The 15 most essential music bios (and autobiographies) so far this century

Back in 2012, The A.V. Club asked if there was . On one hand, it was obviously a rhetorical question—is anyone really going to say, “No, no more autobiographies from musicians, please”?—but the larger point was salient. Namely, that this young century had seen a glut of shoddily written and poorly edited books by famous artists (whether ghostwritten or not), that did the genre no favors. (Paging Neil Young’s Waging Heavy Peace.) Lucky, then, to have so many counterexamples. The past 22 years have seen the release of not only tremendous memoirs and musical biographies, but among them some that belong in the highest echelons of the field—books that should be essential reading even for those who aren’t fans of the artist. The following are the ones that rose to the top when The A.V. Club looked back upon which music bios and memoirs were the most impactful, the most artful, and resonated far beyond the page. There are plenty of great books about the music industry not on this list (or about multiple artists, like Alex Ross’ must-read book on 20th century classical music, The Rest Is Noise) that just didn’t fit the biography/autobiography designation. But when it comes to the singular stories of notable musicians and their lives, careers, and music, these are the ones we’ll recommend in perpetuity. Note to desktop users: If you’d like to read this in a scrolling format (and why wouldn’t you?), simply narrow your browser window.

Sleater-Kinney is one of two families that Brownstein explores in this candid, heartfelt memoir. Hunger’s childhood photos attest to the Brownsteins’ deep love, though a lack of communication made it difficult to fully process her mother’s anorexia and her father coming out. Her book’s dedication to bandmates Corin Tucker and Janet Weiss makes clear that Sleater-Kinney is (or was, anyway) as much a family as the Brownsteins, and her depiction of the band’s early days is a thrilling origin story. She makes repeatedly clear that Sleater-Kinney’s work—and music in general—is her lifeblood. One oft-quoted line from the book sums up her passion: “This is what it is to be a fan: curious, open, desiring for connection, to feel like art has chosen you, claimed you as its witness.” [David Brusie]

Abdurraqib’s book is part history, part memoir. Abdurraqib was born in 1983, so he was 7 when A Tribe Called Quest began and 15 upon its 1998 breakup. Along the way—and in post-Tribe years of solo records and a surprisingly fruitful 2016 reunion—Abdurraqib grows alongside Q-Tip, Phife Dawg, and Ali Shaheed Muhammad. The book is at its most poignant when examining the often contentious relationship between Q-Tip and Phife Dawg. They reconcile shortly before Phife’s death at 45 from complications due to diabetes, which is also the subject of Abdurraqib’s open letter to Phife’s mom, the book’s most heartbreaking moment. Abdurraqib’s Tribe expertise inspires the reader to seek out albums, playlists, and songs, with a spirit of exploration that reflects the group itself. [David Brusie]

During Bob Dylan’s 1960s and ’70s heyday, he was an inscrutable figure, inclined either toward reclusiveness or puckish obfuscation. The greatest trick he pulls with his memoir Chronicles is to convince readers he’s finally telling his story straight, from the perspective of a gentle, neighborly old family man, who likes Little League baseball, American history, and vintage rock ’n’ roll. Devoted Dylanologists have debunked a lot of this book, proven that some of the anecdotes about recording sessions or the post-Woody Guthrie folk scene couldn’t have happened the way the author describes them. But Dylan’s exaggerations are themselves telling. Really, this is a book that illuminates where his songs come from: via scraps of newspapers, lost pop artifacts, and the lived experiences that a genius has transformed into myth. [Noel Murray]

Red Hot Chili Peppers fans know the band for their goofier antics, but one layer deeper reveals an underlying through line across their history: the potent musicianship and quiet vulnerability of bassist Michael Balzary, a.k.a. Flea. Acid For The Children, outside of a handful of time jumps, takes place entirely before the formation of the Peppers; at its core, it’s the story of a music-obsessed Australian with a musically heroic but violent alcoholic stepfather. Graduating into his teen years, Flea gets some notoriety by being himself: awkward, wild, and overly dedicated to his musical craft. A handful of future-celebrity cameos make everything feel destined (like actor Laurence Fishburne as a former roommate), but the real juice is reading about a shy, sensitive boy becoming an outrageous, sensitive man. [Dan Bogosian]

