This book is an engaging, densely detailed history of San Francisco rock-'n'-roll from 1965 to 1971. It opens with the Charlatans giving birth to San Francisco rock and ends with the death of poor ol' Pigpen.

Selvin writes in great detail about how bands formed, learned (or didn't learn) how to deal with the music business, and broke up. It's a tell-all about who slept with who, the types of drugs each musician used and where and when they OD'ed, and the details of their recording contracts. To hear Selvin tell it, Janis Joplin bedded just about every male rocker in the business-- except for Jerry Lee Lewis: she got into a fistfight with him! Bill Graham's monstrous ego gets full play, until you get sick of reading about his temper tantrums and underhanded dealing.

But the book's title is misleading, for a couple reasons. For one thing, the summer of 1967 is completely absent from the book! The chronology jumps from spring to fall and ignores the summer altogether. Perhaps this was Selvin trying to emphasize his stark assertion in the book's first sentence: "The Summer of Love never really happened." But why he would deliberately omit the central scene of the whole saga is incomprehensible.

The other thing lacking in this book is a sense of the whole Zeitgeist of the Haight-Ashbury hippie scene. The book has a focus on nothing but rock-'n'-roll music. Any mention of any other cultural aspects of hippie life, like folk music, the Human Be-In, the flower children, the communal Diggers, the arts and crafts, the antiwar movement, the Eastern mysticism, the wider scope of everything that went into the Haight scene, gets no mention except insofar as it directly relates to the story of the rock-'n'-roll bands. This is a book specifically about music, not about all the many things that went into making San Francisco the hippie mecca.

Rock-'n'-roll was of course a central feature of the scene, and deserves a book all its own like this one. It just isn't the last word on it, as the title seems to promise. It doesn't give the reader a feel for the complete Haight-Ashbury experience. An accurate title would be "Rock Music in San Francisco, 1965-1971", or more accurately, "Rock Music in the Bay Area, 1965-1971."

But it does give plenty of information about the unique personalities that made all that amazing music, how they developed their sound, the personal and professional pitfalls they encountered. It shows their development from naive groups of young people beginning by playing in cafes and garages and eventually hitting the big time, bringing their local little music scene, where everyone knew everyone else, onto the world stage.

"Summer of Love" may have been a bit over the top with it's tabloid style coverage of the rise and fall of the San Francisco music scene, but it was a fun read. Author Joel Selvin does have his facts straight and seldom misspeaks on this insider's account of bands like the Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead and Quicksilver Messenger Service. Selvin devotes a fair amount of coverage of the Bill Graham organization and the Family Dog, the primary promoters of live music in the old ballrooms of San Francisco. That coverage is justified because it is doubtful that this music would have found a national audience without the vibrant live music scene in the Fillmore and Avalon ballrooms. And it is all there: Quicksilver's obsession with firearms; the Lovin' Spoonful's narking out on the manager of the improv group, the Committee; Janice Joplin's turbulent love life; Marty Balin's courageous attempts to diffuse the violence at Altamont, the internal bickering of the Grateful Dead which lead them to serve "walking papers" to Pig Pen and Bob Weir for not having enough musical talent, and Bill Graham's fisticuffs with just about anyone who disagreed with him. If you loved the music of Haight-Ashbury, you will enjoy "Summer of Love." Oh by the way, the expression "summer of love" was just a media label for the San Francisco music phenomena and I think some of the other critics have taken the book title too literally.

Am I the only one who finds it odd that a book entitled "Summer of Love" is missing the chapter called "Summer 1967?" Or was that intentional? The chapter called Spring 1967 precedes the photo section in the middle of the book, ending with the words "Monterey International Pop Festival." After the photo section, we're suddenly in "Fall 1967," with the words "The so-called Summer of Love left San Francisco in a mess..." What happened? Did I get a copy without that chapter? The pages are continuously numbered... I would have rated this a 5, but I feel gypped!

