Reading
has taken on a lot of unfair, unfortunate associations through the years.
Through no fault of its own, reading has become associated with intelligence,
knowledge, book-learning, libraries, colleges, librarians, and education. I'm
here to tell you, that's all a bunch of horseshit. To me, reading isn't a
pathway to self-actualization, or a magic ticket to a land of wonder and
imagination. On the contrary, it's nothing more than a way to waste time in the
least productive manner imaginable. When I want to turn off my brain, I pick up
a quickie celebrity biography or half-assed show-biz memoir instead of watching
television.
That's
why I am officially starting a new monthly feature, The Silly Little Show-Biz
Book Club. It's a forum to discuss the junk food of the literary universe:
stupid, superficial pop ephemera destined not to outlast its fleeting cultural
moment. When Axl Rose's maid writes a lurid tell-all, I'll be there. Wherever a
half-assed boy-band has-been feels the need to sing out about his life in the
pages of a ghostwritten memoir, I'll be there. I will read all these terrible
books so you don't have to. It's my latest attempt to transform the stupid,
pointless shit I do in my free time into the stupid, pointless shit I am
obligated do for my job.
When
I was a boy, my father used to discourage me from reading. "Why don't you go
play outside and do something constructive with your time, instead of passively
sticking your head in a newspaper?" he groused repeatedly. Well, who's laughing
now? I'm totally writing about "books," using my brain-bone for a living, while
he's begging for change on the street corner. Screw you, old man!
The
first entry in The Silly Little Show-Biz Book Club belongs to a strange subgenre
of memoirs by people who totally hung out with famous, iconic figures people
genuinely care about. These books traffic in sordid gossip, sleazy anecdotes,
and the second- or third-hand voyeuristic thrill of riding shotgun with the guy
who rode shotgun with a towering superstar. It's a brief, insanely padded
164-page account of Bruce Williams' long stint as Dr. Dre's chief lieutenant
and sidekick, and it's called Rollin' With Dre: The Unauthorized Account—An
Insider's Tale Of The Rise, Fall And Rebirth Of West Coast Hip-Hop. It was ghost-written by
Donnell Alexander, whose memoirs have attracted a cult following, especially Ghetto
Celebrity.
Has anyone read Alexander's work? Williams and Alexander adopt a rambling,
casual prose style that suggests a meandering afternoon trading gossip and war
stories at a neighborhood barbershop. Let others wax poetic about Dr. Dre's
interior struggles—Williams and Alexander think it's enough to merely
acknowledge that Dre is "a sensitive artist and shit." And shit indeed.
Williams
effortlessly segued from a military career to a seemingly sweet but largely
thankless gig as Dre's full-time professional flunky. Starting pay? Three
hundred dollars a week, with no benefits. Ah, the insane decadence of the rap
life. Fans hoping for a dishy, gossipy inside account of Dre's life will be
disappointed. I've now read three books about Dr. Dre (this, Ronin Ro's briskly
readable Death Row biography Have Gun Will Travel, and Jerry Heller's
self-serving memoir) without learning anything about Dre except that he's a
talented, quiet, internal guy who used to party extensively but now prefers a
quiet, stable family life. As a human being, Dre is either an intriguing enigma
or surprisingly boring.
Time
and again, Williams brings up some storied piece of Death Row lore before
sheepishly conceding "I wasn't there, but what I heard happened was…" Gosh, I
wasn't there either, and consequently didn't write a fucking book about some
shit I, and every other rap fan in the universe, heard went down between Suge
Knight and Dr. Dre.
We're
consequently treated to thumbnail sketches of prominent figures in Dre's life
and career that are fuzzy, yet maddeningly familiar. That Eminem sure did have
a lot of talent and fire early in his career, but he sure seems to have fallen
into a funk! It sure is unfortunate what happened to D.O.C.! Boy, NWA sure was
important! Snoop Dogg sure is one charismatic marijuana enthusiast! Isn't it
crazy what went down with 50 and The Game?
Beneath
the hagiographic depiction of Dr. Dre as a visionary genius, a good friend, and
a consummate perfectionist lie vast oceans of bitterness. This is a fixture of
the hangers-on memoir, the man-behind-the-man's perennial irritation that he's
coldly denied his rightful chance to shine. Williams grouses throughout that
Dre never used his clout and connections to help his loyal, long-suffering
sidekick get his own projects off the ground. Gosh, maybe Williams would have
been better off pursuing his own dreams instead of patiently waiting for Dr.
