Behind Every Rock Star Is a Messy Story (and a Bad Autobiography)

Everyone loves a good story about a life well lived—or a trainwreck disastrously engineered. But what makes a biography truly great? For me, exploring the messy, raw, and sometimes dazzling lives of notables is both enlightening and humbling. Their stories reveal not just acclaim, but the real highs and lows behind their craft, as well as the many choices they grappled with.

Even as an elementary student, I devoured my school’s biography shelf. They were presented in a decidedly condensed (and always heroic) juvenile format of around 150 pages each. If that makes me a nerd, so be it.

As an adult, historical figures prove fascinating, especially when their lives are chronicled by thorough biographers such as Joseph Ellis, David McCullough, Jon Meacham, Doris Kearns Goodwin, or Ron Chernow. Facts must be the main ingredient, but when simmered in a broth of unfettered curiosity, exhaustive research, quirky predilections, and deep insights, the dish is a culinary delight. But a true guilty pleasure lies not with presidents and generals, but with the guitar slingers and divas who shaped my life’s soundtrack.

Reading the stories of popular musicians’ lives is a very uneven experience. Top-notch authors typically avoid the muddle of rock stardom, preferring their subjects neatly dead and their controversies safely in the distant past. Conversely, primary sources—often the subjects themselves—are still available, and print and video authorities are abundant. I still manage to find rewarding nuggets amid a good deal of rock rubble (pun intended).

Musician autobiographies offer little appeal. Performers who devote a lifetime to acquiring stardom struggle with objectivity. If you spent a career climbing to rock god heights, I’m sure it’s difficult to descend Mt. Olympus. These chiseled performers pen either an overly polished reflection or an attempt at unvarnished truth that overzealously varnishes the truth.

Rod Stewart’s autobiography described his (always blonde) wives so glamorously that I can’t imagine why he kept divorcing them. Graham Nash was by far the least talented member of Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young—contributing ditties like “Teach Your Children,” “Marrakesh Express,” and “Our House”—but his inflated ego takes credit for ending the Vietnam War. Bandmate Neil Young’s Waging Heavy Peace is so convoluted that War and Peace is an easier read. These guys need an editor more than a rhythm section.

Confessional musicians disclose their foibles, but assure readers that they have righted their ships. Keith Richards and Eric Clapton managed to ascend to the pinnacle of guitar virtuosity while drugs coursed through their veins. Carole King married badly multiple times, at one point retreating to remote Idaho with a man who repeatedly struck her. Tommy James inadvertently signed a management contract with the Mafia and learned that questioning his royal statement could be hazardous.

Biographies written without the performer’s consent seem to offer the most credible stories. Paul Simon avoided drug addiction, but is depicted as so controlling that perhaps some mild sedatives might have been useful. Jerry Lee Lewis transformed spirited gospel rhythms into rocking secular compositions, but, uneducated and unsophisticated, he paid a high price for nonconformity to 1950s societal rules. Marvin Gaye’s exceptional talent couldn’t placate his conflicted father, who finally murdered him. Several biographies of Frank Sinatra reveal an amazing talent and consummate performer who could never be satisfied outside of the recording studio.

I was surprised by Holly George Warren’s 2019 intriguing immersion into Janis Joplin’s life. The insurmountable insecurities of this enormously gifted blues singer led to destructive choices whenever she came to a pressure point. Indeed, she lived only 27 years before overdosing on heroin, yet she was much more complicated than this headline revealed. Her story reminds us that the drama on stage is never the whole truth. The glossed-over memoirs and the raw biographies alike are really just versions of the same problem: the temptation to mistake Saturday night’s spotlight for the full story of a life.

A theme that runs throughout the volume is Joplin’s belief in her father’s contention that life is nothing but the “Great Saturday Night Swindle.” The average Joe labors furiously all week to earn the reward of a fun-filled weekend, only to discover that Saturday night’s entertainment ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Joplin—and many ordinary Joes—drink up and drug out to anesthetize themselves from this inevitable disappointment.

My experience differs. Consistent efforts toward educational achievements, vocational endeavors, and family cohesion throughout the “week” yielded huge payoffs on weekday and weekends alike. I rarely felt taxed, much less swindled. Perhaps my perspective is an outlier. Joe may labor at an abysmal job, have more month than money, and worry about his health. Saturday could just be a tremendous letdown—nothing special, and certainly nothing to look forward to all week.

These different outcomes may simply be a result of different perspectives and maturity. Janis Joplin coveted stardom and expected it to be a panacea. She worked very hard at her craft, but the ever-growing adulation provided only transient satisfaction. She turned to alcohol and heroin early on her journey to success and couldn’t find better substitutes for their rewards after exceeding goals thought to bring universal joy. She swindled herself by clinging to unrealistic Saturday night expectations and wasting her money on weekdays. My weekend expectations are contentment rather than exhilaration—a much more accessible target.

In the end, we all navigate our own version of the “Great Saturday Night Swindle.” Like Janis Joplin, some chase dazzling highs and mass adulation that most of us could never fathom. Others choose steadier paths, finding contentment in the everyday rhythms of life. We learn—or perhaps we just intuit—the weekend entertainment that works for us. I could no more live Janis Joplin’s life than she could live mine.  

Whether you call it a Saturday night swindle or a suicide squeeze, the challenge is the same: how do you play your story? Do you hug third base and wait for the safe bunt, or do you take off on the pitch? Either way, it’s your choice—and that’s the only real story worth writing.