I once read in an interview given of the late Rick Nelson's son, where he was asked about a recent biography at that time about his father. I remember verbatim what he said, in that he recommended nobody read this the book, and was amazed at what people will do to make money. Out of respect and loyalty I didn't read it. As a few years had past, I had by accident came across this biography at the library, and curiosity overcame and I read it. In the beginning of the book I liked the little story about greek mythology, as I studied it in school. I shut the book when I read a bad word, as I don't use words, and don't hear much either. I found this biography to be rather disparaging. I think, the songs of his life captures the true essence. It's all in the listening. Over the years I have relatives and friends that have known or met members of the whole Nelson family, and had asked what were they like. The word gracious was mentioned more than once. As that word can apply to many.The Nelson family were and are exactly as they appear. After finishing the book in an hour, I discovered it was constructive, at least, in understanding why my mother and great-aunt don't play bridge. And, why his son said what he did in that article ten years ago. He inherited, at least, two things from his father: musical talent and personal integrity. Rick Nelson lived an extraordinary life, and always remained his own person and part of his life he couldn't share. He was always uncompromisingly true to his convictions.

Joel Selvin set out to destroy Rick Nelson's reputation with his book, and he succeeded. He seeks to disparage Rick as a person at every turn, even when praising his music. Ozzie Nelson doesn't come off mu ch better in this mean-spirited book. Gunnar and Matthew Nelson have gone on record as being against this book, and that's enough for me.

Singing Fats Domino's "I'M WALKIN'" as part of his parents' sit-com (OZZIE & HARRIET SHOW), it probably seemed that this was just a ratings gimmick in response to the current "fad" of rock & roll.
Although that particular performance is less than inspiring (and an insult to Fats Antoine Domino), Ricky soon found his voice and with major assistance from guitarist Jim Burton and good material from the Burnette brothers, Gene Pitney and others, Ricky (later "maturing" to just RICK) left an indelible stamp on the roots of rock & roll, and even managed a hit with a personal social comment ("GARDEN PARTY").
Along with Elvis, Little Richard, and the aforementioned Fats, Rick Nelson is a vital component of the roots of the music that turned out to be a "bit" more than just a "fad".
Put "POOR LITTLE FOOL", "NEVER BE ANYONE ELSE BUT YOU" or "HELLO MARY LOU" on your CD player (or even better, on your turntable!!) and read about Ozzie's boy.
A good solid read..

... The "collage of voices" approach endemic to oral history leads in this case to a frustrating, almost indigestible mess. Dave Marsh warns in his editor's note to the For The Record series of which this volume is a part, "if an artist isn't especially interested in what happens in the recording studio but has a fascination with what happens in hotel rooms after live gigs, that's what you'll get." So, instead of getting more than the barest glimpse inside the studio during the recording of There's A Riot Going On, surely one of the deepest albums in all of American popular music history, we are given page after page devoted to the band's sex lives, taste in drugs, and even their surprising if unilluminating avocation as collective dog fanciers (really!). What's missing, literally, is Sly's voice, which leaves a gaping hole in the center of the narrative. By connecting the dots one can glean a few insights about the music from the mass of bleary anecdotes herein, but aren't authors and editors are supposed to do that for you? If you're in the market for a mess of depressing gossip, this will be your meat; if you're seeking insight into the man's (and the group's) brilliant music, look elsewhere.

I have long believed that Sly and The Family Stone are quite possibly the most under-rated rock band ever. They may be enshrined the RnR Hall of Fame, but their records are now unfairly viewed as nothing more than oldies radio fare.

In their time they were revolutionaries who broke down the barriers between "black music" and "white music"; in the process, they were instrumental in creating what later became known as "Funk".

When I found out about this book, I was thrilled. AT LAST---some insight into WHY the band made the music that they did!

No such luck here.

Crammed with lurid, voyeuristic, tales of excess and decline that sadly became the band's legacy, For the Record offers little insight into just what went into creating the music and records.

While readers might have loved to have found out something about Sly's inspiration for There's A Riot Goin' On, beyond "he was taking a lot of drugs"---that's about all that's offered here.

No doubt, the fact that drug casualty Sly was not available to offer his insights made the author's task more difficult(impossible?), you gotta believe that there had to have been SOME people with a little more insight into THE MUSIC of Sly Stone, rather than just the ugliness that went on behind the scenes.

It should have been better.

I thought this was a decent book with some good anecdotes and stories. One thing to consider--even though it may not be a literary masterpiece, it IS a book about Sly, and it does cover a lot of his activities, both as a DJ and then as the perenially F*d up bandleader for probably the funkiest band in history. That fact, in and of itself, makes it worth reading. To me, an average book about Sly is always better than a great book on lesser topics.

By the way, isn't Sly still alive? Doesn't that exempt him from technically being a "drug casualty?"