Ian Hunter : Diary Of A Rock’n’Roll Star

Autobios don’t come more unpretentious than ”Diary Of A Rock’n’Roll Star”, Hunter’s reflections on a Mott The Hoople US Tour late in 1972. ”All The Young Dudes” was a radio hit, and the Brits were kinda hot, so off they went to the promised land. With his dry British wit Hunter tells us of the hardworking and not that glamorous aspect of a touring band with endless flights, shows, bad soundchecks, crazed promoters, hotels, weirdo fans, empty American culture, homesickness, and the search for cheap vintage guitars (he bought his signature maltese cross shaped guitar on the tour). He also encounter his friends Bowie and Keith Moon, and Frank Zappa, who didn't impress him at all. There aren't any wild tales of orgies, death, violence, or drugs - only beer, wine, some downers (mandrax or 'mandies'), and a fight or two. Some say this acclaimed book inspired the Spinal Tap movie, dunno about that. Anyway, it's highly recommended reading for people looking for a realistic account of what it was like being in a successful rock band in the 70’s.

Jens

Björn Türoque – To Air Is Human
One Man’s Quest to Become the World’s Greatest Air Guitarist
(Riverhead Books)

If writing a book about air guitar is something of an empty gesture – pardon the pun – how meta-irrelevant is reviewing a book about air guitar? How can you top that? Write angry letters to criticize my review? On the surface, this is pretty far removed from anything rock’n’roll, but then, of course, air guitaring is such an inherent part of rock appreciation, eventually someone had to write a book about the philosophy lying behind the practice (something about securing world peace through making a fool of yourself in front of everyone else), the whole concept of “airness”.

Reading this book, I started noticing how often I play air guitar, something which I’d have forsworn I’d ever do. But whenever I put on some epic death metal with harmonic twin leads, I’m there, my arms doing weird things of their own will in front of me. I was absolutely crap at playing real guitar, and I don’t know how my ratings as an air guitarist would be, but I know there’s a place I can go find out: Oulu in Finland, host city of the Air Guitar World Championships. Where else? Somewhere else in Finland, probably, but definitely in Finland.

This is a funny book, especially if you’re one of those people like me who can’t get enough of sly, ironic, witty, semi-autobiographical books about music fans’ quest to understand why they do this and dig this. Chuck Klosterman did this, Seb Hunter did this, and I slobbered it up. To some extent, I suppose you could call it socio-anthropological studies of a kind, but you know it’s not: It’s trash, basically, but it’s fun trash, and your girlfriend gets to read Marian Keyes as well, so there. Actually, having read this book is a great thing for me in my day job as a bookseller, since by now, whenever a girl makes excuses for reading chick lit, I can assure her that, “well, I just read a book about air guitar, you know.” I have no idea why I still consider myself an intellectual, but then, even Dan Crane, the man inside Björn Türoque (pronounce that like a stupid yankee: “born to rock”), peppers his book with Nietzsche-quotes and makes his case for finding out why air guitar would be important, or even worth the while.

Obviously, it’s not, which would make this book as relevant as a book about masturbation (unless the masturbator in case is a hot, freshblooded, emancipated woman on pay-pre-view TV), which, of course, air guitar is, in a way. But it’s also something a lot of us spend a lot of our best time doing, and, as a bonus, it’s related to rock’n’roll, which goes a long way to make this appeal to me.

This won’t make you look smart, you’re not gonna impress anyone with having read it, and it won’t leave a lasting impression in your heart, but you’ll be properly entertained for the time it takes you to chew yourself through it. Beats TV, anyway (unless it’s the kind of TV mentioned above).

Jon A

Available from Politikens Boghal.