From my poison pen & my killer keyboard , here is my book review of The Mushroom Tapes
THE MUSHROOM TAPES — REVIEW
A more accurate title might have been The Mushroom Scrapes—because for all its promise, this book feels more like a graze than a deep cut. And while we’re at it, what is going on with that green cover? More on that later.
Of the three books published so far about the Erin Patterson trial, The Mushroom Tapes was the one I anticipated most. With three highly respected authors—Helen Garner, Chloe Hooper and Sarah Krasnostein—joining forces, the expectations were lofty. The cover promises “Conversations on a triple murder trial.” And yes, the book does contain those conversations.
What it also contains, unexpectedly and disappointingly, is a scatter of cheap shots tossed at members of the public who attended the court proceedings.
From writers of this calibre, it’s startling.
The trio seem to forget that while the book documents their experience of the trial, it also documents them. And the tone that emerges is less “illuminating legal observers” and more “Mean Girls: Literary Edition.” At times, they appear like the too-cool table at school—aloof, amused, and ever so slightly “holier than thou.”
They’re deservedly generous in their praise for Pastor Wilkinson’s grace. Yet they seem to misplace their own by resorting to calling ordinary court attendees “The Real Housewives of Morwell,” as if members of the public simply sitting in the gallery were fair game for ridicule.
A warm, colourful regular was reduced to “Rainbow Man,” and they suggest—casually, carelessly—that he was “probably tripping the whole time.” A curious conclusion, given “Rainbow Man” has over a million followers online and could have been identified simply by asking for his name.
To make matters worse, the coven also comment that “everyone in this court is probably somewhere on the domestic spectrum from moderately to desperately disappointed”; this final statement is one which I can not fathom a group of respected, empowered, intelligent authors making, yet here we are.
Throughout the book, the authors appear vaguely disapproving of those who came to observe the trial. Yet, in a twist of irony, these same observers—or people very much like them—are the ones now buying the $36.99 book (after the abandoned podcast idea) and paying $29–$39.50 to attend the Melbourne Town Hall event, thereby contributing directly to what is, undeniably, the monetisation of tragedy.
The irony is almost fluorescent.
The authors emphasise their commitment to accuracy—particularly during their visit to the house in Gibson Street, Leongatha. But that commitment seems not to have extended to meaningful conversations with the regular court watchers. Instead, the book invents caricatures rather than portraying actual people. Personas are created out of thin air, bearing little resemblance to the individuals who showed up day after day with dignity, curiosity, and respect.
And let’s set one record straight: the book’s suggestion that most public attendees were furiously note-taking is simply wrong. On any given day, perhaps two or three people had notepads. Hardly the frenzied scribble-fest described. The book also implies that regular attendees tried to take courtroom selfies with Erin Patterson.
Not so.
A handful of one-off visitors attempted such nonsense—and were promptly ejected, with any images deleted under the watch of court staff and security. Regular watchers were consistently courteous and dismayed by such behaviour.
Justice must be seen to be done, yes. But accuracy must be seen to be written.
I read the book in two days—part fascination, part disbelief.
Having attended the Wheeler Centre event at Melbourne Town Hall on a cold, wet night (November 10th, 2025), I had already felt flickers of what was to come. I collected my signed copy beforehand, full of anticipation.
The event, like the book, offered hints of brilliance but also flashes of something far less palatable.
Which brings me back to that cover.
That green.
Before reading the book, I wondered why. After finishing it, I still wondered.
Green can signify envy, illness, renewal, nature, greed, even luck. Perhaps it was meant to evoke the natural world—or maybe the colour of the mushrooms themselves. Or perhaps, unintentionally, it reflects something else entirely: a haze of judgement, a tint of superiority, a shade of the discord between what the authors hoped the project would be and what it ultimately became.
Whatever the case, The Mushroom Tapes left me pondering—but not for the reasons its authors might have hoped