Robert Greenfield

Ever since the days of such musical artists as Cole Porter and Hoagy Carmichael, there have been a plethora of very fine American songwriters, and of course everyone has their favorites. But in my lifetime, the two giants, who have truly delighted me and enriched the soundtrack of my life, have been Burt Bacharach (and his lyricist, Hal David) and Jimmy Webb, the greatest of them all. (I consider Bob Dylan a poet, more than a songwriter.) From my adolescence, when Bacharach was just getting his start with such singers as the great Dionne Warwick, his music has been a constant joy. I admired him.

Until I read this book. His music will always soar, somewhere in the more shallow recesses of my heart, and still occupy a large part of my personal "playlist." But Bacharach the man, as described in this autobiography, is a scoundrel, an egomaniac, and a roué. It is not for me to list his shortcomings; he does that quite well himself, although he seems to view them as strengths. Even in the face of a personal tragedy which I will not describe, Bacharach was primarily devoted to sexual conquests and personal disloyalties. This book is testament to the sad fact that even the most talented people can be utterly wretched human beings. Hence, my rating.

Not recommended.… (more)

Before adding this autobiography, told chronologically through the unusual method of discrete quotes from the subject and the people in his life (including co-author Robert Greenfield), to my GR to-read shelf, I had heard the name of Bill Graham but had never known what this remarkable man looked like. A grandson of Russian Jews born in Germany during the rise of Nazism, Graham's story is quintessential immigrant comes to USA and makes good. For any fan of rock and roll, this is essential reading about one of its greatest promoters ever.… (more)

If you're looking for a good read about sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll, you'll get a lot of drugs, a little sex, and a hint of rock in this account of the Rolling Stones' sordid summer in France which eventuated in the eponymous album the next year. The book contains very little emphasis on music save for a coda which digests various critical reactions to the album over the years, together with an update on the fates of the dramatis personae, as well as a meditation on the state of the band at the dawn of this century. To me, this was by far the best part of the book. The main thrust of it is almost entirely populated by an unending series of pushers, drug buddies, petty thieves, and mules who are a little hard to keep straight or care much about and is marred, as is much of the book, by its supercilious author trashing every book about the Stones except his and Marianne Faithfull's and decrying the inconsistency of critical appreciation of the record through the years, though it must be said that said appreciations are indeed annoyingly muddled and inconsistent.… (more)