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American Music Series
Don't Suck, Don't Die: Giving Up Vic Chesnutt
“Friend, asshole, angel, mutant,” singer-songwriter Vic Chesnutt “came along and made us gross and broken people seem . . . I dunno, cooler, I guess.” A quadriplegic who could play only simple chords on his guitar, Chesnutt recorded seventeen critically acclaimed albums before his death in 2009, including About to Choke, North Star Deserter, and At the Cut. In 2006, NPR placed him in the top five of the ten best living songwriters, along with Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Paul McCartney, and Bruce Springsteen. Chesnutt’s songs have also been covered by many prominent artists, including Madonna, the Smashing Pumpkins, R.E.M., Sparklehorse, Fugazi, and Neutral Milk Hotel.
Kristin Hersh toured with Chesnutt for nearly a decade and they became close friends, bonding over a love of songwriting and mutual struggles with mental health. In Don’t Suck, Don’t Die, she describes many seemingly small moments they shared, their free-ranging conversations, and his tragic death. More memoir than biography, Hersh’s book plumbs the sources of Chesnutt’s pain and creativity more deeply than any conventional account of his life and recordings ever could. Chesnutt was difficult to understand and frequently difficult to be with, but, as Hersh reveals him, he was also wickedly funny and painfully perceptive. This intimate memoir is essential reading for anyone interested in the music or the artist.
180 pages, Hardcover
First published October 1, 2015
56 people are currently reading
2040 people want to read
About the author
Kristin Hersh
16 books149 followersKristin Hersh (born August 7, 1966) is an American singer, songwriter and author.
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September 2, 2015I haven't heard of Kristin Hersh and I don't even really know if I've ever listened to Vic Chesnutt's music but holy hell, look at this review from LitHub's Great Bookseller Fall 2015 Preview:
This is an amazing memoir from the bestselling author of Rat Girl and founder of the band Throwing Muses. It paints a beautiful portrait of musician Vic Chesnutt, his unique friendship with the author, and the sorrowful broken darkness they each deal with. The language is warm, intimate and poetic; it’s like On the Road and Sylvia Plath had a baby. It’s so gorgeous it actually hurts to read. I have not been so moved by a piece of art, any art, in years. Even with the inevitable tragic ending, Hersh keeps you hanging on with her delicate and sublime prose. You know you are circling a vortex but the water is so perfect you don’t care. This story aches, laughs, stuns, and pulls you into it like a siren song. You will put it down and want more of both Chesnutt and Hersh, and feel all the more brokenhearted at the enormity of the loss.
Wut. Give me this.
This is an amazing memoir from the bestselling author of Rat Girl and founder of the band Throwing Muses. It paints a beautiful portrait of musician Vic Chesnutt, his unique friendship with the author, and the sorrowful broken darkness they each deal with. The language is warm, intimate and poetic; it’s like On the Road and Sylvia Plath had a baby. It’s so gorgeous it actually hurts to read. I have not been so moved by a piece of art, any art, in years. Even with the inevitable tragic ending, Hersh keeps you hanging on with her delicate and sublime prose. You know you are circling a vortex but the water is so perfect you don’t care. This story aches, laughs, stuns, and pulls you into it like a siren song. You will put it down and want more of both Chesnutt and Hersh, and feel all the more brokenhearted at the enormity of the loss.
Wut. Give me this.
February 20, 2016
Those familiar with Kristin Hersh's solo lyrics, her work with Throwing Muses and 50 Ft. Wave, or her memoirs, will be comfortable with the dense poetry and stream-of-consciousness style that characterizes her writing. Still, it was evident that Gianna LaMorte of University of Texas Press had to put a lot of pressure on Hersh to write this brief book - not from any misguided sense that a story of Chesnutt's tough but rich life would be a best-seller, but from the realization that if Hersh wouldn't do it, there might not be any eulogy written to honor Chesnutt's singular life.
Hersh dove into her project in such an abrupt and unconventional way - riffing on tales of tossing cinnamon Jolly Rancher candies at Chesnutt while on tour - that the publishers no doubt felt the necessity of having Amanda Petrusich of Pitchfork, The New York Times, et. al. to write an explanatory foreword. This was a wise move, a stage-setter that served as both a foil to Hersh's occasionally jarring surrealism, and as a navigational reference point from which to consider Chesnutt's life.
The first two long chapters of the book, which take up more than half of its brief 200-page span, give us some tender inside looks at touring with a paraplegic, particularly one that could be a difficult son of a bitch. But it's tough going, providing a hyper-focus on small details that are important to Hersh, while skimming over others that might reveal what made Chesnutt such an exceptional lyricist and chronicler.