Dre to magically transform into his very own professional genie? It doesn't
help that Williams comes off as a professional dilettante. He flirts with
making music either as a singer or producer, then gives up. He tries his hand
at acting, but that goes nowhere. He runs a club for a while, then gives that
up when it grows too demanding. Gee, why wouldn't Dre want to get into business
with a guy like that? Where would Dr. Dre be without good old Bruce Williams at
his side, as the author has the chutzpah to inquire at one point? I'm guessing
he'd be an enormously rich, influential, powerful mogul/icon with a different
head flunky.
Williams
worked for Dre long enough to realize that when the good Doctor called him into
his office, he was a lot less likely to ask "What can I do to make your wildest
dreams come true, beloved protégé and platonic soulmate?" than "Hey, when are
you going to pick up my dry cleaning? Little Suzy Jo's confirmation dress isn't
going to hitchhike to my mansion by itself." But late in the book, Williams and
Dre have a conversation where Williams complains, "Yo Dog, why I gotta do all
this stuff [running errands for Dre's wife]?" Dre accuses Williams of being an ingrate.
As an example of Williams' supposed ingratitude, Dre plaintively tells Williams,
"You don't send nobody no thank you cards or nothin'."
How
perfect is that? The godfather of gangsta rap, the man who unleashed the
strength of street knowledge on white America, is whining about not receiving
thank-you cards in a timely fashion. I wish the book were a hundred pages
longer so Dre could continue, "Plus, you never be responding to Evite
invitations in a timely fashion. You always be sending your 'no' an hour before
the party starts! That's straight-up disrespectful. And would it kill you to
accept my invitation to play Scrabulous once in a while? That online word game
is fun as shit!"
Rolling
With Dre somehow gets both more and less interesting once Dr. Dre
leaves the madness and chaos of Death Row for the boring stability of Aftermath,
and trades in his playboy ways for a wife and a cozy family life. Not
surprisingly, many of Williams' problems with his longtime employer stem from
his icy relationship with Dre's wife, whom Williams depicts as bossy and
condescending. Williams clearly feels Dre violated the G-code by putting hos
above bros.
In
one of my favorite parts of the book, Williams writes about how Dre's inner
circle replaced a feverish sense of sexual competition with a longstanding
debate over who made the best turkey tacos. Seriously, does anything better
symbolize the boredom and apathy of middle-age suburban life than trading in
threesomes with groupies for aprons, chef hats, and bragging rights as the
baddest cook in Dre's posse? In one of the book's few revelations, Williams
argues that part of the reason Dre's third solo album has turned into the Chinese Democracy of hip-hop is because Dre's life as a
stable suburban husband and father is far too dull to make for compelling
lyrical fodder. What's Dre going to rap about now? Beefing with other members
of the PTA? The death tax fucking with a brotha's money? The pressure of having
to satisfy Interscope's stockholders? Being torn between Hillary and Obama? The
neighbor's sub-par lawn maintenance and septic-tank abuse?
Depending
on the passage and the chapter, Williams depicts himself as either a top
Aftermath executive with green-lighting privileges, or Dre's glorified flunky.
It's unclear whether Williams is a practical, business-minded Damon Dash to
Dre's artistic Jay-Z, or the guy who picks up Dre's kids from daycare. Books
like this require a satisfying character arc, a sense that the book's events
have engendered profound spiritual and emotional growth. Well, after nearly a
decade and a half of serving as Dre's right-hand man, baby bird Williams
finally musters up the courage to venture out of the nest and accomplish his
lifelong goal of co-owning a sports bar. And not just any sports bar, mind you.
No, a sports bar with holograms of famous athletes. That shit is classy. Dre
must feel jealous. He may have changed music forever, but Williams is so
totally going to sell overpriced drinks to yuppies within spitting distance of
a Dan Marino hologram. It's a fittingly rinky-dink happy ending for a figure
destined to be a mere footnote in gangsta rap's bloody, dramatic history. Someday,
the full, uncensored story of Death Row and Dr. Dre will be told, but it sure
won't be by Williams or Alexander.
Anywho,
thanks for reading the very first entry The Silly Little Show-Biz Book Club.
Please do feel free to suggest other books to cover in the series. Oh, and
Monsieurs Williams and Alexander, I know this wasn't the most glowing or
favorable review of your book, but I'm expecting thank-you cards from both of
you ASAP all the same. Don't let me down. And if you want to include some
prize-winning turkey taco recipes with those cards, I certainly won't
object.
Future
Silly Little Show-Biz Book Club Titles:
April: Driving
Under The Affluence, Julia
Philips
May: Confessions
Of A Video Vixen, Karrine
Steffans
June: What
Just Happened?, Art
Linson