Peter Ames Carlin's Bruce is a panoramic account of the life of the intensely gifted artist and charismatic performer Bruce Springsteen that takes readers on a rambling road trip, beginning with the musician's unremarkable childhood in Freehold, N.J., and passing through the many fits and starts, which were frequently mirrored in his personal life, up the hill to superstardom.

The often balladic tales surrounding the history of the legendary E Street Band are included with a perfect balance of fact and flourish. Carlin notes that some of the stories--such as the dramatic account of the late Clarence Clemons's arrival--seem somewhat far-fetched, but serve to underscore the almost spiritual transition from dissonance to harmony achieved in the band's coming together. That harmony was not constant, however, and Carlin draws heavily on exclusive interviews with Springsteen and his band members, who speak candidly about the strain caused by their break with Springsteen in 1989 and their subsequent reunion nearly a decade later.

Carlin's painstaking research into Springsteen's life and career is so vividly detailed that if the reader listens closely, he can almost hear the music pouring out of every page. Carlin shows us how, for more than 40 years, Springsteen's brilliant lyrics have not only told the story of his life, but also marked the time in American culture. Such depth and reverence for his subject matter make this earnest profile a must read. --Sarah Borders, librarian at Houston Public Library

Richard Russo's memoir, Elsewhere, is pretty much populated by one person, his mom. This "stylish woman" was difficult, demanding and complaining, but she loved her "Ricko-Mio" and he loved her. This is more her story than Russo's. And more than anything else, it's a love story.

Russo grew up with his mom in the upstate New York mill town of Gloversville; his divorced dad wasn't around much. When it was time to go to college in Tucson, Ariz., he wanted to buy a car, which was fine with her, "because she was coming with me"--she considered the two of them "one entity." And so the pattern begins: every time Russo moves, mom moves too, and there's always something wrong with her apartment. She complains, is disappointed, frustrated. It's hard to love a mom who is a constant source of pain. They were never really here, or there; they were always elsewhere.

Eventually, Russo was able to turn his mother's obsessions "to his advantage." Writing novels is "a line of work that suited my temperament and played to my strengths," especially obstinacy. When his own daughter is diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder, Russo has his epiphany: Mom had suffered with it for years. (Why hadn't he realized it?) One might wish for more about Russo and his books and characters and his writing process, but this poignant, beautifully told tale of small town life, love and sorrow is one he had to write. We can hope for more later. --Tom Lavoie, former publisher

Like most people, when poets get older their thoughts often turn to death, dying and the past. C.K. Williams is no exception, as the title of Writers Writing Dying indicates. Since the publication of his first collection of poems in 1968, he has had a long and distinguished career, winning the Pulitzer and National Book Award, and continues to excel well into his late 70s.

He's a political poet, an emotional one too: "Are there songs of the soul yet unsung to calm our doubt and despair?" Or, "it can seem only the torturers and tyrants, the venal demagogues and the/ qualmless deceivers,/ stand firm gazing out over the hapless rest of us to decide which will be next... which flash and which yearning will be dragged down and submerged in their political puke." (The long line has always been a stylistic feature of his poetry.)

In "Newark Noir," he writes about the "finally hardly recognizable city; storms of dereliction, of evasion, had all but swept it away." The mood tends to be somber, sad, throughout. In "Cancer," he refers to himself as a "shivering sack of / blood to be spilled," fear "scaling the ice-rungs of my spine." But Williams won't be going gently into a good night anytime soon; he'll be railing and fighting. In his own words: "Keep dying! Keep writing it down!" --Tom Lavoie, former publisher

Marcus Wicker is part of the newest generation of African American poets; his debut collection, Maybe the Saddest Thing, was published as part of the prestigious National Poetry Series. The apt description of the collection by D.A. Powell, the selecting judge, echoes the poems themselves: "Action painting meets the pop of hip-hop. Here is a dashing figure of speech and preach, a lovepoet to the stars... lyric wizardry astound the ears."

Riff, pop, hip-hop, preach, lyric: Wicker's is a new poetry for the 21st century. A glance at the titles reveals some of the key figures who are part of his world and his poetry: Richard Pryor, Pam Grier, Bruce Leroy, Dave Chappelle, J-Live. RuPaul is "fierce / in the way only a 6'7" black drag queen could be." At times, he addresses these icons directly: "[You] were not Public Enemy's sidekick," he tells Flavor Flav. "You hosed down whole crowds / in loudmouth flame-retardant spit."