The patient reader will discover that Hersh blossoms with uncommon passion for the final three chapters of the book, however. The early touring tales of the book describe Hersh and Chesnutt as part of a seemingly inseparable foursome, but Chesnutt's splitting from his wife Tina showed Hersh how fragile Chesnutt was, and also how unstable her marriage to Billy O'Connell had become. Her discussion with Chesnutt early in Chapter 3 on whether a watering-down of one's music represents "sucking" or a betrayal of art somehow leads to a year-long silence from Chesnutt. Hersh's description of a concert in Tucson with Howe Gelb and John Doe, and a stay in Tucson's Congress Hotel, was a highlight of the book for me, perhaps in part because of my spending many years in Tucson, knowing the streets and the feelings Hersh describes.
Hersh's description of a reunion and reconciliation with Chesnutt at a tribute concert for REM at Carnegie Hall was both hilarious and moving. It only underscored what was to come, the familiar pattern played out in late 2009 of one more bout with muscle relaxers and one more coma, a rerun ready to be integrated into the story of Chesnutt's life, until suddenly on Christmas Day in 2009, it becomes time to give up Vic Chesnutt.
Hersh knows all too well that she and Chesnutt have a reputation as difficult people, but she credits Chesnutt with carrying more happiness under a grumpy, don't-give-a-fuck exterior, than Hersh herself carries in her oft-shouted, oft-accusatory words. She needn't apologize, as the last 50 pages of this book show that Hersh has been taught how to transcend, perhaps by Chesnutt's "ghewst," perhaps simply by extenuating circumstances. In any case, she has done Chesnutt proud with this brief but compassionate work. Here's hoping Tina Chesnutt will allow Scott Stuckey's documentary on Chesnutt to be released one day soon, as Vic;s ghewst needs all the accolades a harsh world can give him.
Hersh dove into her project in such an abrupt and unconventional way - riffing on tales of tossing cinnamon Jolly Rancher candies at Chesnutt while on tour - that the publishers no doubt felt the necessity of having Amanda Petrusich of Pitchfork, The New York Times, et. al. to write an explanatory foreword. This was a wise move, a stage-setter that served as both a foil to Hersh's occasionally jarring surrealism, and as a navigational reference point from which to consider Chesnutt's life.
The first two long chapters of the book, which take up more than half of its brief 200-page span, give us some tender inside looks at touring with a paraplegic, particularly one that could be a difficult son of a bitch. But it's tough going, providing a hyper-focus on small details that are important to Hersh, while skimming over others that might reveal what made Chesnutt such an exceptional lyricist and chronicler.
The patient reader will discover that Hersh blossoms with uncommon passion for the final three chapters of the book, however. The early touring tales of the book describe Hersh and Chesnutt as part of a seemingly inseparable foursome, but Chesnutt's splitting from his wife Tina showed Hersh how fragile Chesnutt was, and also how unstable her marriage to Billy O'Connell had become. Her discussion with Chesnutt early in Chapter 3 on whether a watering-down of one's music represents "sucking" or a betrayal of art somehow leads to a year-long silence from Chesnutt. Hersh's description of a concert in Tucson with Howe Gelb and John Doe, and a stay in Tucson's Congress Hotel, was a highlight of the book for me, perhaps in part because of my spending many years in Tucson, knowing the streets and the feelings Hersh describes.
Hersh's description of a reunion and reconciliation with Chesnutt at a tribute concert for REM at Carnegie Hall was both hilarious and moving. It only underscored what was to come, the familiar pattern played out in late 2009 of one more bout with muscle relaxers and one more coma, a rerun ready to be integrated into the story of Chesnutt's life, until suddenly on Christmas Day in 2009, it becomes time to give up Vic Chesnutt.
Hersh knows all too well that she and Chesnutt have a reputation as difficult people, but she credits Chesnutt with carrying more happiness under a grumpy, don't-give-a-fuck exterior, than Hersh herself carries in her oft-shouted, oft-accusatory words. She needn't apologize, as the last 50 pages of this book show that Hersh has been taught how to transcend, perhaps by Chesnutt's "ghewst," perhaps simply by extenuating circumstances. In any case, she has done Chesnutt proud with this brief but compassionate work. Here's hoping Tina Chesnutt will allow Scott Stuckey's documentary on Chesnutt to be released one day soon, as Vic;s ghewst needs all the accolades a harsh world can give him.
