Faber and Faber, 304 pages, $35
Courtney, oh, Courtney: I always defended you, threw my money at your records, and likened you to the Hillary Clinton of rock. (I know, I know.) But looking through your gorgeously glossy hardcover diary, I can’t help but notice that, as another daft frontperson with a fake-noun last name once sang, “You’re fuckin’ crazy!” Perhaps your insanity has something to do with your childhood spent in juvenile hall, your trip to the “evangilacal” [sic] born-again camp Kiwi, or your nights locked away in the “Quiet Room” — all stints that you’ve helpfully narrated here through random letters and leftover paperwork. Or, is it that your inner voice used suicide as a motivational tool for fame? As in this scribbled note: “Can’t play the Hollywood game, haven’t got a band together yet/Need a band by next year or I’ll kill myself.”
There’s some awesome stuff here, I’ve gotta admit. Like the Frances Bean baby pictures. Or the handwritten postcard by both Kurt and Courtney, reporting to the recipient that Kurt played a guitar solo for Nuno Bettencourt [?? — ed.]. Plus, I love your poetry: “I look/For the holy Fuck./In everything I see.” Lipstick kisses, mildewed edges, wine-stained composition-notebook covers duct-taped to yellow paper — this is People magazine meets Found. You gotta love that.
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