Cory

When growing up isn't all it's cracked up to be...

Revisado: 08-04-21

Let me start by stating: I love Juliana Hatfield’s music – her 1993 release “Become What You Are” still makes multiple appearances in the soundtrack of my life. From her humble beginnings with Boston’s jangly Blake Babies through a long and variable solo career, along with other collaborations (like Some Girls), she’s produced an extensive recorded catalog that renders her musical persona difficult to consistently categorize. Her major label presence was brief, but her indie afterlife has afforded her significant creative freedom, and it shows in a diverse – and sometimes uneven – body of work. All this to say: I truly appreciate much of her music and genuinely admire her perseverance.

For all this exposition, “When I Grow Up” has the potential to offer greater personal insight into a somewhat press-shy performer. Which makes it frustrating to discover that, for all her lyrical introspection, Hatfield seems to come up surprisingly short in the self-reflection department. The book alternates between journal-based entries for dates on the first Some Girls tour of the U.S. and some of the more noteworthy periods of her life previous to this. And for large portions of both past and present, she engages in much of the typical artistic self-deprecation and flagellation for her own perceived shortcomings: her singing; her guitar playing; her soloing; her social interactions; her choice of men; her fashion choices; her encounters with the press. In other words, not just a few select critiques of her being, but (to borrow the title of her 1995 solo record) “Only Everything”. Yikes.

And given her openness with the struggles of both depression and anorexia, this hardly seems unusual. Hatfield depicts life on the road as a series of miseries, both great and (mostly) small, that consistently suck the joy out of an already mundane existence. Every motel room is described in the most derisive terms, as though each were specifically created to mock her arrival and torment her existence. She decries the size and imperfections of the modest venues like a tour through purgatory: rider issues, dressing room shortcomings, deficient opening bands who are either too untalented or too slick or too deferential, and fans who are awkward or pushy or gushy or eccentric. Or sometimes all of the above.

It’s this last category where the book presents the greatest challenge to reader/listener enjoyment. Specifically, the relationship between Hatfield and her fans. It might be imagined that her own struggles with mental illness (and an early life marked by anxiety and familial and social challenges) would breed a degree of empathy for those who, like her, often seemed to wrestle on the fringes of stability. Yet she repeatedly chides audiences for their lack of engagement, and derides fans whose mental or social states appear even moderately imbalanced as weird and freakish and scary. The fact that this hypocrisy seems utterly lost in her tellings of various encounters becomes increasingly hard to take. Despite regularly lamenting that her day in the spotlight has passed, she still appears to expect her audience to support her chosen lifestyle/career exclusively on her terms: buy my records and merch; come to my shows; be appreciative, but don’t bother me; and give me a break, because even marginal post-stardom is hard. While she does occasionally offer her sense of how lucky she is to do what she does, it often feels like an afterthought, putting a polish on her well-constructed void of resignation over things not working out exactly as she might have hoped.

In the end, her telling is simultaneously both insightful and sobering. If anyone has glamorized the idea of being a working musician, able to actually sustain a modest living on the indie circuit, Hatfield’s writing shoots holes through the idea, or at least lets out most of the air. At the conclusion of her story, it isn’t even possible to ascertain whether she’s come close to answering: “was it all worth it?” Her sense of what some would consider a dream-come-true (namely, making a living as an original musician) seems mainly to be “it’s-not-so-bad”, with a liberal dash of “it-could-be-worse”.

The production of the audiobook is solid, clear, and well-paced. Ironically, Rebecca Gibel’s excellent narration is one of the most jarring aspects of the experience, though by no fault of hers. Gibel’s voice is crisp, animated, and confident – a sharp contrast to the tone and mood of Hatfield’s writing. This puts the narration dramatically out of step with the subject, though I’m sure finding someone to adequately capture Hatfield’s sense of ennui would be a significant challenge.

Overall, the story is interesting and somewhat detail-oriented, but often in unexpected areas and for the wrong reasons. Insight into the writing and recording process is fairly lacking (aside from an engaging account of the backstory for “My Sister”), while the daily drudgery of life as a past-her-prime (as, I again stress, she repeatedly characterizes herself) working musician is well covered – almost exhaustively. It’s not that her story isn’t worth telling or isn’t interesting, but if you’re looking for a celebration of a truly unique artist's success and talent, there’s little laudatory evidence of that on display. If you’re more inclined towards a case study in the discontent of life along the way, there’s plenty to recommend here. Just be warned that much of Hatfield’s journey can be seemingly summed up in one word: Ugly. With a capital “U”.

