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Title:
Then It Fell Apart
Series:
Non-Fiction
Author: Moby
Rating: 2 of
5 Stars
Genre: Non-Fiction
Pages:
382
Words: 119K
Publish: 2019
Wikipedia
has this little bit to say about this book:
“The memoir predominantly deals with Moby's life from 1999 to 2009 with some flashbacks to his early childhood. In particular, the memoir deals with his surprise at the accidental success of Play, his descent into alcohol addiction, and his decision in 2007 to finally go to rehab in order to stay sober.”
I read Moby’s first memoir, Porcelain, back in 2017. I enjoyed it and so when I was looking for non-fiction books to fill up my non-fiction category, I found out Moby had written a second memoir.
This book alternates chapters from 1999 to 2008 and then from 1968 to the 80’s.
Moby claims to remember stuff from 3 years old and on. Some of it pretty terrible in fact. I can’t say he’s lying, but most kids do not remember things from that age, not even the really bad stuff. The one thing that bears him out though is his later behavior, which has all the classic signs of an abuse victim. Then again, all one has to do is take a Psych 101 class to learn what those behaviors are. The 1999 and on parts were about his meteoric rise to fame and then his gradual descent. It was the typical shallow rockstar story of drugs, alcohol and sex. The book ends with him going to an AA (Alcoholics Anonymous) meeting and realizing that he did need help.
My problem is that not once is there any sense of shame or regret. He goes through people (not just girlfriends) like they are disposable. It was exactly the same as how he wrote about people in Porcelain. A name, a situation, then we never hear about them again. We don’t hear how or why he stopped hanging out with them, beyond the occasional “and I was a dick to them” general blabbings. It was trademark narcissism. I was hoping since he’d gotten clean around 2008 that he’d grown up between then and writing this book. Sadly, it seems he hadn’t.
He didn’t handle fame very well and his drinking, drug use and promiscuity were simply accelerated by it. This was a journal of self-destruction. I also had my doubts about the accuracy of things portrayed. Memory is a porous thing (hence my weekly journaling) and details are easy to misremember OR to be remembered in a light that makes us feel better about ourselves.
Overall, this felt like I had been dragged through a sewer and had many, many instances of second hand shame, as there wasn’t any on Moby’s part.
I had a large collection of Moby’s work on hand while reading this and would have it playing in the background. I listened to his earlier works, which I didn’t care for, then his three big album hits (Play, 18 and Hotel, with Play and 18 including the B-sides songs) which I did enjoy quite a bit and then his later stuff which I once again did not enjoy. It felt like he was a musician doing “musician’y” things for his own enjoyment or other musicians rather than for the masses like me. I can understand why those three albums made waves and I can understand why his other stuff didn’t.
If Moby ever writes a third memoir about getting cleaned up and his life after fame, I’ll be tempted to read it. But I don’t know if I would or not. I can’t take another book of non-repentance.
★★☆☆☆