January 16, 2017
Hersh continues to impress with her second anti-memoir: a footloose helterskelter peep into the mindmeld of Vic Chesnutt, one of the finest songwriters of the last 30 annums. Those seeking a bland factual serving should not approach this personal stream of recollections rendered into a form of road-hopping poetry. Hersh recalls her time touring with Vic at various undated periods in their long association and has reproduced conversations and banter from the time(?) with excellent attention to the flip clippedness of Vic’s diction that punctuates his breathtaking music. Both songwriters are famed for their surreal and cryptic lyrics that devastate and amuse (Vic specialised in inserting oddball phrases into melancholy songs), and Hersh furthers that style in her prose, building to a powerful and sincere climax as her own marriage ends towards the book’s completion. For the uninitated, leap to Spotify and fire up Is The Actor Happy? and then Sunny Border Blue. No thanks needed.
July 8, 2015
This is an amazing memoir. It paints a beautiful portrait of Vic Chesnutt, his unique friendship with the author and the sorrowful broken darkness they each deal with. The language is warm, intimate and poetic. It's so gorgeous it actually hurts to read. I have not been so moved by a piece of art, any art in years. Even with the inevitable tragic ending, Hersh keeps you hanging on with her delicate and sublime prose. You know you are circling a vortex but the water is so perfect you don't care. This story aches, laughs, stuns, pulls you into it like a siren song. You will put it down with insights that seem natural but impossible. You'll want more of both Chesnutt and Hersh and all the more brokenhearted at the enormity of the loss.
February 5, 2017
"Don't suck, Don't die: Giving up Vic Chesnutt" is a memoir by musician Kristin Hersh. This book details the relationship between Kristen and her friend, fellow musician, James Victor Chesnutt and the lead up to his death on Christmas Day in 2009. I found this story to be a bit too unusual and depressing for me. I won this book through Goodreads Giveaways.
June 30, 2021
I’ve meant to read this for a long time; it did not disappoint. Hersh’s prose is gorgeous in describing what it was like to go through life knowing Vic Chesnutt.
October 21, 2015
I’d never listened to Vic Chesnutt before. The sole reason I entered this Goodreads giveaway is because the book was written by Kristin Hersh aka my musical goddess. Her Paradoxical Undressing autobiography is most probably my favourite music book ever. After finishing this, I did give Vic some listens but to be brutally honest, he isn’t quite for me. However this book is lovely, as I knew it would be. But then again Hersh could write about One Direction and I would probably want to read it. This small volume is not an autobiography. You won’t read it and discover much about the history of the man. What it is, is a glimpse into the world of Vic Chesnutt as experienced by Kristin Hersh, two lonely souls, who just seem to feel feelings so much more than the average folk, and have a way of articulating those feelings in words and music to an enviable extent.
I hate to say it, but my one quibble with the book is that occasionally Hersh’s musings veer into slight pretension (something that never occurred in her own autobiography). But she effectively paints a picture of talent, loneliness and isolation, depression, selfishness and awe that characterises a lot of musicians who create music out of necessity not money. And I say necessity, as Hersh makes it clear that making music for people like her and Chesnutt are not acts of love, but almost like demonic exorcisms, words and sounds spewing out because to hold them in would be deathly. I’m grateful that Kristin Hersh the musician came into my life at an early age. And I’m glad that Kristin the published writer is having more of a voice now.
I hate to say it, but my one quibble with the book is that occasionally Hersh’s musings veer into slight pretension (something that never occurred in her own autobiography). But she effectively paints a picture of talent, loneliness and isolation, depression, selfishness and awe that characterises a lot of musicians who create music out of necessity not money. And I say necessity, as Hersh makes it clear that making music for people like her and Chesnutt are not acts of love, but almost like demonic exorcisms, words and sounds spewing out because to hold them in would be deathly. I’m grateful that Kristin Hersh the musician came into my life at an early age. And I’m glad that Kristin the published writer is having more of a voice now.
October 13, 2015
As with Rat Girl, I didn't want to like Hersh's writing style - kind of whiny, kind of hippyish - but, like that book, I eased into it and enjoyed this one too. Truthfully, this is at least 50% reflection on her own life during the time she came to know Chesnutt. Not surprisingly, if you've ever listened to Throwing Muses or her solo work, she comes across as extremely fragile and self-aware. This can be good and bad. The artsy, ethereal narrative can be a bit much at times, yet it strangely suits her. I think that's just who she is and who she is is authentic. This memoir is written in the second person. It's a letter to Vic and a journal for Kristin. The Vic that she presents does not sound at all like a nice guy, even when she tries to portray him as one. Vic seems like an asshole, maybe an endearing one to those that knew him, but still an asshole. The fact that he overcame a horrific accident and could still make pretty excellent music (saw him a couple of times long ago and he had power!), much more excellent that most music out there is a testament to his perseverance and fuck off attitude about life, which is admirable. He had his charm and obviously that's what Hersh loved about him. He must have been difficult to love based on this open letter she wrote to him. In the end, this tribute to Chesnutt isn't really a tribute, it's more of an explanation - an explanation of what he was and how that's the only way he could have been. I think that I'll enjoy his records more after reading this.