The late Vic Chesnutt was a brilliant singer-songwriter who was equal parts lovable and frustrating. In the piercing chronicle Don’t Suck, Don’t Die, musician Kristin Hersh uses vivid, engaging prose to capture Chesnutt’s complicated nature. The pair frequently toured together, and the book shines when she draws on her own personal, intimate observations, gleaned from their time on the road. “We didn’t stand a chance because when you were good, the work was true,” she writes. In the end, Don’t Suck, Don’t Die is a moving portrait of an artistic genius—and a vulnerable manual on how to navigate immense grief after the death of someone we love. [Annie Zaleski]

Herbie Hancock has a ton of great stories, as you might guess of someone who was in Miles Davis’ Second Great Quintet, played space-jazz with Mwandishi, and got real loose with Headhunters. But in his 2014 memoir Possibilities, he’s at his best when he’s talking about his artistic motivations. His taste is omnivorous—how many of bebop’s brightest stars have also been credited with helping to birth hip-hop, or have collaborated with Congolese electronic group Konono Nº1?—and he writes eagerly about how he’s evolved as an artist; when he gets into the whys and hows of that evolution, the book really sings. As great as it is on paper, the audiobook is highly recommended, if only to hear Herbie imitate Miles’ famous rasp to call himself a “motherfucker.” [Marty Sartini Garner]

Thelonious Monk spent his entire life waiting for the world to recognize his brilliance, and when it finally happened, in the mid-1960s, the jazz world moved on with alarming speed. Robin D.G. Kelley approaches Monk’s life as a tragedy, one beset by mental illness and the everyday oppression that comes with being Black in America, as well as a lack of consistent recognition that’s frequently surprising given Monk’s reputation now. Kelley walks patiently through the man’s life, from his time as a tent-revival accompanist through his all-night gigs in Manhattan clubs, and while he does write at length about how Monk’s emotional and mental struggles colored both his playing and his life, he does so without sensationalizing—or stripping him of the incredible genius he developed by sitting at a piano and chasing his own sound for years and years. [Marty Sartini Garner]

Most music memoirs are about getting to the good stuff, when an artist starts to hit it big and enter the glory years. Not so with High School—it’s right there in the title. Tegan and Sara Quinn begin and end their back-and-forth autobiography (the two alternate chapters throughout) with their formative years in secondary education, the tale concluding just as the pair score a vital performance showcase and first glimpse the possibility of a future in music. But that’s what makes it so vital: The Canadian twins nail the hyperbolic emotional volatility of being a teen, connecting it to a passion for music in a way few artists have managed without losing the everything- cranked-to-11 intensity of adolescence. It’s artfully—and painfully—relatable (and .)[Alex McLevy]

Even Keith Richards seems a little astounded by how well his memory has served him. It’s understandable: Given the copious amounts of drugs the guitarist for the Rolling Stones has done over the course of his life, anyone would be forgiven for blacking out entire months, or maybe years. Instead, the garrulous and freewheeling icon holds court (with help from ghostwriter James Fox) on everything from his earliest beginnings to the depths of his addiction days with equally eagle-eyed description. Much like the chaos that seemed to perpetually surround the band, there’s a sense of frenetic abandon to the tale, an intensity that gives it the heady rush of a dishy beach read (when he and Mick Jagger turn on each other, oh, the zingers that ensue), even while making plenty of time to ruminate on the value of a passionate, devoted love of music above all else. It’s downright irreplaceable, innit? [Alex McLevy]

