Melding food and Fenders, authors Kay Bozich Owens and Lynn Owens share a collection of their favorite bands’ recipes in their book, Lost in the Supermarket, investigating what bands eat and why. The concept is irresistible to those who feel as passionate about food as they do about music. After all, touring bands are privy to a nomadic lifestyle that grants the opportunity to see and experience local cuisine in parts of the world that many of us never will. Unfortunately, though the book mimics a cookbook in format, it falls short by relying heavily on the prestige of featured bands instead of serving as a culinary guide.

The book has an impressive line-up of notable bands — Sonic Youth, Animal Collective, Genesis P-Orridge, and Belle and Sebastian — making it a natural draw for any music fan. And though there is no claim of idol worship, the book’s organization clearly prioritizes a band’s reputation over culinary merit. The problem with this approach for a cookbook is that not all musicians are epicureans, or necessarily have a special relationship with food. For every Amy Sedaris who can bake a dozen outstanding cupcakes, there’s a Britney Spears Cheetos Chicken Casserole to harshly remind us that cooking is not what makes these people famous, it’s their ability to entertain.

In this day and age, when both bands and cooking are the basis of hip, exclusive coteries, an indie rock cookbook seems like a hushed invitation into the intimate off-hours in a band’s life; the same intrigue that helped foster the popularity of MTV Cribs. The difference between Cribs and Lost in the Supermarket is that voyeurism may be suitable for an hour of cable television, but not when investing in an $18 cookbook. Mainly, the Owenses do not convince the reader why she should try or even care about these recipes.

The idea of a food and music book suggests an untapped resource in food anthropology, or at least the possibility of an anthology of home recipes and the importance it holds in the contributors’ lives, neither of which is accomplished. The kitchen advice dispensed by these bands is not expected to be at the same level as the culinary masters, which is why context and substance should be the focal point of the book. Instead, recipes often focus on the history of the band as opposed to their connection with the food, including a few snarky submissions, like Xiu Xiu’s “Tofu”: a self-explanatory wash-and-eat recipe without any direct commentary from the band; and Japanther’s “Ultra Healthy Hot Dog”: a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

This isn’t to say that all of the recipes sound unappealing or have an ironic tone. Brian Viglione from the Dresden Dolls offers a home recipe for pasta sauce and an anecdote about its history within his family, while the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players share a “Good Morning Bread” recipe and a description of life in New York’s East Village — the type of intriguing entries that would have been an excellent focus for the cookbook.

Trying to cram too many good ideas into one book, or possibly facing a lack of compliance or interest on behalf of the bands, the Owens’ project leaves much to be desired. Perhaps there are musicians who are good cooks or have a special relationship with food, but the Owenses had obvious difficulty finding them. And while many of these bands might be lost in the supermarket when it comes to cooking, the point of a cookbook is to make sure the reader isn’t.