Somewhere in this book, Frank mentioned that he's a huge fan of coffee and cigarettes. This book proves it. It reads far less like a coherent chronicle of his life than a five-hour, stimulant-fueled, stream-of consciousness rant about a number of topics apparently irking Frank that day. The unfortunate result is an unfocused, dated train wreck, where we are "treated" to such groundbreaking insights as Televangelists are Bad, Reagan was Conservative, the War on Drugs is Ineffective and the PMRC is a Joke. Thanks.
Now, I don't blame Frank; he was just being honest. I instead focus my exasperation on the "editor" of this disaster, who should have immediately recognized that most of this book would be completely irrelevant the minute it hit the press. What's more, since anyone with a basic background in journalism would instantly know that most of Frank's diatribes were based almost entirely on conjecture, hearsay and dubious conspiracy theories, it should have been obvious that a full half of this book is complete crap.
The result is that not only is the last half of this book unreadable, but also that a wonderful opportunity for a first-hand account of a fascinating story was forever lost. I mean, here's a guy who, I believe, has released almost 100 albums, has produced some of history's most groundbreaking rock music, and became a virtuoso guitarist and respected composer with no formal musical training-where's that story? Instead, we suffer through 50 pages of Frank watching charismatic preachers from Texas on TV, describing point by excruciating point what's happening on the screen.
If the person overseeing this mess would have had the slightest hint of a spine and reeled this thing in, we might have had a truly insightful glimpse into what made this enigmatic genius tick. Instead, we learn that Frank would like to see Apartheid abolished. Oh wait, that happened 15 years ago. A wasted opportunity.