Patti Smith was already a decorated poet and musician before writing the memoir Just Kids. Still, the tender chronicle of her decades-long relationship with the artist Robert Mapplethorpe catapulted her into literature’s upper echelons, as the book became an award-winning best-seller; among other things, it won the 2010 National Book Award for Nonfiction. The honors are well deserved: Set against a backdrop of a bohemian New York City that no longer exists, Just Kids is an intimate look at the inner workings of a complex relationship. Smith uses elegant, precise, and vivid language throughout to describe what it’s like to come of age when you’re marching to your own beat—giving Just Kids the feel of a vulnerable, honest guide to growing up even when gracefulness is in short supply. [Annie Zaleski]

For decades, Bruce Springsteen sprinkled pieces of his autobiography into his song intros, repeated nightly at his concerts like liturgy. For his official autobiography, the Boss reassembled those pieces and filled in some gaps, explaining his struggles with depression and the squalor he endured as a child. Those insights are invaluable. But the real revelations in Born To Run have to do with the music. Bruce gets downright wonky here, talking about his early days in the New Jersey club scene, where the only way to make a dollar was to flatten the audience, gig after gig. This book asks fans to think about Springsteen’s songs the way he thinks of them: in terms of how they’ll work in a live setting. Their visceral punch and their epic aspirations now make even more sense. [Noel Murray]

As Duran Duran’s bassist, John Taylor is tasked with laying down lively grooves with pinpoint precision. That sense of rhythm and clarity permeates the writing in his memoir, In The Pleasure Groove. The book follows Taylor as he evolves from an eager young music fan growing up in Birmingham, England, into a daydreaming art school student and then a music superstar with Duran Duran. Although there are plenty of ’80s-related memories and references to long-ago debauchery, In The Pleasure Groove is most affecting when Taylor digs deep and reflects on the more personal aspects of his life and career. His candid reminiscences about his family, and insights about getting (and staying) sober, in particular, are quite moving. [Annie Zaleski]

At first glance, Questlove’s first memoir, Mo’ Meta Blues, comes across like an especially enjoyable hang session nerding out with a fellow music fan, someone unafraid to admit just how emotionally meaningful the records that connected with you growing up really are. But as you get deeper, you realize the book is actually a skeleton key of sorts to his entire musical career—tracing the path that led him to obsessive perfection of his instrument, obsessive devotion to musical curation, and the beauty to be found by channeling feeling into technique—something too many musical memoirs quietly pass by. [Alex McLevy]

In her memoir, All I Ever Wanted, The Go-Go’s’ bassist Kathy Valentine blows the fun-loving image of the group to bits. The book has its share of salacious rock ’n’ roll stories, but it is Valentine’s honest and unflinching account of growing up unsupervised in a single-parent household that is the most engrossing—and difficult—to read. This includes a pregnancy and its termination at 12, which she revisits at 23, when she goes for the procedure again, then performs with The Go-Go’s the very next day. Valentine speaks candidly about her addiction, her destructive behavior, and the people she hurt, taking full responsibility for her actions. Despite her negligent upbringing, there are no complaints or accusations. This is perhaps All I Ever Wanted’s strongest statement: acceptance without resentment. [Lily Moayeri]

Michelle Zauner, a.k.a. the band Japanese Breakfast, has been a fixture on the New York Times Best Seller list since the release of her raw, grief-filled memoir, Crying In H Mart, about a year ago. The book (which was preceded by a viral New Yorker essay of the same name) focuses on Zauner’s experience of her mother’s cancer diagnosis and eventual death. There are numerous flashbacks to Zauner’s relationship with her mother, which are at times devastatingly tender, and at others, brutal to the point of cruelty. Somehow, the mouth-watering and sensual food descriptions threaded throughout soften these blows. Zauner puts her lyrical skills to work painting detailed scenarios steeped in emotion so heightened, you can almost taste it. Do not read if you have recently lost a loved one: Crying In H Mart may send you off the deep end. [Lily Moayeri]