Unless you're particularly interested in one non-musician's very vague and spotty memories of the folk music revival days in Greenwich Village in the sixties, don't bother with this book. It's poorly written, very poorly organized. Too, the whole memoir seemed unenthusiastic. It didn't even feel as if she tried very hard. I mean, if your life is worth writing a memoir, at least give us a little energy!
Of particular offense to me was how the author appropriated lines from Dylan's work to conclude "chapters" in her life. The implication was that she, or some incident in which she was involved, had specifically inspired the referenced work, but the information she provided in the preceding "chapter" did not in any way prove that that had happened.
WARNING! SPOILER COMING: The very most offensive part of the book, though, was her telling the world about her pregnancy and abortion. I mean, come on, girl -- keep that personal! I couldn't help but wonder how Dylan's children must have felt when they read that.
Suze Rotolo needs to go back to doing whatever it is that she does best, which certainly is not writing.
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