Piercy’s autobiography held a melancholic tone. In its essence, his narrative paints a portrait of squandered existence, marred by the grips of substance abuse, the turbulence surrounding the birth of his daughter and how screwed up he was at it, the labyrinth of his own sexual compulsions, and the candidate recounting of an era where 1980’s lead singers found themselves with easy access to a certain hedonistic act with females. Moreover, he candidly unveiled the distressing ordeal of enduring sexual harassment from a club band booker in the realm of Hollywood’s music scene.
I found it a grind to read.