Not everyone who was famous has had a particularly interesting life. That is certainly true for Hell -- or at least if he did, he hasn't done a very good job of putting it down in writing. As a portrait of the birth of the punk movement in New York, it does hold some interest. But ultimately, Hell was a minor player in that scene and his memoir doesn't really add that much information to the story.

He was there at the start of punk rock. He is pretty smug about it all, and while some parts of the book shed some light on those early days, the overall hectoring tone and the accumulation of points being scored (and especially his loud claims to have shagged a large number of women in the scene who went on to key roles) become stale. The stories about the women seem mostly to be "I WAS THERE FIRST" rather than having any fondness or insight - and I found that really tiresome.

I still love his early records, and I guess the book is all I could have expected from him.

the writing is really, really poor. disappointing.

Good gravy - did all of these New York punks think they were Verlaine and Rimbaud? Jesus H. Otherwise, great book - made me listen to the Neon Boys stuff which is THUMBS UP.

Man...Richard Hell is quite annoying. Very much "a guy" and not letting you forget this for s single minute. Yet, telling you the floor plan of places he lives like it is important. But remember...he comes from a very dark place and uses women to live off of so he can write his poetry. He is so hardcore male.

Ugh. I am disappointed but also unsurprised.

Richard Hell brings us to the brink of the Voidoid with imperfect poetry and tales of the propulsion and idyll of youth. He wrangles to the page his world building foibles where he stumbles and connives and art makes and fucks and births influence and notoriety - detailing his simultaneous shirk and covet of the throne. He is raw in choosing to detail the feeble ego and resolute in staking his rightful claim to a movement. A memoir at once held at a distance but also full of reflection, his language is florid yet somehow dispassionate. Perhaps tainted by the junk sick clouds of yore, and the way a love story is filtered through the hurtled gaze of a heart-rend, his reflections retain vivid sensation though they evoke time that has passed. Nonetheless, tender is the heart and the names dropped are swaddled in a depth of consideration and painted as seen fully through the eyes of a full lipped, strategically tousled boy wonder. A snapshot of an era where mere kids changed the world with their ambitions, whims, vim, vigor and inward madness. You can fill in the Blank Generation.

I read this book in one day. This is the exact type of book to float my boat. Gotta have my sex drugs and rock & roll. Richard Hell lived a most interesting and exciting life and he is also a most poetic and gifted writer. Hell writes in a beautifully descriptive and dreamy manner. Maybe from all those junk nods, who knows. Like most memoirs that must focus on drug abuse, at times it gets pretty redundant. No matter. I wish I could have known you, Oh but I was just a kid... we are kindred spirits.

Three stars because 1970s New York City is always fun to read about. And in Richard Hell's book, he seems to write more about other people and the scene, and less about himself. Unfortunately, Hell comes across as somewhat bitter and arrogant, and everything is stated so matter of factly. But he tells it like it is, and HELL, it's his book anyway I guess. He does hit the nail on the head with some things though. Things I've thought about...like the "asexualness" of the British punk scene. Interesting. Still, I'm waiting to hear from Tom Verlaine.

2.75