Why Must Read Sing Backwards and Weep?

I became increasingly tired by "Sing Backwards" as it went along. The book started out promisingly enough, with Lanegan describing a tough upbringing in eastern Washington, but ultimately I just wanted the book to end. Maybe it was simply a matter of my expectations, but I don't think so. I imagine certain readers are going to pick up this book hoping for a glimpse of the Seattle music scene of the Nineties. There's some of that here, though not a lot. Lanegan was a something of a Seattle Zelig. He was good friends with Kurt Cobain and came close to discovering Cobain after the singer's suicide. Layne Staley was staying at Lanegan's apartment shortly before his own death. Lanegan seemed to stumble into singing on a couple tracks from the incredible Mad Season album, just as his band Screaming Trees fumblingly contributed to the film soundtrack "Singles." Pearl Jam is mentioned only in passing, as is Soundgarden. There's no mention of Sleater-Kinney. In fact, Lanegan's entire musical career is made to sound incidental. This was a big disappointment for me. I like grunge, but that wasn't my motive for buying the book. I bought "Sing Backwards" because I've loved Lanegan's voice ever since I first heard those opening strains of "Nearly Lost You." I love the last couple Screaming Trees albums, and I like a lot of Lanegan's solo work. It was no secret that he didn't get along with his band mates, and the discord is set out in detail here. Apparently, Lee Connor was a tyrant, and the last two Screaming Trees records were only good because those were the only two where Lanegan had any creative sway. And he seems to agree with critics who felt his first couple solo records were "genius." But there's not a single word written about his later work, such as his collaboration with Isobel Campbell. Maybe I was largely misled by the marketing of the book. What I hoped for was a true memoir of Lanegan's life and career. I wanted to know where he learned to sing. But this book is quite simply about hardcore drug use and hitting rock bottom. As Lanegan went on describing tale after tale of debauchery, I kept reading, waiting for the moment of catharsis and inevitable recovery arc, but it didn't come until the final few pages. Instead, there are countless stories of Lanegan getting high on heroin before this or that performance, Lanegan drinking until he blacked out, Lanegan sleeping with everyone he could (including friends' girlfriends and wives and, eventually, crack whores), Lanegan ripping off drug dealers and drug users, Lanegan trying to score heroin in foreign countries, Lanegan being physically and verbally abusive to friends, coworkers, and family. I'm sorry to judge, but his own account points him as a spoiled, petulant person, and he seems to delight in telling these stories, as though his epic appetite for drugs is still a point of pride. This is the risk with memoirs: some cause you to have increased respect for their author, but others, like this one, cause you to lose the respect you had. I was hoping for something along the lines of recent books by Carrie Brownstein and Jeff Tweedy, but they are talented writers. There's some bad writing here and some laughably bad metaphors. (At one point, Lanegan reports feeling as though he's being gang-raped by Satan's horde...but in a bad way. Is there a good way?) His re-creations of conversations are stilted and wooden-sounding. Lanegan's recovery takes all of about five pages. He is whisked to California to a rehab hospital at Courtney Love's expense, but agrees to go only because he's being threatened by a local drug dealer. I suppose "Sing Backwards" reminded me of William S. Burroughs--both authors were selfish junkies--but Burroughs wrote with creativity and flair. This book by Lanegan merely seems an opportunistic way for him to capitalize on his role adjacent to the Seattle scene.