I had no idea this book was even coming and yet as soon as I did I had more anticipation than the much lauded Greenlights of last year. And no disrespect to that, but in all the ways that memoir is shallow, this one is not.

Incredible. I’d listen to Byrne narrate anything at all, let alone his memoir. He speaks with the diction of the source material he’s consumed his whole life, almost inadvertently turning a profound phrase.

Structurally, it’s very engaging too. Rather than strictly chronological, we sift through memories that feel like they springboard off one another but pay no mind to time whatsoever. And I like that a lot. We know, more-or-less, where he is now. This is no Hollywood story; every memory is steeped in honesty and the sum feels like an Irish catholic confessional.

He is literally stalked by a supposed fan after speaking about alcoholism. The fear of the stage and the death of a mother. Hope and a dream that his parents are alright. The connective tissue is a story in of itself. The roles he has taken, if you know some that are never even mentioned, make a lot more sense, even.

What must playing a psychiatrist years later after witnessing someone subjected to electroshock therapy be like.

Byrne says he had heard that all songs you love in youth break your heart when you’re old enough. What is a real haunting, if not that?

I can’t tell if this brought him any peace. It does seem he can sit in his dark room, at least.

You should, of course, listen to him narrate his own story. I feel like that goes without saying. He’s a stage actor. Just sit down and listen. You won’t regret it.