Sing Backwards and Weep: The Sunday Times Bestseller

I’ll start this off saying that I’m a big fan of Marks and I happen to have a poor attention span, so the fact that I devoured this book in three days is unheard of for me! It’s exactly the brutally honest book I wanted it to be. You can tell that no ghost writers were involved and I’m very pleased that it doesn’t read like a Wikipedia page (nothing kills an autobiography for me quite like that). Mark has a very interesting story to tell and a must read for fans, I think even people that just want another perspective on the 90’s music scene would appreciate it. I highly recommend this book to anyone who thinks they might be even remotely interested in it, you won’t regret it! I truly hope we get a part two someday. Excellent read, can’t recommend it enough!

An amalgamation of Burroughs, Bukowski and Fante, Mark Lanegan shows that his most powerful creative work might not actually be his music, but this book. I am absolutely stunned by the quality of Sing Backwards and Weep. I would recommend this to people that aren’t even fans. Don’t hesitate, just buy this book.

I became increasingly tired by "Sing Backwards" as it went along. The book started out promisingly enough, with Lanegan describing a tough upbringing in eastern Washington, but ultimately I just wanted the book to end. Maybe it was simply a matter of my expectations, but I don't think so. I imagine certain readers are going to pick up this book hoping for a glimpse of the Seattle music scene of the Nineties. There's some of that here, though not a lot. Lanegan was a something of a Seattle Zelig. He was good friends with Kurt Cobain and came close to discovering Cobain after the singer's suicide. Layne Staley was staying at Lanegan's apartment shortly before his own death. Lanegan seemed to stumble into singing on a couple tracks from the incredible Mad Season album, just as his band Screaming Trees fumblingly contributed to the film soundtrack "Singles." Pearl Jam is mentioned only in passing, as is Soundgarden. There's no mention of Sleater-Kinney. In fact, Lanegan's entire musical career is made to sound incidental. This was a big disappointment for me. I like grunge, but that wasn't my motive for buying the book. I bought "Sing Backwards" because I've loved Lanegan's voice ever since I first heard those opening strains of "Nearly Lost You." I love the last couple Screaming Trees albums, and I like a lot of Lanegan's solo work. It was no secret that he didn't get along with his band mates, and the discord is set out in detail here. Apparently, Lee Connor was a tyrant, and the last two Screaming Trees records were only good because those were the only two where Lanegan had any creative sway. And he seems to agree with critics who felt his first couple solo records were "genius." But there's not a single word written about his later work, such as his collaboration with Isobel Campbell. Maybe I was largely misled by the marketing of the book. What I hoped for was a true memoir of Lanegan's life and career. I wanted to know where he learned to sing. But this book is quite simply about hardcore drug use and hitting rock bottom. As Lanegan went on describing tale after tale of debauchery, I kept reading, waiting for the moment of catharsis and inevitable recovery arc, but it didn't come until the final few pages. Instead, there are countless stories of Lanegan getting high on heroin before this or that performance, Lanegan drinking until he blacked out, Lanegan sleeping with everyone he could (including friends' girlfriends and wives and, eventually, crack whores), Lanegan ripping off drug dealers and drug users, Lanegan trying to score heroin in foreign countries, Lanegan being physically and verbally abusive to friends, coworkers, and family. I'm sorry to judge, but his own account points him as a spoiled, petulant person, and he seems to delight in telling these stories, as though his epic appetite for drugs is still a point of pride. This is the risk with memoirs: some cause you to have increased respect for their author, but others, like this one, cause you to lose the respect you had. I was hoping for something along the lines of recent books by Carrie Brownstein and Jeff Tweedy, but they are talented writers. There's some bad writing here and some laughably bad metaphors. (At one point, Lanegan reports feeling as though he's being gang-raped by Satan's horde...but in a bad way. Is there a good way?) His re-creations of conversations are stilted and wooden-sounding. Lanegan's recovery takes all of about five pages. He is whisked to California to a rehab hospital at Courtney Love's expense, but agrees to go only because he's being threatened by a local drug dealer. I suppose "Sing Backwards" reminded me of William S. Burroughs--both authors were selfish junkies--but Burroughs wrote with creativity and flair. This book by Lanegan merely seems an opportunistic way for him to capitalize on his role adjacent to the Seattle scene.

Who could’ve guessed it!? Lanegan could’ve been an MLB pitcher but thankfully he ended up making some of the darkest and most personal music known to mankind. His art is a blessing and his soulful baritone voice is indeed an acquired taste but Mark Lanegan’s solo work has legitimately gotten me through some of the toughest moments in my life over the past 20 years. This book is a beautifully crafted memoir from his teenage years up until about 2002 when he joined QOTSA. The stories he so brilliantly recounts in these pages is truly a gift to any fan of the infamous 80’s/90’s Punk/Rock&Roll/“Seattle-Sound”. The rollercoaster like twists and turns this man has endured is indeed a testament to both a true “F you!” attitude and a spirit not willing to give up in the face of so much adversity. Mark’s journey is quite possibly one of the most tragic comedies a human can suffer let alone endure. This memoir is one excruciatingly long “dark night of the soul” that only a soul like Lanegan could traverse. Not only did he somehow make it out alive...It feels as if Lanegan has reached that cosmic summit choosing to avert his gaze past the valleys of bloodshed, bodies, despair etc and instead pinpoint that golden light that is only privy to spirits as beautiful as his. It’s not some tragedy to triumph story. It’s f’ing real, it’s grimy, and it genuinely hurts to read a lot of his anecdotes but it’s well worth every damn second. Hands down the best “Rock & Roll” memoir I’ve ever read and it’s not just cuz he’s a favorite of mine but because of the eloquence with which it’s told. 10 stars!

So many biographies are whitewashed PR exercises, this is the opposite. Occasionally funny, often brutal, always honest, it’s an amazing insight into how one of my favourite musicians miraculously outlived his peers and survived his demons. Is it too soon to be thinking about a sequel?