(Wiley)

www.wiley.com

Joolz, we hardly knew ye!

A my-life-in-music memoir so imbued with soul-baring honesty and passion it fairly screams "film treatment!", When I Grow Up might as well have been titled Juliana Hatfield: Naked. And I mean that in the most positive sense of the term, too; the music world highway is littered with pages ripped cruelly from self-serving autobiographies and "officially sanctioned" biographies that have less to do with giving the public a peek behind the psychological veil and more to do with strategically timed career moves.

The book operates on two levels, via alternating chapters: as an intimate tour diary of the cross-country trek Hatfield, drummer Freda Love and bassist Heidi Gluck (as Some Girls), along with a sound man and merch guy, undertook in August of 2003; and a chronicle of how, in Hatfield's words, "music was my religion" and how - as any religion can do - it nurtured, comforted, disillusioned, shattered, inspired and healed her. The toggling between 2003 and the past proves an effective literary device. Blow-by-blow descriptions of stinky motel rooms, indifferent club employees and overzealous Hatfield fans, along with Hatfield's increasing numbness and sense of isolation as the tour progresses, are balanced by snapshots of her Replacements-loving adolescence, her first band the Blake Babies, her transition to a solo career that crested with the early-nineties alterna-rock zeitgeist, and how she dealt with life and the music biz afterwards.

It's fascinating to learn what a performer is really thinking as she looks out at us from the stage or is signing autographs afterwards (hint: she might be stifling a meltdown because some creep is pointing a video camera at her or demanding that she inscribe all of his records). You also pick up some helpful tips, such as don't start gladhanding a musician the moment she steps offstage (let her depressurize first), and if you want to increase the chances of having a meaningful or at least positive encounter with your favorite performer, try to catch her early in the tour, not near the end when burnout is all but scripted.

It's equally fascinating, almost uncomfortably so, to learn that when Hatfield canceled a European tour promoting 1995's Only Everything, it wasn't due to "nervous exhaustion" as was reported in the music press; on a college tour in the U.S., she'd started to experience hallucinations and entertain fantasies about jumping out windows and realized she needed professional help, fast. This and other disclosures, such as Hatfield's crippling shyness, bouts of depression and body-imaging issues, certainly portray the songwriter as damaged, something she freely admits. But it's her frankness and unwillingness to play the victim card that ultimately makes her come across as likable enough that you want to root for her. She gets a happy ending, too - and no, I won't reveal it here.

The book's not a tell-all. While some people who pass through Hatfield's life are properly identified (including a number of musicians, producers and record label execs), per a lot of memoirists, she employs pseudonyms when things get too personal. A recurring love interest, characterized as the frontman for a well-known, successful band, is I.D.'d only as "RJ", and since he's portrayed as fairly self-destructive with a lot of the same character flaws as the author, it only makes sense that Hatfield wouldn't want to call him out needlessly. (It is intriguing, however, to speculate.) Another old friend, described as a one-time paramour ("we became more than friends") and musical collaborator, is given the name "Hank," although it doesn't take an Einstein to figure out what popular musician from Tucson he actually is.

Also, one thing that Hatfield does steer clear of is discussing the semi-stalker incidents that have reportedly cropped up from time to time over the course of her career. It's common knowledge that Hatfield has attracted her share of obsessive fans, something her own bandmates point out from time to time while on tour, but aside from relating the events of one evening in Tucson involving an obviously disturbed young man who intimidates her then threatens her soundman, Hatfield pretty much skirts the issue. Probably a wise decision anyway, since stalkers, generally unable to consummate their obsessions, feed off any attention or acknowledgment and the general rule of thumb should always be, don't encourage ‘em, even indirectly. (BLURT, in fact, has been the recipient of bizarre emails from one such unhinged Hatfield fan, and if anyone reading this has experienced something similar you should go to this section of Hatfield's website for an explanation.)

But other than that, Hatfield seems remarkably open with her personal history, the good, the bad and the ugly - with no shortage of her own psychological ugliness and how she's forced herself to confront it in order to, as the book title declares, "grow up." Oh, and anyone expecting her to take the revisionist route - say, like Dylan did with his Chronicles: Volume One - is in for a surprise here. Hatfield's not Dylan, and she doesn't appear to have much tolerance for myth-building.

And you know what? That's good. Because in the final estimation, When I Grow Up is a hundred times more revealing than Chronicles was. Come to think of it, it's a lot more entertaining, too. FRED MILLS