Ever since the days of such musical artists as Cole Porter and Hoagy Carmichael, there have been a plethora of very fine American songwriters, and of course everyone has their favorites. But in my lifetime, the two giants, who have truly delighted me and enriched the soundtrack of my life, have been Burt Bacharach (and his lyricist, Hal David) and Jimmy Webb, the greatest of them all. (I consider Bob Dylan a poet, more than a songwriter.) From my adolescence, when Bacharach was just getting his start with such singers as the great Dionne Warwick, his music has been a constant joy. I admired him.

Until I read this book. His music will always soar, somewhere in the more shallow recesses of my heart, and still occupy a large part of my personal "playlist." But Bacharach the man, as described in this autobiography, is a scoundrel, an egomaniac, and a roué. It is not for me to list his shortcomings; he does that quite well himself, although he seems to view them as strengths. Even in the face of a personal tragedy which I will not describe, Bacharach was primarily devoted to sexual conquests and personal disloyalties. This book is testament to the sad fact that even the most talented people can be utterly wretched human beings. Hence, my rating.

Not recommended. ( )