Singer-songwriter’s second volume of memoirs is a hymn to following your dream, not the almighty dollar
By Ben Wood
In late 2024, this writer was impressed by an album of rootsy garage-rock by an artist he’d never heard of before. Amy Rigby‘s Hang In There With Me had a DIY sensibility, classic three-minute songwriting chops and poetic, down-to-earth lyrics. Songs such as Dylan in Dubuque had a kind of Tom Petty vibe: country-tinged, low-slung cool from someone who sounded like she’d seen some shit and come out the other side with her soul intact. It sounded lived-in, rough-edged and agreeably human.
It inspired him to check out Rigby’s gig at indie shoebox The Waiting Room, in Stoke Newington. Backed by her second husband Eric Goulden, aka former Stiff Records icon Wreckless Eric, Rigby kicked arse. Where had she been up ’til now? What inspired her to keep playing the same small venues, year after year, when many lesser talents are playing arenas?
This second volume of memoirs gives the answer. The well-received Girl to City (which, full disclosure, Bearded has not read) told the story of Rigby’s Pittsburgh childhood, her discovery of New York’s 70s punk scene and her move from scenester to musician with the bands Last Roundup and The Shams. It ended with her releasing 1996’s solo debut Diary Of A Mod Housewife to great reviews but few sales due to minimal distribution. You may be detecting a pattern here…
This follow-up is a diaristic, no-frills account of Rigby’s peripatetic mid-90s to mid-Noughties existence as she exits her marriage to decent guy Will, one of many drummer lovers (must be the sense of rhythm). It’s an endless battle as our heroine struggles to support her empathetic, smart and musically minded daughter Hazel, taking temp work when necessary as she searches for love, success and rent money through endless small tours and potential career breaks. The journey includes a move to Nashville (she’s always been a big country fan) and a spell in Cleveland, before she meets the love of her life, Mr Whole Wild World himself, and moves to rural France.
Rigby never makes it rich – and indeed, the one time she enjoys material comfort, it’s ‘Thanks’ to Charles, a controlling arsehole businessman who gives her a BMW and a laptop and constantly belittles her. The moral of the story? Stick to music guys, they are far better fun and way less likely to look down on you. By the time charming English geezer Eric turns up on the scene, it’s like their meeting is foretold – and the reader cheers at Rigby’s well-deserved happy ending.
The book is strong on incidental detail, the little victories and challenges of a life where money is always a struggle, cars are old and break down, and survival is impossible without the support of true friends. Rigby, like her heroine Patti Smith, is eloquent in her praise of those musicians who have followed their star and never sold out for the easy buck. Dylan, Warren Zevon, Dolly Parton, Steve Earle, Johnny Ramone, Gina Birch from the Raincoats and Sid Griffin, the man who spread the gospel of cosmic Americana, all receive due tribute.
It’s like an extended indie-rock catechism: success rests in those little epiphanies where friends save the day with a generous offer; charity shops hide much-loved bargain buys; gigs in tiny bars feel like bigger successes than soulless corporate gigs. All the time, she tries to persuade her dad that her lifestyle is persevering with as she attempts to hone her craft and stay true to the source. Garage rock, pure pop, classic rock, country, Brill Building and punk, all have something to teach her.
Rigby is sweet about her love for her brothers and parents, and funny about the traits she picked up in New York. She continues writing and playing as New York gentrifies and prices her out, the music industry collapses and an office job beckons. The only time she goes against her instincts and tries to live the straight life, she ends up with a sneering psycho yuppie. In the end, her book shows that it is possible to dedicate yourself to rock n’ roll while remaining a decent human who doesn’t destroy herself.
Like many of us, Rigby is a study in contradictions. A lover of NY outsider cool with a love of homespun country music, and an American to her bones who ends the book in rural France. By the end of the book, it’s the mid-2000s and she is still doing what she loves. How many people can say that? 8/10
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