As music editor for Rowman and Littlefield, I receive any number of proposals for memoirs from musicians that tell not so much their story as that of the musical luminaries with whom they rubbed shoulders. Unfortunately, the aura of fame often extends only as far as the actual celebrity. As I wrote one agent regarding a possible book by a temporary drummer for a once famous act, on which the value of the memoir hung:
I know the uphill battle you will be facing when pitching a book of this sort, which I commonly refer to as the “memoir of the greatest sideman ever.” It’s tough to place books about the near famous rather than the famous. As Mel Brooks once supposedly quipped: “There are two types of people in this world: the famous and the near famous. The famous are just what you’d expect—president, popes, Hollywood stars. The near famous are those who want to be near the famous.”
Not long before this proposal, I received another from a prospective author that was to be brazenly titled Confessions of a Shameless Name-dropper. Unlike other memoirists who try to sneak this stuff by, this author was open about the matter, and although I had to credit him with his bravado, I had to school him in the realities of the market (which he took with remarkable grace). Here’s what I wrote:
Since I handle lots of music titles—and of all sorts, including memoirs of the type you’re proposing—I wanted to follow up. I tend toward the brutally honest, so, as I warn some of my authors, put on your elephant skin. Here we go…
You are not the first and not by any means the last author who has proposed a book about his adventures in the music business and the many great names with whom he may have worked. The problem is a simple one: names of note in a book do not translate into sales when the book itself is not written by one of those noted names. Even forewords and endorsements by “big” names are no substitute for the real deal. A book about one’s working relationship with Renee Fleming or Mick Jagger is simply not the same as a book by either one of them.
The net result is that these titles don’t ever do nearly as well as their authors predict. Sometimes they don’t even do as well as we predict—and we at least have access to good sales data about this kind of thing.
The bad news is that star-power-by-association is a bit of a myth, and unless you are one of those rare behind-the-scenes individuals who made those stars into stars rather than just someone who worked closely with them—case in point would be Russell Simmons of Def Jam Records or Motown founder Berry Gordy—a book recording one’s musical career through the great artists one worked with is a tough sell.
I should note that this isn’t to say there aren’t exceptions. But those exceptions are few and far between. If the story told is so compelling or uniquely wrought that the work shines almost in spite of the name-dropping, a book editor might sign on. But in that case the sign-on is not to the dropped names but the literary quality of the work itself.
Of course, another possible approach is if the book editor not only thinks the story compelling enough to publish but, equally important, believes that real marketing muscle (and real editorial attention) will overcome possible lack of interest. In this scenario the book is, in a sense, forced upon the public by being oversold or sensationalized. A case in point is Chicago Review Press’s publication in 2005 of I’m With the Band: Confessions of a Groupie. Following in the wake of this sexual tell-all, which CRP managed to get behind well enough, author Pamela des Barres was able to write a follow-up and then publish an anthology of confessions from other groupies.
But, my, my, how quickly this kind of self-pumping confessional—groupies as muses…really?—ages when you look at how similarly written sexcapades of this sort now clutter the world of the self-published. After Warren Zevon’s wife, Crystal, published her tell-all—since we now swim in a sea of spousal memoirs that, in my view, are sometimes hardly better than shoulder-rubbing memoirs (or more than shoulders, if you opt to work from des Barres’ playbook)—it is not surprising that there should follow a self-published confessional, too, about Zevon’s illegitimate child with Rae Murphy or Anita Gevinson’s self-published expose of rock stars she bedded (most prominently…Warren Zevon).
A great deal more could be written about the sociocultural pressure to take advantage of celebrity. After all, there are any number of “celebrities” whose only real talent is their ability to celebritize (yeah, I made that one up), from Paris Hilton to the Kardashians to the many reality TV personalities. Because celebrity itself is now so cheaply bought (especially through hundreds of cable channels, the Internet, and the 24-hour news cycle), it creates the illusion that there is, in fact, an audience of readers who want to know about the people who knew famous people. And there might be: for free. But a paying audience? That’s a different matter, and it’s where I, as a book editor, have often drawn the line.