Perhaps my expectations were high. I love Mike Doughty's fabulously jazz-infused poetry, the lyrical element that made Soul Coughing a poetic force, the poetry one still finds in the man's solo efforts. And I had hoped for some sense of the same in this memoir. That was not the case.
The Book of Drugs, while revelatory about an artist whom I admire and whose music I still very much enjoy, was - I'm sorry to say - somewhat dull, lackluster in its crafting and construction. And Doughty's smoldering resentments at his former band-mates, unnecessary litany of women with whom he had sex during that time of his life, and often inexplicable and distantly tangential rambling didn't add to its literary merit.
I get it - the man needed to tell his story - what it was like, what happened, and what it's like now. Perhaps he just didn't need to publish it.