Currently reading this new book and am enjoying it greatly.

MacDonell writes a self-effacing story of his blurry punk rock coming-of-age in LA punk’s first wave, circa 1977 and beyond. He writes for Slash, he befriends Black Randy, he passes out on his own front lawn.

Read a full interview with the man here, and pick up the book here or here.

*** Update on July 30th: I got really tired of this book in a hurry. Never mind what I said earlier. Here’s what I wrote on GoodReads:

This started out with a bang, and I was all-in….and then quickly descended into a litany of “I was so wasted” drug stories, one after the other, ad nauseum. Really, is there anything more boring that someone’s drug memoir? It gets extremely tiresome about halfway in, by which point I’d lost all my interest and was totally deadened to this guy’s mistakes and motivations, which seemed to revolve around destroying himself as quickly as possible, while making everything into a “party” no matter the day or hour.

The connection to the ‘77-’78 LA punk scene – which is what I though this would be about – is tangential. MacDonnell’s PCP freakouts and blackouts take place at or near The Masque, Whiskey, Canterbury House and so on and so forth, but it’s more an insight into one man’s drugged-out stupidity than it is an illumination into anything new or different that we don’t already know about that scene or era. Music is barely existent in this book and resides in the background of dozens of drug stories. Huge yawn. 

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