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The clearest account of the NXIVM debacle

Revisado: 08-03-21

In a world decades-deep in accounts of self-help programs gone wrong, it’s genuinely surprising to encounter a story in this area with the power to still shock the reader/listener. Such is the case with Toni Natalie’s gripping account of “The Program”. Opening with a torrent of praise from renowned anti-cult activist Rick Ross – a man you might imagine it would be hard to impress on this subject – it becomes clear that Natalie’s story may lack the immediacy of “The Vow” or the poignancy of “Seduced” (both excellent miniseries on NXIVM’s later years), but more than delivers in its comprehensive sprawl, not to mention the sheer tenacity with which she endured the events described.

Natalie’s account of pre-NXIVM Keith Raniere and the gestation of that organization is fascinating. She traces Raniere’s evolution from aspiring charlatan to self-designed business whiz kid to spiritual guru, all the while chronicling his ever-growing strain of sexual sadism and obsessive self-gratification. The numerous lives destroyed, mangled, and/or discarded in his wake are told through the eyes of someone (Natalie) who was not only an eyewitness but also, at turns, a true believer. Unlike other contemporary accounts, she can trace Raniere’s progressive sociopathy and narcissism as a precursor to NXIVM, not just a product of it.

The audiobook unfolds a truly horrific tale of unlimited ambition and increasingly frightening paranoia and persecution of any doubt or dissent within the Raniere orbit. Many truly shocking details are only discussed here for the first time, making this book a must-read for anyone hoping to understand the Raniere-NXIVM phenomenon as a start-to-finish process, rather than just a lesser contextualized snapshot of the later years. The only weakness of the narration comes through the distraction of Natalie’s occasional mispronunciations, which a more rigorous editorial/production process for the audio program would likely have helped to alleviate.

All things considered, however, this is a remarkable account from an extraordinary individual – someone who fell into the void that was Keith Raniere, but still managed to make it out alive.

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OK, OK, we get it... you don't like the Police.

Revisado: 01-15-14

Considering the Police's definitive place in the history of New Wave, it's initially surprising to hear them described as such mediocre, opportunistic, and profoundly flawed human beings. However, as the story unfolds, it becomes obvious that author Campion has a serious axe to grind, as his seemingly comprehensive tome on the band devolves into a feature-length exercise in character assassination, tinged liberally with a not-insignificant helping of judgement and smirk.

Much of the early section of the band's history casts them as ruthless manipulators of the punk movement, a group of schemers masquerading as serious-minded musicians to cash in on whatever trend could be ridden to riches, all the while insulting their audience's intelligence and good will. Campion seizes on the regular instances of disharmony - particularly between Sting and Stewart Copeland - as if this were proof positive that, beneath their marginal talents, this ground-breaking band could be reduced to a bad marriage that stayed together for the sake of kids. The only positive words are effusively heaped on Henri Padovani, the Police's original but fundamentally limited guitar player. Which, I guess, makes Andy Summers the homewrecker.

Of some distraction is the interspersing of New Wave historical information, and even here, the focus is squarely on Miles Copeland (the Police's manager), A&M Records (the Police's original label) and Copeland's Faulty Products / I.R.S. stable of performers (ie. Squeeze). Not only is this shockingly inadequate coverage of New Wave (even as an overview), but these sections veer away from the Police narrative regularly, leaving the listener wondering when the main story will resume.

In the later segments, Sting's solo career is cast as a cold and calculating exploration of jazz/world music and black musicians bordering, it is imagined, on racist exploitation. Too, Copeland's post-Synchronicity adventures are dismissed as desperate grasps at respectability, while Summers drifts aimlessly as an aging relic, lost without the band as his meal ticket.

Fred Berman's narration is clear and straightforward, though on multiple occasions he seems to unconsciously slip into a weak Sting vocal impression (the only character in the story for whom he does this), which at least underscores the prominent role Sting plays in the life and subsequent demise of the band. In being forced to deliver this literary hate-fest, he could probably be excused that one eccentric habit.

In a more honest assessment, I would assume that Campion would ultimately confess that, once upon a time, Sting stole his prom date, Summers wrecked his car, and Copeland shot his dog. Little else could explain this pointlessly negative hatchet job of a history. What could otherwise have been an effective and objective account of the Police's career (and the complicated dynamic between its headstrong members) is reduced to preachy diatribe (the word "petulant" is trotted out with exceeding regularity), which has the listener eventually hoping to quit walking on the moon and instead float out into the serene vacuum of space.

