Stevie Van Zandt - Unrequited Infatuations
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- Book:Unrequited Infatuations
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- Year:2021
- Rating:5 / 5
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Copyright 2021 by Renegade Book, LLC
Cover copyright 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: September 2021
Published by Hachette Books, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Hachette Books name and logo is a trademark of the Hachette Book Group.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2021940666
ISBNs: 978-0-306-92542-9 (hardcover); 978-0-306-92541-2 (ebook)
E3-20210827-JV-NF-ORI
What a wonderful, witty, incisive, moving, authentic, and beautifully written memoir. Stevie Van Zandts Unrequited Infatuations is a heartfelt and soulful tour though Rock n Roll history, politics, and pop culture from the vantage point of a rare talent and singular American life. I loved every page.
HARLAN COBEN, bestselling author of Win, The Boy from the Woods, Run Away, and the Myron Bolitar series
A glorious trip into the mind of a true Rock n Roll Renaissance man. Stevies autobiography digs beneath the surface of his music, evolving into something extraordinarily rich and complex. Its part Rock n Roll history lesson, part political thriller, part revelatory dive into the brotherhood of a band. And so much more. Whats most impressive is Stevies self-deprecating honesty. He has the courage to write about his failures, alongside tales of his enormous success. The stories are also wildly entertaining, hilarious, and emotionally devastating. One of the best Rock n Roll books ever written. It belongs on a shelf between Bob Dylans Chronicles and Gerri Hersheys Nowhere To Run. A masterpiece.
CHRIS COLUMBUS, director, producer, and screenwriter
Steven and I grew up in the same town, two miles apartunless you count the fact that creatively he was on another planet. Beneath the bandana is the beautiful mind of a polymath: singer, songwriter, actor, activist, arranger, thinker and creator. There is sex, there are drugs, andthank the Lordthere is rock and roll. Names are named. Mistakes are made. Fights are (mostly) forgiven. And lightning strikes more than once. This is the beautifully told story of a great American life, and I dreaded the arrival of the final page.
BRIAN WILLIAMS, journalist
I was expecting a great music book with a bit more depth than most. What I got was the Tao Te Ching of Rock biographies! Only its Lao Tzu with a fabulous sense of humor! This adventure is metaphysically amazing.
MICHAEL DES BARRES, actor / writer / musician / DJ
Steven Van Zandt is the ultimate Rock n Roll soldier, an eyewitness to history who has made plenty of his own in the trenches and the studio. His stories of struggle and awakening, the mysteries of creation, and the ties that bind in every great band come at you like a blaze of killer 45s in a true voice of America: part Vegas, part Alan Freed, all New Jersey.
DAVID FRICKE, journalist, SiriusXM, Mojo, Rolling Stone
Unrequited Infatuations is as musical, soulful, funny, adventurous, inspiring, and real as the man who wrote it, the one and only Stevie Van Zandt.
JON LANDAU, journalist, music producer, and manager
A pleasure for music fans and one of the best entertainment memoirs in recent years.
Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
To Maureen,
my one requited infatuation
The distant music speeds up and slows down like vinyl on a warped turntable, holding, then yielding to the winds caress, as the soft tinkle of breaking glass and tired car horns recede into the mysterious absence of light that becomes the exotic toxic wasteland beyond the city line, and the echoes of drunken revelry pass through their nightly metamorphosis, transformed on our soundtrack into the leaves softly rustling on the terrace, where on this particularly chilly December night in Greenwich Village our hero contemplates his fate.
Its a vagrant winter and you cant sell consciousness.
Nobodys buying it.
Hell, you cant even give it away!
Is what Im hearing the icy wind blowing through the dead grey streets? Or are those echoes the sound of ridicule?
Once upon a time, consciousness was hard to come by, and nobody was buying it then either.
Information was rationed out by the clergy, witch doctors, power-drunk elders. People we foolishly trusted to do the understanding and interpret life for us.
Every hundred years or so, somebody would have a revelation and try to share it. They would usually be excommunicated, confined to asylums, or burned at the stake by our grateful society.
Who dug the Buddha when he was around? A bunch of poor homeless acolytes who hoped to someday actually understand what the hell the pleasantly plump man was talking about?
Whod Jesus have? A dozen guys and an ex-hooker or two?
Socrates and Robert Johnson both got the same reward for their insights. A final toast from the Loving Cup.
No, my friend, you better come with something better to sell than truth.
Something we can use.
Like war, taxes, government, long tiring meaningless work, the phony scorecard of Wall Street, sexual frustration, suffering, false hope, disease, guns, drugs, gasoline, agribusiness, fear, booze, poison, hatred. Give us someone to blame. Fill the vacuum of our spiritual bankruptcy with religion.
Well buy any and all of that. Speak to us condescendingly as children so we understand. Theres a pandemic of stupidity, so no one will notice.
We will follow you anywhere.
Parents, teachers, priests, doctors, politicians, philosophers, poets, artists, gods, Lord Almighty, Holy Spirit, are your obligations so diminished?
Your offspring need suckling and you are busy doing what?
Decembers Children are orphans.
Its a vagrant winter and you cant sell consciousness.
Silence.
He was under a blanket in the back of the car on the floor in the crazy spooky silence.
Nobody spoke. No radio. Just the lazy hum of the motor, and him alone with his thoughts. And ooh daddio, that was not his favorite thing.
His two coconspirators were sneaking him past the military blockade into the black township of Soweto. The native unrest, as the government liked to call it, erupted every few years, but lately it had become more frequent, and now, constant.
Not coincidentally, the police had become less dependable. They had mixed feelings about beating their own family members and neighbors at demonstrations or turning their backs as people they knew ended up tortured and occasionally murdered in prison.
The government, no longer able to trust the police, had in an unprecedented move brought in the military. They were stationed at every checkpoint in and out of the massive ghetto. Not to protect the inhabitants, but to keep them contained for more convenient slaughter once constructive engagement gave way and the bloodshed levee broke. Tension was at an all-time high. It was no time to be the wrong color in the wrong place. Hence the under-the-blanket thing.
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