I feel I should write and explain my inability to finish your autobiography. I began it with high hopes. I had recently finished Paul Kelly’s wonderful memoir and thought that perhaps your book would extend my reading into a roll of musical non-fiction. Unfortunately, while the early parts of the book were very interesting in the tales of your young life, I found myself bogged down and bored in the endlessly intricate tales of drug taking high jinks. I thought I might be able to power on through so I could read about how Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean is based on you, but in the end I simply couldn’t be bothered, so I just flicked through to glossy pictures. Please don’t misunderstand though, I was struck by your musicality and fine geetar playing in Martin Scorsese’s documentary (and that’s a compliment because I am, in essence, a “Beatles” person), and I am constantly impressed by the fact that you are still alive, growing old disgracefully in the very best of ways. I just don’t want to finish your book.
No hard feelings I’m sure