Books like Master of Reality — picked by fans

In its ambition and sweep across time and political upheavals as well as musical styles, this book may have been the closest thing I had to a model for my book.

Part musical memoir and part capsule history of the American South’s era of integration, Dixie Lullaby was written by longtime music journalist Mark Kemp – a man who grew up in Asheboro, North Carolina in the 1960s and ’70s and has the Lynyrd Skynyrd and Allman Brothers records to prove it.

Winston-Salem native Folds is the focus of one of my chapters, as a truly unlikely success story.

At the height of the grunge era of 1990s alternative rock, he led Ben Folds Five, a piano trio that played catchy pop dubbed “punk rock for sissies.” Somehow, they had a hit single with a downcast ballad about teenage abortion.

Folds is an unexpected character himself, a musical prodigy who became a quirky multi-media star after his hitmaking days ran out. His 2019 memoir is a fantastic window into his artistic process, as well as his just-do-it worldview.

He’s been one of my favorite interview subjects over the years.

While I got to watch a lot of North Carolina music history unfold in real time, a great deal of it happened before I was born.

Fortunately, when it came to Piedmont blues, I had the work of English folklorist Bruce Bastin to draw on. With Cryin’ for the Carolinas and its 1986 companion volume Red River Blues: The Blues Tradition in the Southeast, Bastin gives an essential portrait of the 1930s vintage scene in Durham, North Carolina.

A large cast of iconic blues musicians, many of them disabled, got by busking in and around the city’s tobacco warehouses back then, legends like Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee, Rev. Gary Davis, and Blind Boy Fuller – who wrote the song that became my book title.

Meticulously researched with extensive visuals.

One of the throughline themes of my book is the ongoing resourcefulness of the state’s musicians as they battle day jobs as well as an unfriendly music industry.

As portrayed in this highly engaging oral history, North Carolina institutions don’t get much more resourceful than Merge Records, a Chapel Hill-based independent label founded by members of the local band Superchunk.

Over the years, Merge went from putting out indie-rock seven-inch singles to topping the Billboard charts, and even winning an album-of-the-year Grammy Award.

More than one-third of a century later, both Merge and Superchunk are still at it.

I saved the best for last. Rob Halford has lived the life of the Metal God for decades. In his autobiography, Halford doesn’t shy away from anything. The title is truthful; the pages are his confession for a life lived on the edge. Halford begins with his childhood and how he grew to love singing. He has one of the widest vocal ranges in metal, and his influence over the past fifty years with Judas Priest or his solo works is undeniable. Where this autobiography stands out is Halford speaking about how he hid his homosexuality from everyone. The pain he explains is genuinely heartbreaking, and I found myself surprised by how moving his words are. Don’t get me wrong; it isn’t a sad book because Halford has fun telling his story to the world.

By the book’s end, when he comes clean to the public about his life in… show more.

Chuck Eddy cartwheels onto the page like a stoned Bart Simpson with the complete works of Lester Bangs in his back pocket.

He sees “metal” as a broad church: not a genre but a mindset, an intent, an intensity level. As such, pop, rap, jazz, funk, experimental, blues, and contemporary classical albums rub shoulders with the rock, punk, and actual heavy metal you’d expect on such a list.

It’s a hilariously opinionated read, occasionally even perverse. He’s wrong on every page, but I’m with him that the 1974 Alice Cooper Greatest Hits album may be the single greatest slab of electric music ever pressed to wax. 

If a person ever personified being a metal god, it was Lemmy. The leader for the legendary Motorhead didn’t care about how he appeared to people. Lemmy wanted to kick ass on stage and leave a legacy marked by booze and smokes. This book shines the light on how Lemmy rose to become one of the most influential vocalists and bass players in metal. If you like an irreverent look at the price of fame, this book is for you.

Nearly twenty years ago, I wondered why nobody had written about being a rock fan in the nineteen-eighties, and then I came across Seb Hunter’s Hell Bent for Leather.

Hunter’s story was very similar to mine (we’re of a similar age and based in the UK), but whereas I still love the music and look back on my ultimately futile rock star aspirations with a certain sense of pride and warmth, Hunter is dismissive of his more successful attempt, and embarrassed by his allegiance to the spandex and six strings.

So why recommend this book, I hear you say? One word – passion. His stories and opinions, though I may not agree with all of them, clearly come from the heart and cut through his often cynical but incisive narrative.

If you don’t know Poppoff, you should. He’s a genial Canuck Youtuber who also happens to be the world’s most prolific music reviewer.

An inveterate headbanger with an unquenchable thirst for loudness. In this—the book for which he’ll surely be remembered—Poppoff turns his eye on the whole prehistory of heavy metal, breaking the music down into component parts, and tracing those components backwards through time.

From psychedelia to early rock n roll, blues, jazz, classical music, all the way back to the Vikings, the Ancient Greeks, and the Battle of Jericho in 1250 BC. If there’s a better researched, more thorough, or more sweeping book about loud music on the planet Earth, I ain’t aware of it.  

The cutest book I’ve ever read about being a fan. Warm and softhearted, Chuck’s writing is literary comfort food.

A music and sports journalist turned memoirist, this is his misty-eyed look back at childhood. Like an episode of The Wonder Years all about Hair Metal. You can substitute Hair Metal for anything chronically un-cool that you ever fell in love with.

It’s a gleeful defence of the dork inside, a reminder that taste is subjective, that fashions come and go, that when we poo-poo things we’re denying ourselves potential enjoyment. There’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. Pleasure is pleasure, and there isn’t enough of it in this sorry world.

So, curl up with Klosterman and enjoy what you enjoy.