I don't generally care for memoirs, but several things drew me to this one and convinced me to try it out. I'm almost the same age as the author, and like him I grew up with indie music, made a gazillion mix tapes, and even lived in Charlottesville, Virginia for a few years, patronizing many of the establishments, and driving the same roads mentioned in his book. And I have to admit that when I saw that each chapter opened with a mix tape track listing, I was pretty sure this was my kind of book. Unfortunately, despite these positive indicators, it never overcame my distaste for the genre.
It's a pretty straightforward book: a paean to the author's dead wife, which basically boils down to "she was awesome" and "it hurts." Which is fine, and no doubt very therapeutic for Sheffield to express, but ultimately not that interesting. Theirs was a case of opposites attracting over mutual love of music -- he a shy Boston Irish-Catholic music nerd, and she an outgoing Southern quasi-punk chick. Sheffield outlines his life prior to meeting Renee, his eight years with her, and the aftermath of her sudden death.
This is all more or less done through the lens of the music they voraciously consumed. The mix tape track listings follow the chronology of their relationship, but don't serve any larger function, which was a bit disappointing. And even when Sheffield does write about the music, he never really captures it that well -- partly because he's wildly enthusiastic about pretty much every piece of music mentioned. This indiscriminate cheerleading for all pop music, ranging from his true loves, to so-bad-its-good stuff, to flip flopping on Pearl Jam (that's probably the moment he really lost me) make his love of music seem almost manic. Of course, to be fair, writing about music is really really really hard, and very few people are able to do it with any style and conviction.
In any event, I never really connected with Sheffield or his sad story -- which probably has more to do with me and my dislike of memoirs than it does of the book. If you like memoirs, this may well hit the right spot. It's not all doom and gloom, there are some funny parts, and when the book moves away from all the pretentious hipster-cool stuff, it can be quite charming and moving. In this sense, I was greatly reminded of Joan Didion's awful, overrated, self-indulgent grief memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, which was at its worst when she lapsed into name and place-dropping.