I know this book and Moby himself is getting a lot of hate about parts of this book. But I really enjoyed it. For me it was a very honest look of a man who struggled with fame and found life hard to live for many years. I think many people will write off this book based on mainstream reviews, but that’s a real shame. The book and it anecdotes are very well written and I would recommend that people listen to the audiobook as Moby himself narrates and I think he does a fabulous job. ( )

Moby's first autobiography, "Porcelain", covered his life in New York City from 1989 to 1999. This book carries on from 1999, slightly onwards until 2008.

Most autobiographies by pop musicians capture glib, filtered-out moments in a musician's life, for example, Neil Strauss' book on Mötley Crüe, and others plod along while losing the plot to what a ghostwriter hoped would be glimmers that would carry a book over any obstacles, e.g. that very same book.

Moby circumvents this slightly. First, I believe that this book is better than the first one; this is not due to the fact that this book is far more sensationalistic than the formerly released one, but this one shows how alcoholism and other types of addiction lead to the same result, despite his hanging around celebrities and making millions of monies.

I was a lonely alcoholic, and I desperately wanted to love someone and be loved in return. But every time I tried to get close to another human being I had crippling panic attacks that kept me isolated and alone.

At times, I almost felt his paragraphs of rich-boy-weeping-over-fame-and-money style felt nearly jeering, but as they bulked up and went on and on—in a good way—one can easily see that yes, money does not buy you love. It buys you expensive drugs and drink, yes.

I’d had a few successful years of making music, and sold tens of millions of records, but now my career was sputtering. I couldn’t find love or success, so I tried to buy happiness. Three years earlier I had spent $6 million in cash on a luxury penthouse apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It had been my dream home: five stories on the top of an iconic limestone building overlooking Central Park. Having grown up on food stamps and welfare, I’d assumed that moving to a castle in the sky would bring me happiness. But as soon as I moved into my Upper West Side penthouse I was as sad and anxious as I’d been in my small loft on Mott Street.

One of the boons throughout this book, is Moby's ability to jump between timeslots throughout his life, for example between his starting his first punk band in 1984, intertwined with his inability to stay straight when attending a David Lynch retreat.

Also, Moby digs a bit deeper into his childhood in this book.

My father drove into a wall and killed himself. He and my mother had been living in a basement apartment in Harlem with Jamie, their dog, Charlotte, their cat, three rescued lab rats, and me. One night after a bad fight with my mom, my dad got drunk and drove into the base of a bridge on the New Jersey Turnpike at a hundred miles an hour.

There are tautly kept paragraphs that seemingly contain oodles of after-the-fact-attained wisdom, so easily packed in-between notes of sex and drink, that sleepy readers might miss them.

For all my life I’d wanted nothing more than to love and be loved. But whenever I found someone to love the panic intervened, screaming at me until I retreated to my solitary world. Some very deep part of my brain was protecting me vigilantly and wanted me to be alone. As soon as I did the panic’s bidding and ended whatever relationship I was in, the panic abated. This tautology of panic had been going on for years now. I held onto the increasingly naive hope that someday I’d meet a perfect, kind woman, and with her I’d finally break the cycle.

Some short lines stay in my memory due to the fact of how they stick out from the rest of the text, for example "I filled a glass with Coke and small slices of ice that came from the front of the refrigerator. I took a sip. The bubbles hit my nose and smelled like roses and fruit."

What does not, however, make this book truly spring into the annals of music literature, is that Moby is seemingly still an animal who is trapped by his own nerddom, needily namedropping at any moment's notice, such as with this vapid paragraph:

After the show I drank champagne and vodka in my dressing room with Ewan McGregor. After a few drinks I decided that he and I should go out and drink more, but that I should be naked. Sandy, my tour manager, urged me, “Moby, at least put on a towel.”

So I went out in downtown Melbourne wearing a towel. No shoes. No clothes. Just a towel. Ewan and I stumbled from bar to bar, getting drunker and drunker. At the end of the night we ended up in a subterranean bar filled with Australian celebrities. I’d had ten or fifteen drinks, so I went to the bathroom to pee, and found myself standing at a urinal next to Russell Crowe.

He zipped up his pants, and then pushed me against the wall of the bathroom and started screaming at me. “Uh, we’ve never met,” I tried to say. “Why are you yelling at me?” He never told me, but he kept me pinned against the wall while he shouted and screamed. After a minute he lost interest, cursed a few times, and stumbled out of the bathroom.

I went back to the bar and told Ewan, “Russell Crowe just yelled at me.” “Fuck, mate,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He yells at everyone.”

Despite those moments, it's obviously sublime to Moby, that he has managed to play "New Dawn Fades" live together with New Order.

The book continuously picks up momentum through paragraphs like the following one, making me think of Emperor Nero as Rome was burning to the ground:

While the last samples were slowly loading, I walked down the hall to the bathroom. My hallway was filling up with framed gold and platinum records. Before Play I’d never received a single one. And now Play had gone gold or platinum in twenty-five different countries, so more framed awards were arriving every week. I didn’t know what to do with them, so they were stacked on top of each other and leaning against the wall in my long hallway.

The book does suffer from the many namedrops, the oodles of times spent drinking, having sex, and doing drugs, plus all of the downfalls from that; I wish it had gone on as it begun, but still, I will gladly read a third autobiography from Moby. There is surely one in his head, and hopefully in the works. ( )