The success of Keith Richards’ tell-all has spawned a mother-load of other snaggletooth musician’s memoirs. At least that’s how we see it.
Or maybe they’re all fearing that time isn’t on their sides anymore, and they better find a co-ghost-writer fast before they become spirits in the night themselves.
This fall, book chains are going to be filling their display windows—the ones that remain—with sex-drugs-rock-and-roll-and-recovery tomes written by the likes of Neil Young (“Waging Heavy Peace”), Pete Townsend (“Who I Am”), and Courtney Love (an untitled memoir). “The Lennon Letters,” by the late Beatle, is also a rap. (Mick Jagger has said he’ll never put it all down to writing, even after being bitch-slapped through the mud by Richards in “Life.” Smart dude, and he does not need the money.)
We spent far too much time listening to Courtney Love ramble, mumble, snort, and prattle on in telephone conversations to care anymore—although there’s going to be weeks of Page Six fodder there when it comes to her anecdotes and opinions about Dave Grohl and her daughter Frances Bean, who doesn’t speak to her anymore.
The one we’ll buy is Pete Townsend’s, simply to see if he’s going to get into who he “really is,” and discuss those child porn charges some time back, or “come out” with it all. Being Freddie Mercury (soon to be portrayed in a bio-pic by Mister Borat himself, a stroke of genius casting) is one thing, but being a member of The Who, and potentially being light in the Clark’s desert boots has got to be a challenge. You better, you better, bet on it.
