I am... disgusted. I am disappointed, but most of all, I am so motherfucking FURIOUS it's a miracle I don't have a stormy cloud raining above my head and spitting shit like a fan to those around me.
This motherfucking book.
I decided to pick this book for two main reasons: first, obviously, because I was interested in reading about Freddie (not the Legend or the Rockstar, but the man: the friend, the husband, the cat owner of a man who was so largely elusive to the public eye). My second reason, the one that strengthened my eagerness to read this, was the fact that I had encountered many reviews of the mixed sort. There was literally no middle ground among the readers: they either loved it (and loved Jim for writing it) or loathed it (and resented Jim). I was so ready to break my own pattern and willing to fall in a third category... But then this whole book happened.
Anyone with a basic, minimum, microscopic knowledge of Queen (and Freddie specifically) surely knows that Fred was a very private man. The guy made music and he felt that his art was the only thing the public was entitled to get from him (and he wasn't wrong). He also had a very close-knit "family" of people he trusted the most, and even they didn't get to know all there was about him.
Thus far, nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the fact that this book proceeds to shit on every single last one of Freddie's principles, since it's a thorough, explicit, detailed, uncalled for recount of the life (the *private* aspects of life) mr. Jim Hutton shared with Freddie.
In this book you will find Jim talking about: Freddie's sexual appetites; Freddie's tendency to throw a childish tantrum whenever he didn't get his way (which sounds ridiculous if you listen to the people who really knew them and really loved him, and granted, I believe *them*); Freddie struggling with anxiety and the occassional panic attack; Freddie taking cocaine; Freddie becoming weaker, his light becoming dimmer, as his illness takes a tighter hold on him (not a surprise, everyone with a shred of common sense can come to that conclusion: what angered me was that this talks about the subject as if it meant nothing). The icing of the cake, however, was the detailed description of the scene from the moment Freddie actually dies. Jim Hutton didn't even allow Freddie to keep his dignity in death, since he saw fit to share with the world the visual details of his allegedly beloved partner's death.
If this morb-fest didn't deter you yet from reading the book, I honestly don't know what to tell you. Okay, yes: I do know what to tell you, because even if we leave aside the fact that this book spreads inaccuracies (okay, lies: let's call them by their name), it's also so poorly written that it gave me a headache. Moreover, not happy with "spilling the beans" about Freddie's private life, there's one little gem or two where dear old Jim talks about issues from the private life of people who he has absolutely no fucking right to talk about (and it would be aggravating enough as it is if what he was saying was true, but I actually have the feeling that what he told about one particular person was something he made up for effect- What do I know, it could be true though, but the thing is I DON'T KNOW BECAUSE IT'S NONE OF MY BUSINESS, JUST AS IT WASN'T HIS).
This book honestly paints a picture of Freddie's personality that goes against what everybody else who really knew him could tell you. I'm going to name names now, cause it's only fair to bring justice to those who do honor Freddie: this book falls as a complete contradiction to what people, close friends, like Brian May and Roger Taylor have to say about a man they knew for ages, a man they shared a life, a dream and a passion with; but more important, a man which whom they shared an unbreakable bond of friendship. They knew and loved Freddie and, as people making such claims, they would have never come up with the idea of dragging him through the mud like Jim Hutton does in this book.
This book isn't honoring Freddie's memory. This book isn't sharing a slice of Freddie that belonged to Jim with the people: this is Jim Hutton lifting himself in Freddie's life, under the pretense of... Honestly, I don't even know anymore. All I know is that I want back the four days of my life I wasted while reading this self-serving piece of crap.
So, here we are. I thought that writing this review would be as cathartic as playing the drums is for Roger. As it turns out, it's really not the same. But I'm done. I don't even want to think about this damn piece of shit ever fucking again. The book isn't worth it, and Freddie doesn't deserve me wasting my energy getting angry over something that obviously isn't who he really was.