumes. However, the advice I got was to start at the beginning and read the first three or four books at least, before skipping around. Fortunately, I found a copy of this first chapter in the series on Scribd. I wasn't entirely sure what to expect, but I admit I was taken aback a bit by how gritty the story was and by how over the top the violence was. The language is also a little rough, and by that, I mean the racial epithets casually tossed about. However, the behavior is most likely spot-on for the time period and certain other circumstances. The plot is a dated, but in the late eighties, arms dealing was a hot topic indeed. There is a side thread involving the mob, as well, but it was tidied up a bit too conveniently, in my opinion. This series seems to have a loyal female following, and the ladies all seem to have a little crush on ole Dave. Now I think I understand why. He's just the right amount of flawed, vulnerable, tough, honorable, and noble to make a girl what to take care of him. However, my thoughts are a little scattered about this book. The book isn't all that long and there is so much going on, I didn't feel like everything came together as fluidly as it should have. Where the book excels is the character study of Dave, and in the amazing descriptions of the Louisiana scenery and backdrop. I loved the dialect, which I'm moderately familiar with, having relatives speak with that thick Cajun accent, for lack of a better term, while growing up. The cadence seems odd, and many would have a very hard time understanding it, because it's almost like a foreign language. But I loved it, all the same. Although this story was a bumpy ride for me, I'm glad I took the advice of the GR's community and started with the first book so I can watch the characters and plots develop as the series progresses- and I will definitely be back to check in on Dave again sometime soon!! 3.5 rounded up

Review # 2 was written on 2012-07-21 00:00:00 Lena Shasky This is a revised review as of 4/14/2013 with some images to add flavor. It's like a lot of detective novels set in the 1980s except the real standouts are the fact that it's New Orleans and the author gets that particular sub culture. Burke has an elegant prose and his main character, David Robicheaux, is engaging. Robicheaux is a 50-something hard boiled detective who survived the Vietnam War yet is still haunted by it and thus turns to drinking (though it becomes evident later he was drinking before he went to war). He has since joined the police force as a detective and has a corrupt partner named Cletus who seems to have the best, crude lines. In this first novel Robicheaux gets caught up in the death of a black prostitute who everybody else seems to want to write off yet Robicheaux feels strangely compelled to poke his nose into things which leads to resistance not only from the mob but his own allies the police. The tale was certainly very good to great in overall quality and most of the characters are believable to compelling. Word on the street is that the series gets better in time and that's a real good sign as this was a solid and enjoyable book. Veterans of this genre will be more critical, I suspect. This is one of those rare instances in which I checked out the series after seeing the movie. I would present that the real strengths of this tale (other than it being a solid mystery) are its usual focuses upon the bayou, New Orleans (NOLA) and DR's alcoholism for a dark tragedy comes down upon him and he finds himself drinking that "golden fire" once more (he alludes to drinking before the series started and having an alcoholic father). Rarely have I read something that has made me understand the addictions of alcohol and how hard it is to shake off. But even all those reading pleasures are a still a notch down from the character of New Orleans/The Bayou with its balmy heat waves, summer rains, Poorboy sandwiches, evening skies that are the color of torn plums, cicadas in the purple haze, fireflies lighting up the trees, and, of course, the charm of not just New Orleans but its French Quarter. That makes it a pleasure to read and bumps up the overall quality of the novel. I look forward to reading the next one. Here are few excerpts from the novel: p. 1 The evening sky was streaked with purple, the color of torn plums, and a light rain had started to fall when I came to the end of the blacktop road that cut through twenty miles of thick, almost impenetrable scrub oak and pine and stopped at the front gate of Angola penitentiary. p. 49 "Oh, my, you shouldn't have done that," the man in the raincoat said. Erik grabbed my hair and slammed my head against the side of the tub. I kicked at all of them blindly, but my feet struck at empty air. Then Bobby Joe locked his powerful arms around my neck and took me over the rim again, his body trembling rigidly with a cruel and murderous energy, and I knew that all my past fears of being shotgunned by a psychotic , of being shanked by an addict, of stepping on a Claymore mine in Vietnam, were just the foolish preoccupation of youth; that my real nemesis had always been a redneck lover who would hold me upside down against his chest while my soul slipped through a green, watery porcelain hole in the earth, down through the depths of the Mekong River, where floated the bodies of other fatigue-clad men and whole families of civilians, their faces still filled with disbelief and the shock of an artillery burst, and farther still to the mossy base of an offshore oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, where my father waited for me in his hardhat, coveralls, and steel-tipped drilling boots after having drowned there twenty years ago. p. 80 "Why are you so obnoxious, Motley?" Clete said. "Is it because you're fat and ugly, or is it because you're fat and dumb? It's a mystery to us all." p. 121 I slept through the rest of the afternoon and woke in the cooling dusk when the cicadas were loud in the purple haze and the fireflies were lighting in the trees. I showered and felt some of the misery begin to go out of my mind and body, then I took a taxi to the Hertz agency and rented a small Ford. Because most of the Quarter was closed to automobile traffic at night, I parked the car near the French Market, by the river, and walked back to Bourbon. The street was loud with music from the bars and strip houses, and the sidewalks were filled with tourists, drunks, and street people who were trying to hold on to their last little piece of American geography. My favorite bunch of hustlers and scam artists, the black sidewalk tap dancers, were out in force. They wore enormous iron taps that clipped onto their shoes, and when they danced to the music from the bars, their feet rang on the concrete like horseshoes. A tap dancer would stop a tourist, rivet him in the eyes, and say, "I bet you a half-dollar I can tell you where you got yo' shoes." If the tourist accepted the wager, the dancer would then say, "You got yo' shoes on yo' feet, and yo' feet is on Bourbon Street. You ain't the kind, now, to back out on yo' bet, is you?" STORY/PACING: B plus to A minus; DIALOGUE/CHARACTERS: B plus; SETTING: A minus; WHEN READ: December to January 2010 (revised review 4/14/2013); MY GRADE: B plus to A minus.