All That Glitters


Author: Pearl Lowe

Finished on: 4 January 2016

Where did I get this book: Lent to me by a friend (in 2016, so it counts towards my TBR challenges!)

Mount TBR Challenge: 2

#RockMyTBR January: 2

It’s always nice to have a reminder, if we needed it, that fame, money and a glamorous lifestyle don’t lead to happiness. That the simple pleasures of family, good friends, books and the countryside are what makes life worth living, even for those who seem to have it all.

That is the conclusion that Lowe comes to, eventually, in 2007 at the end of her book.

It’s a good message. Which is lucky, because there is little else here to recommend this tale of sex, vast quantities of drugs, and rock and roll excess in the 90s, told from the heart of the Britpop phenomenon. I don’t mean to make light of Lowe’s struggles. Drug addiction is a serious business. And I congratulate Lowe on getting clean, and wish her all the luck in the world staying so. But god, this book is repetitive. Lowe and her narrative are equally strung out.

It does perk up a bit when she’s talking about her daughter Daisy Lowe’s paternity, Gavin Rossdale of Bush fame acting like a twat, and sideways digs at Gwen Stefani. But when you consider that this is her daughter’s father we’re talking about, and how his behaviour, or at least Lowe’s version of his behaviour (not to mention this public airing of it), must make the gorgeous rumba-dancing Daisy feel, this also leaves a bitter taste in the mouth.

It’s not that I am averse to a rock and roll autobiography. Indeed I count Slash: The Autobiography amongst my favourite books of all time. But this was such dirge I even wondered if she had actually written it herself without the help of a professional. But no, it is ghost written. Not that the book explicitly acknowledges this at any point (unlike Slash, who gives joint credit to his ghost writer – but let’s not get me started on all the reasons why Slash is immeasurably superior to every other rock star in the history of rock stardom).

This book was lent to me by my friend whose favourite writer of all time is Salman Rushdie, who I have never read. We have talked about doing a kind of celebrity death match book-off where we read a work by each other’s desert island writer and then compare notes. I am slightly worried now though, and will have to check Rushdie’s writing bears no resemblance to this?



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