The "musician, songwriter, and cofounder of Steely Dan reveals the cultural figures and currents that shaped his artistic sensibility, as well as offering a look at his college days and a hilarious account of life on the road"--Dust jacket flap.
You may be thinking, oh no, another rock-and-roll geezer making a last desparate bid for mainstream integrity by putting out a book of belles lettres.
You'll find that many chapters in this book are about people and things that intersected with my life when I was a kid. I apologize up front: I tried to grow up. Honest. Didn't quite happen.
I always associate Northern California with the late sixties when I spent some time there. The hippie stuff was fun for about five minutes and then, by late '67, the barbarism had set in. A typical story: A woman I know made the mistake of accepting the invitation of a famous hippie songwriter to spend the day on his houseboat in Mendocino, where he proceeded to beat the hell out of her and, for a time, kept her there at gunpoint. Luckily, she escaped and told her friend Sonny Barger, then president of the Oakland Hells Angels, about it. Sonny sent a crew roaring upstate, where they worked the guy over and burned down his boat. In those days of love and peace, you'd hear that stuff all the time.
By the way, I'm not posting this journal on the Internet. Why should I let you lazy, spoiled TV Babies read it for nothing in the same way you download all those songs my partner and I sacrificed our entire youth to write and record, not to mention the miserable, friendless childhoods we endured that left us with lifelong feelings of shame and self-reproach we were forced to countervail with a fragile grandiosity and a need to constantly prove our self-worth—in short, with the sort of personality disorders that ultimately turned us into performing monkeys?
Incidentally, by "TV Babies" I mean people who were born after, say, 1960, when television became the robot caretaker of American children and therefore the principal architect of their souls. I've actually borrowed the term from the film Drugstore Cowboy, in which Matt Dillon, playing a drug addict and dealer, uses it to refer to a younger generation of particularly stupid and vicious dealers who seem to have no souls at all.