In theory, there’s no reason for anyone to pick up the autobiography of a not particularly famous aspiring rock musician and read about his decades of struggle. But there’s something that keeps you turning the pages of Noise Damage, even though its author has already admitted that there will be no Hollywood ending. That’s chiefly thanks to his ebullient writing style, along with some hard-earned, hungover wisdom that starry-eyed hopefuls everywhere could do with a sobering dose of, along with the fizzing sense of joy Kennedy evokes from the moments that make the toiletcircuit slog worthwhile.
Exhaustion, addiction, screaming naked Germans, swine flu, therapy, label bosses fleeing the country with your cash… there’s a lot to unpack. And like the prog-funk-punk-metal stew Kennedy’s band Kyshera have made at times, it can feel selfindulgent. But if there’s one key message from this book, it’s that you’ve got to be true to yourself, even if you can sometimes count your audience on the fingers of a Twix.