I read Sammy Hagar’s memoir, Red, on the plane rides to Tallahassee and back. I love Van Halen so much that I couldn’t wait to read it. I would have paid $50 for the book. Tell you the truth — it wasn’t even that good. But it didn’t have to be. I was hoping for good, but I accept trashy just as well. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks: Trashy rock memoirs like The Heroin Diaries are the male answer to Fabio-romance novels. Pure, wonderful guilty pleasures.
Agree? Disagree? Have a book about rock & roll you want to recommend to me? I am all ears.