This is the memoir of Ali Smith, documenting her years spent as the bass player for New York punk band Speedball Baby as they try and crack the music scene in the 1990s. I had never come across Speedball Baby in my musical youth. Despite the fact that Ali is only three years older than me and these years were the ones when music was fairly central to my life, my tastes at this time were firmly routed in the UK indie scene, favouring the likes of The Stone Roses, Inspiral Carpets, Echo & The Bunnymen, James, Jesus Jones and The Wonder Stuff. Punk was never on my radar, particularly American punk. However, none of this stopped me being captivated and fascinated by Ali’s descriptions of life on the road.
This book is a glorious mixture of narrative, diary entries, song lyrics and photographs which bring Ali’s experiences to vivid life, so you feel like you are travelling the backroads and stomping the gritty stages in dingy clubs along with her. I could feel the rattle of the battered old van through my bones, smell the sweat and the booze and feel the prickle of fear as she faces some extremely dangerous situations. This book pulls no punches and is no glamorous, music industry fairytale. From her formative years surviving the breakdown of her parents’ marriage, living with a single mother and discovering the NYC punk scene, the story contains a lot of jeopardy and angst that is nothing like anything I have experienced or could ever have imagined living through. The contrast in the lives of myself and a girl of a similar age 4,000/ a million miles away are stark and startling.
Of course, this is the main lure of reading memoirs – living vicariously the lives of other people, lives that are so different from our own, and wondering if/how we would deal with being thrown into the same situation. This being said, there are also areas of connection and empathy, when it is only too easy to recall similar situations we have found ourselves in, particularly as women. One anecdote featuring a solo walk along a deserted highway in the midwest raised painfully familiar chills down my spine, and the feeling of being the only woman in the room also rang bells, albeit for me in the boardrooms of corporate law rather than the dressing rooms of edgy punk concerts. When it comes down to it, we can usually find common ground if we care to look, even if it’s only a penchant for black garb and Doc Martens.
An excursion into the unfamiliar and intriguing, written with honesty and an innate sense of beauty and poetry, The Ballad of Speedball Baby is once of the best musical biographies I have ever read and it mattered not a jot that I didn’t know any of the characters involved (other than Evan Dando of The Lemonheads), I was still captivated from beginning to end.