Sometimes, you just get sucked in by an Amazon five-star review.
Synopsis: good looking chancer born into a not-particularly wealthy but quite bohemian c-list celebrity family in the early sixties adopts the bass guitar, becomes (by independent accounts) a tolerable bassist, and as such enrols into a rock-and-roll lifestyle involving, er, booze, drugs, women and throwing items out of hotel room windows.
He didn’t use a ghostwriter, and it shows. Why the publishers chose not to employ an editor, or at least a spell checker, is another question entirely.
Frankly, either he lived the most boring rock-n-roll existence possible, or the book is so bowdlerised as to be pointless. How could he have hung out with these people, for so long, for so little of interest to have happened?
I’m about to re-read Giles Smith’s “Lost in Music” which I recall as being head and shoulders above this. And Mr Smith’s main brush with fame was that he accidentally bumped into Nik Kershaw several times, and was invited to Daman Albarn’s parents’ house, as his mum was a friend of Mrs Albarn..