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A study of integrity vs. responsibility

Revisado: 04-28-13

First, let me start by saying I LOVE HEART. Great records, great songs, great performances, and a wide variety of music - what's not to like? The early history of the band is a great story of finding one's way and overcoming adversity (ie. weight, the perceptions of others, etc.) to carve out a truly great body of work. There's also a very clear sense of exactly how the Wilson sisters ultimately came to holding full control of the band, edging out the founders in the process - and that's actually a compelling and rational part of the story, which doesn't leave a sense of false ownership. Really, the band's appeal was always squarely focused on the sisters (for better or worse), not the various other members. Hats off to Howard Leese, quite frankly, for sticking around as long as he did; he clearly contributed significant amounts to Heart's legacy.

As the story makes its way into the 80's, however, the tone changes from empowerment to embellishment. It is awkward to hear a pair of trail-blazers for women in music (a term they are tired of hearing, I'm sure) describe their 80's-era output of music in such calculating terms - that the outside-written songs were terrible, that their outfits were involuntarily foisted on them, that the image and direction of the band was seemingly out of their hands, etc. It would be easier to respect that period of their career if they took responsibility for the choices that characterized it - and make no mistake: these were choices within their power to direct otherwise, and they instead opted to pursue an adulterated image and made-to-order song selections to maintain their profile and popularity in an ever-changing musical landscape. Others have opted to remain absolutely true to their musical integrity, which has led to bands being dropped, independent recording, and overall downsized fame (or even flame-out) and audience base - but I'll bet the audience that stuck around for those bands were the true believers that recognized authenticity and an unwavering sense of purpose.

The Wilsons will unfortunately probably never know how many of their 80s-era fans were fans of them or of the highly processed pop music they were recording at that time. And, again - I love Heart, and I really love a lot of what was on those Capitol albums (Heart, Bad Animals, Brigade, even Desire Walks On), because a great pop song is a great pop song, and a great performance is priceless. I just wish they were proud enough of that period to take ownership for their part in it, rather than suggesting they were involuntary participants, which seems a bit like having your cake and eating it too (enjoying the popularity, but disdaining the artistic compromises that made it possible). Hell, I'm sure Pat Benatar is sick to death of "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" (an outside-written song, itself), but she still retains the pride of where that song took her to continue performing it in concert - a fact that I'm sure Eddie Schwartz (its writer) continues to appreciate.

Bottom line: this audiobook is a great story about a great band, then becomes a not-quite-apology for a period of their career they freely embraced at the time, to significant fame and financial gain. It seems that, if a band doesn't want to forever be defined by a song as mundane (my apologies, Mutt Lange) as "All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You", they probably shouldn't have recorded it in the first place. Celebrity and adulation need to be actively pursued - no one has ever been forced to become popular at gunpoint.

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Hopefully the first of many more to come!

Revisado: 03-09-13

What made the experience of listening to Banished the most enjoyable?

The fact that Lauren Drain herself reads the material gives it a poignancy that 3rd party narrators can't provide. Less expressive, perhaps, but more authentic.

Who was your favorite character and why?

The Phelps girls (particularly Jael and Megan) are always interesting, because they've never known a life outside of the cult-like family environment. Their sense of superiority is consistently undercut by having to keep themselves in check. I feel legitimate sympathy for them, as for any abuse victim, because they have no conventional "normal" to gauge their own conduct by.

If you were to make a film of this book, what would be the tag line be?

Salvation from salvation.

Any additional comments?

The story is fascinating, particularly for its insights regarding Steve Drain, a clearly sick individual - in the sense that his behavior seems to be in real need of psychiatric intervention. After seeing Louis Theroux's two excellent documentaries on the WBC (the second of which interviewed Lauren post-departure), Steve comes off as quite the self-righteous narcissist, while his wife exists as the doormat of the family. Shame on her, in particular, for not advocating more for a normal life for her children - especially since she clearly knew life before the WBC and had insight to Steve Drain's behavioral inconsistencies for quite some time.

The first reviewer of this audiobook is clearly either a current church member or a sympathizer, but that's the price of truly free speech - hatred and ignorance continue to be well protected. Jack, your review was worth everything I paid to read it.

At this point, I'll wait patiently in the hope that Megan and Grace Phelps will also break silence on their experience inside this horrible organization. As far as Libby Phelps goes (another departee interviewed by Theroux), she seems paralyzed by the fear of a fiery hellish damnation - a mindset that I think sadly probably afflicts most of the clan. Call me crazy, but I can't visualize a God who creates humankind to deny its enjoyment and revels in its suffering and torture. And if that's the case, I'd want even less to do with him.

In the meantime, I will proceed with a beautiful quotation: "Live your life in such a way that the Westboro Baptist Church would want to picket your funeral". I certainly plan to.

Fantastic book, Lauren. Thank you for sharing a painful journey with us.

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