Wicker's poetry grabs onto the world around him and reels it in, from pop culture and music to harsher realities of drugs and violence. Maybe the Saddest Thing oozes with the poet's love of language and life, all kinds of life. Amidst the sadness are love poems ("Because your mouth/ is the nectar & squish of a peach. Because your lips are the color/ of a flowering quince") and even an aubade: "Could I call this poem an aubade if I wrapped it/ in fragrant tissue paper?" Wicker writes. "Yes. I meant to say/ Write it. And please, don't stop." --Tom Lavoie, former publisher 

Philosopher/humorist Daniel Klein has written about humor (Plato and a Platypus Walk into a Bar) and life and death (Heidegger and a Hippo Walk Through Those Pearly Gates). In Travels with Epicurus, he offers a thoughtful and witty meditation on old age. When Klein's dentist tells him he should choose between extensive dental work or dentures that would greatly affect what he could eat, he says hold on--then goes to the Greek island of Hydra to think it over. He takes us on a journey of this island and its people via his favorite philosophers--Aristotle, Aeschylus, Nietzsche, Sartre, even Frank Sinatra--to explore what it means to be old, to age. At 74, he wants to "figure out the most satisfying way to live this stage of my life."

Klein meets the elderly Tasso, who he watches eating and drinking and conversing with his elderly friends, all of them enjoying themselves. It puts him in mind of Epicurus: "Not what we have, but what we enjoy, constitute our abundance." So Klein enjoys himself as he searches, as he talks to people, eats great food, observes beautiful scenery, smokes and gradually realizes this search for a fulfilling old age is really his way of coming to terms with a genuine death. He's not just a "befuddled old geezer barking at the moon," rather, to quote Cicero: "Old age is the consummation of life." --Tom Lavoie, former publisher

The story of the Handlebar Listening Room, a nightclub in Greenville, S.C., is one of continual hassle, financial risk and a revolving door of musicians, promoters and the businesspeople. John Jeter's Rockin a Hard Place illuminates a time when musicians still primarily made money from record sales, before digital technologies changed both the recording and the promotional industries for good. It's a fascinating historical read with a cast ranging from relatively unknown performers to legendary musicians like Joan Baez, Dar Williams and John Hiatt.

Jeter may have written Rockin' a Hard Place too soon, however. It seems he's still in a hard place; in his self-portrayal, he apparently lacks the experience, business acumen or people skills to succeed as a music promoter. Health issues continually get in the way; over and over again, he suggests that if it weren't for the "other guy," things would have gone swimmingly.

If readers can get past the tone of self-pity, though, they'll find a compelling inside look at the music business from a perspective that's typically overlooked: the venue owner and promoter. Jeter admits to all his mistakes and failures, and is unflinching in his assessment of the Handlebar's long-term viability. Jeter uses his book to redeem himself from the self-pitying tone with a fascinating insider's look at the side of the music business that isn't about the performers or the recording industry. --Rob LeFebvre, freelance writer and editor

This extraordinary memoir offers readers a close-up picture of life in 1970s China.

Called "Da Qin" ("Big Piano"), Na Liu was born near Wuhan, China, in 1973. The book opens as four-year-old Da Qin wakes up next to her younger sister. Thinking she'll be late for school, she grabs a cup, and heads outside to a spigot to brush her teeth. But there is no school today. It is September 6, 1976, and Chairman Mao has died. Unlike many books written by Chinese-born Americans about life under Mao, Na Liu's demonstrates the benefits of the regime to her family, especially to her mother who, paralyzed by polio as a girl, was able to walk again. Andrés Vera Martínez (Babe Ruth), Na Liu's husband, co-author and the artist of the book, uses the graphic novel format to perfection, zeroing in on young Da Qin's face when she sees her parents' sorrow, and conveying the chairman's importance through wide-angle views of Mao's likeness on street murals and banners.

In the last and most moving chapter, "Little White Duck," Da Qin insists on wearing her coat with a velvet white duck to her Baba's rural village. By the close of the book, Da Qin has learned firsthand of the disparities that her mother and father told her about, and gained compassion because of it. Liu and Martínez find the universal moments in the details of an exotic land, inviting readers to see themselves in Da Qin's experiences of friendship, family and country. --Jennifer M. Brown, children's editor, Shelf Awareness

In The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, September made an impulsive and heartfelt decision to remove her own shadow, and it seemed to be a fine reflection on her character and little more. In this sequel, however, Valente forces September to grapple with the consequences of this choice after she finds her way back into Fairyland.

September is one of the best heroines to enter the worlds of fantasy in the last few years, and it is a pleasure to see her return. Though only a year has passed in the real world, life has altered in Fairyland. September's shadow, called Halloween, who also serves as the Hollow Queen, has convinced Fairyland-Below to take back their shadows and thus stop sending their magic Above. September heads Below to try to convince the Hollow Queen to make things the way they used to be, but soon finds it's not as simple as she'd thought to make a change--or even to know if the change is right to make.

Between both books, Valente has created a new world on par with the other fine realms of modern fantasy, and given us an admirable and relatable guide to that world in September. Valente's settings and characters will delight readers, with strong writing that will appeal to adults as much as children, making this an ideal choice for both reading aloud and also under the covers. --Stephanie Anderson, readers' advisor at Darien Library and blogger