Dean Wareham is nothing if not self-lacerating. One of the on-the-road tales he tells in Black Postcards: A Rock & Roll Romance, his memoir of his years as the lead singer and songwriter for the bands Galaxie 500 and Luna,
is about his first time with a prostitute. In a legal brothel in
Hamburg, dude prematurely ejaculated. “’Schade,’ she said, which
translates, ‘It’s a shame.’” Talk about the ultimate deflation of
rock-star mythology – Black Postcards is a far cry from Hammer of the Gods.

The subtitle “Rock & Roll Romance” is meant ironically. The bleak title is far more accurate: Black Postcards is as much a chronicle of failure as of love.

It’s
hard to imagine a big audience for this book, since, as he’s the first
to admit, Wareham has never had a hit record in his life. And yet, even
as I wondered who cares about yet another gig and hotel room (a
seemingly repetitive pointlessness that is Dean’s point precisely), I
found myself anxious to return to Postcards every time I put it
down. This was partly because to some degree, I was reliving a segment
of my own obsessively insular indie-rock past. During their brief
lifespan and early in my career as a music critic, Galaxie 500 was one
of my favorite bands. I reviewed them for The Village Voice and
later, met Dean, Damon, and Naomi when they were recording at Kramer’s
Noise New York studio. I wound up living around the corner from Wareham
in the East Village and used to run into him on Bowery often. We’d stop
to chat about what we were listening to, or whatever; Dean was always
personable, and I liked his wife, Claudia. I remember being floored
when he told me that he had landed Stanley Demeski to play with Luna;
we both raved about the Feelies drummer’s economical way with a snare.  

But that was years ago; I moved, and only peripherally stayed attuned to Dean’s career and personal life. Reading Postcards was
a bit of a surreal experience: I knew the action and players intimately
in the first half, but the end was still a mystery to me. I really
wanted to know what happened to this old acquaintance I suddenly knew
better than ever. (People have told me they’ve had similar reactions to
my book; now I get it.)

Well, nothing much happens, yet like the crazy rhythms Demeski gets out of a few spare drumbeats, it’s a lot. Postcards is a chronicle of the life of an Ivy League-educated, moderately successful indie/modern/alt rocker (choose your sobriquet). Up and Down With the Rolling Stones it’s
not. There’s a fair amount of Ecstasy but barely any groupies. Kramer
and former male prostitute/talent scout Terry Tolkin are interesting
side characters, but they’re not Truman Capote or Marianne Faithfull.
The biggest plot development is when Wareham leaves Claudia and their
young son Jack, after taking up with Luna bassist Britta Phillips.
Confessing his constant crying, Wareham is not afraid to come across as
a sensitive sad sack. But clearly, he can be a bit of an asshole too.

Dean
always seemed sad (best bedroom eyes in alt rock), smart (Harvard), and
wryly sardonic to me, and that’s definitely how he comes across in his
memoir. He never sentimentalizes or mythologizes. He’s surprisingly
funny, in a flip way. His bands may never have become as big as
Metallica or Nirvana. But his literate audience is probably large
enough to eat up Black Postcards. And as Liz Phair said in her NY Times review of the book, Wareham definitely captures an era and a way of life.

Still,
I don’t really buy it when Wareham laments having sacrificed the
“normal” life of a suburban family to being a musician. Being a band
leader and a good husband is no easy balancing act. But I don’t believe
for a minute that Wareham’s going to disappear into New Jersey and
become an accountant now that Luna is disbanded. After all, he’s
already found a second artistic career, one he’s pretty good at. And
book tours are much less grinding than rock ‘n’ roll ones.