Corn Flakes with John Lennon: And Other Tales from a Rock 'n' Roll Life Book

When I was a teenager in the 1990s, I didn't wear flannel shirts. I showered. I didn't cut myself. That's because I was a happy adolescent, and part of the reason why was because I hated grunge music.

Grunge didn't speak to me. It growled, snarled, and grated my nerves. Instead of chasing Cobain, reveling in Reznor and channeling Corgan, I studied the rock & roll canon. I'd always preferred the melodious genius of Sun, Motown, Atlantic, Stax and Casablanca, and thought swiveling hips and punctuated pelvic thrusts were a much better visual assault against illogical conservatisms, rather than mopey heroin addicts. When I discovered Brian Wilson and his Beach Boys in my room, my love for music way before my time took on an obsession with as many layers as the Wall of Sound. I unwisely splurged my allowances on the recently-released "two-fer" re-issues of Beach Boys albums, wrote a biography of the band on an old typewriter, and declared "I Just Wasn't Made For These Times" my anthem, although wouldn't it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn't have to wait so long?

I felt like no one understood me; that is, no one in my generation. Nobody listened to the same music as I did. I couldn't exchange mix tapes in school because nobody wanted to listen to oldies. So as I read "Corn Flakes with John Lennon," I couldn't help but think: Bob Hilburn, where were you when I was growing up?

I always hold rock writers and critics in very high regards - at least, those that I respect. Cameron Crowe, Greg Kot, Austin Scaggs (but not Rob Sheffield nor Jim DeRogatis) - I follow like a puppy dog. I had never read any Bob Hilburn, but I lap up rock & roll tales like Hank Williams and spilled whiskey, so buying this book was as natural as tapping your foot to "Jailhouse Rock". I expected godly, flowery, screaming-out-to-be-underlined prose from Hilburn. Not so - he writes well, but I'm not picking my heart up from the floor. Besides the intimate conversations and friendships with rock & roll iconography and his thoughtful, insightful perspectives - all of which are spot-on about his milieu - I'm not sure I'm learning anything more about being a rock music fan. But that's the allure - Hilburn isn't so much speaking to you as he IS you. He picks up all the scattered notes and clefs on the bar room floor, in your mind, and doesn't transpose them into a different octave as much as arranges them into a sweet symphony. He doesn't tell you how cool his life has been so you are jealous that he's eaten corn flakes with John Lennon in the middle of the night, had Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen change their set lists because of his feedback and helped Bono grow up. He shares these tales with you like your grandfather might about the war, humanizing these legends and giving them a quiet dignity far away from screaming fans so you can appreciate and enjoy them for the personalities they truly are. And Bob knew who they truly were and are. You know those late-night record listenings when you really should be in bed for school, your heart aching because music can be so beautiful? Imagine that emotion and aural pleasure between the hard covers of a book. That's this book.

One of the things I enjoyed most about this book is Hilburn's skill as a reporter. In narrating his memories and experiences as they were in a simple but careful selection of words, he reveals much more about what happened in dressing rooms, studios, hotel suites and A&R offices than maybe if you were there. It's writer's intuition and journalistic skill; in describing Elvis Presley's unease in the presence of Colonel Tom Parker, all Hilburn wrote was that Elvis starting using the word "sir" again. Hilburn addresses both albums and tracks he likes and dismisses in the same even, stoic tone, possibly one of the fairest critics I've ever read. He leaves it to you to make up your mind a lot, which is the greatest respect a writer can afford his reader, I think. I have to be honest - a big part of why I enjoyed this book so much is because I feel Bob. It was like hanging out with an imaginary friend that you could talk Bruce Springsteen with all day and night.

Who wouldn't like that?