Engaging Memoir Hits Some Off Notes...
Marty Friedman, best known for his dazzling solos in Megadeth’s classic line-up and for his fusion of metal with Japanese musical styles, is a true guitar virtuoso, revered for his expressiveness and innovation. “Dreaming Japanese” is his new autobiography (co-authored with Jon Wiederhorn, so the “auto” is somewhat ambiguous). It’s a rags to riches tale, tracing Friedman’s journey from borderline penury to helping craft one of metal’s landmark albums (Megadeth’s “Rust in Peace”) yet being denied royalties for his contributions, to forging a lucrative television career in Japan and landing major endorsements.
Friedman’s varied career presents both an opportunity and a challenge for an (auto)biographer: plenty of material, but an audience with diverse expectations. Friedman and Wiederhorn do a good job though of keeping the pages turning, earning the book’s “rollicking” description on the back cover.
As with Friedman’s music, the story he tells has crushing lows (the debilitating panic attack that jeopardises his final tour with Megadeth; the death of his beloved father) and soaring highs (orgiastic performances in a barn with his early band Deuce; landing the breakthrough gig with Megadeth; performing at the opening ceremony of the Tokyo Marathon). There are also some Spinal Tap moments, such as trying to find his way to the stage for an appearance with Megadeth at the Budokan arena in Tokyo, or his tour bus driving off without him in Turkey. And the story of Friedman’s transition from one culture (the US) to another (Japan) is genuinely interesting, providing Western readers with some neat insights into Japanese customs and norms.
When it comes to his opinions on other musicians, Friedman is unfiltered. He has positive things to say about a young Alex Skolnick and praises Pat Benatar’s guitarist (and other half) Neil Giraldo, but legendary players like Page, Blackmore, and Gilmour don’t appeal to him. He “abhors” the instrument-smashing antics of The Who and Hendrix, and Eric Clapton’s “Layla” solo “nauseates” him.
Some of the most biting commentary, however, is reserved for Megadeth main man Dave Mustaine. In his book about the making of “Rust in Peace”, Mustaine had this to say about Friedman:
“granted, he was really good at lead, but he was not a well-rounded player; not a rhythmic-lead-acoustic-electric-songwriter-lyric-writer-producer-engineer. He was not all these things. He was only a lead guitar player…”
Here Friedman fires back:
“Something else I’ve never revealed is my firm belief that Dave should never have played so many solos in Megadeth. His vocabulary for solos was painfully limited. To be blunt, having him solo when I was in the band was like putting a third string player in the game and keeping the first stringer on the bench... being shut down by someone who is so limited that he plays the same phrases in almost every solo can be frustrating.”
For all of Mustaine's talents, it’s hard to argue that Friedman’s lead work wasn’t the more sophisticated of the two. This exchange alone is bound to stir debate among Megadeth fans.
As engaging as the memoir is, there are some downsides. A minor point is that in contrast to Friedman’s music, his book has somewhat shoddy production values. Instead of glossy colour photo spreads, we get grainy black-and-white snaps interspersed throughout. And given that at one point Friedman describes the misspelling of “Megadeth” on a venue marquee as “pathetic”, it’s ironic that his book is awash with typographical errors. These low-rent aspects feel oddly discordant given the evident perfectionism of Friedman’s music.
More substantively, some areas of the book feel uneven. There is extensive detail on his early bands Deuce and Hawaii, yet little about the other musicians in Cacophony (aside from Jason Becker, who is rightfully given great respect). The book also teases fascinating moments, such as auditioning for both Madonna and Megadeth in the same week, but never follows up on the Madonna audition, leaving a gap in the narrative.
Perhaps the most surprising aspect is Friedman’s portrayal of himself. As a guitarist, he exudes taste, class and finesse; as a memoirist, some of his personal reflections are less refined. Despite claiming, “The last thing I want to look like here is a male chauvinist,” he frequently reduces women to their physical attributes and sexual affordances and proclaims himself a “slave to pussy”. Of course, rock memoirs often feature tales of debauchery, but given Friedman’s distinctive career path and sophisticated musical persona, readers might expect a more evolved perspective. For me it was a let down to discover that this assiduous student of “multifaceted ethnic music, ranging from Chinese opera to Middle Eastern traditional motifs” is kind of a frat bro.
At one point, Friedman writes of the importance of preserving some mystique: “for the sake of the fans, I’ve always tried not to burst the bubble of whatever cool impression they may have of me.” What a shame he didn’t adhere to this principle here. As it is, we get two full pages about the intricacies of his teenage masturbatory routine, and learn that he liked to listen to the Runaways when he was “just about to bust a nut.”
Some readers will have preferred to learn more about the intricacies of his music. By contrast, pretty much all Friedman says about his most celebrated musical contribution, his solo in Megadeth’s song “Tornado of Souls”, is that it “impresses people simply because it’s long.” While his frustration that so much emphasis is given to a solo he played 35-odd years ago is understandable, this dismissive assessment seems excessively self-deprecating – and also a little patronising to the thousands of fans who picked up their guitars when they first heard it.
Of course, he’s partly right about what makes the solo so popular: it is long – a full minute – and the extended run-time allows more of his signature phrasing to shine. But that alone can’t account for its broad appeal. Friedman’s contribution aside, no doubt there’s a kind of preferential attachment process operating (a musical “Matthew effect”), whereby initial positive evaluations of the solo ramify over time, until it just becomes received wisdom that the solo is iconic. And Dave Mustaine’s contribution shouldn’t be underestimated either – the chord sequence he lays down for Friedman to solo over is fantastic (six repetitions of a thematic variant of the chords in the song’s verse and chorus, with some chromatic flavouring mixed in).
Indeed, part of the magic of the song’s solo section is the interplay between Mustaine’s rhythm and Friedman’s lead. I’m not sure whether Friedman is playing in harmonic lock-step with an unorthodox Mustaine chord sequence (in particular, he spells out an E major chord, which is a harmonic curveball given the apparent key of B natural minor), or whether his note choices define a harmonically ambiguous power chord sequence. Either way, Friedman takes the listener on an unforgettable journey. The solo’s sparkling centrepiece is an ascending series of lilting, arpeggiated figures he plays over the third repetition of these chords, recapitulated to stunning effect in the high-velocity two-string arpeggios of the fifth. Mind blown.
A deeper breakdown of the creative process behind his other solos would have been a treasure trove for guitarists (“Tornado” aside, my own personal favourites are in “Poison was the Cure” (from Rust in Peace), “Be” (from Friedman’s album “Introduction”) and “River of Longing – Reprise” (from Jason Becker’s album “Collection”)). But it’s not a book that unpacks his playing in depth.
Ultimately, “Dreaming Japanese” lands at the intersection of multiple audiences: guitar obsessives, Megadeth diehards, rock memoir readers, and those fascinated by Friedman’s Japanese career. Some will want in-depth musical analysis, others tales of rock bacchanalia, and still others insights into the interior world of an artist they admire. The book reflects Friedman’s own eclectic career—a fascinating, if sometimes uneven, journey.
Despite its flaws, the man is redeemed by his music, and it’s perhaps there that the true Marty Friedman is to be found, not on the page. To be fair, Friedman the writer might not know exactly what’s going on under the bonnet of Friedman the musician. Indeed, it shows some integrity that he doesn’t come up with elaborate post-hoc rationalisations of what he was trying to achieve in a particular solo. He’s a deeply intuitive musician who can “literally just wing it”, as he’s said in interviews. That may be our loss as readers, but it remains our gain as listeners.