June 28, 2017
Skitters on takeoff, crashes and burns:
Vic Chesnutt left us with a large catalog of songs which contained many great insights, phrases and lyrics which tell a better story than the one detailed here by his friend Kristin. “Don’t suck” is not the comprehensive biography or critical analysis that the man and his music deserves! Instead it’s a lovingly (at times) told tribute of a dickwad shitty musician who made up songs. At times he seems to have a bad case of LSD (lead singer disease). A frustrating read, chock full of who gives a shit tales from the road and sprinkled with inside jokes which at times are enlightening, but mostly left me bewildered.
Vic Chesnutt left us with a large catalog of songs which contained many great insights, phrases and lyrics which tell a better story than the one detailed here by his friend Kristin. “Don’t suck” is not the comprehensive biography or critical analysis that the man and his music deserves! Instead it’s a lovingly (at times) told tribute of a dickwad shitty musician who made up songs. At times he seems to have a bad case of LSD (lead singer disease). A frustrating read, chock full of who gives a shit tales from the road and sprinkled with inside jokes which at times are enlightening, but mostly left me bewildered.
February 3, 2018
Wow.
One of the best shows I have ever seen was Vic's last show in Portland. As we were walking up to the venue, we spotted Vic outside, mingling in the crowd, & my husband, who never has a cross word to say about anyone, warned me that Vic "could be prickly." He wasn't that night; Vic was charming & lovely, full of Southern charm, telling me how lucky I was to be with my husband & how much he loved & admired Scott. It was such a great night, full of love & fantastic music. A few weeks later, Vic was dead by suicide. I think he knew what was coming.
This book blew me away, but it may not be for everyone. It isn't your usual memoir about a friendship and that is why I loved it. Stream of consciousness & sometimes bitter, it is a tale of a difficult friendship which doesn't sugarcoat but always shows the love between these two goddamn talented folks. I think I need to reread this again, after I listen to all my Kristen Hersh & Vic Chesnitt's albums.
Wow.
One of the best shows I have ever seen was Vic's last show in Portland. As we were walking up to the venue, we spotted Vic outside, mingling in the crowd, & my husband, who never has a cross word to say about anyone, warned me that Vic "could be prickly." He wasn't that night; Vic was charming & lovely, full of Southern charm, telling me how lucky I was to be with my husband & how much he loved & admired Scott. It was such a great night, full of love & fantastic music. A few weeks later, Vic was dead by suicide. I think he knew what was coming.
This book blew me away, but it may not be for everyone. It isn't your usual memoir about a friendship and that is why I loved it. Stream of consciousness & sometimes bitter, it is a tale of a difficult friendship which doesn't sugarcoat but always shows the love between these two goddamn talented folks. I think I need to reread this again, after I listen to all my Kristen Hersh & Vic Chesnitt's albums.
Wow.
February 8, 2016
not a typical music bio, or tale of a band, this very personal and personalized book is about vic chesnutt and author hersh spending lots and lots of time and space with each other and rest of band, bassist tina whatley, and their manager and brain and liaison between earth and this band, billy o'connell. somehow kristin hersh reports many conversations and scenarios while they were on the road touring, or making albums, or just being together. amazing skill that.
i didn't know vic was a quad. i guess it doesnt matter now :(
here's a song from vic chesnutt first album, Little", song called "Rabbit box" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIa85...
here's vic and hersh duo, towards , well nevermind http://innocentwords.com/kristen-hers...
i didn't know vic was a quad. i guess it doesnt matter now :(
here's a song from vic chesnutt first album, Little", song called "Rabbit box" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIa85...
here's vic and hersh duo, towards , well nevermind http://innocentwords.com/kristen-hers...
December 24, 2015
This is the story of the author's friendship with Vic Chesnutt - anyone looking for insights about Chestnutt's inspirations and music might be disappointed after reading this. The two of them clearly were very close, and the story is told through various anecdotes and remembered conversations. The image I got of Chesnutt wasn't necessarily a positive one, he could, for lack of a better word, be a real douchebag. Hersh's writing is often painfully precious and her insistence on writing 'cuz' instead of 'because' annoyed me more than it probably should but I can't help myself.
On the plus side, I listened to a lot of Vic Chesnutt and Throwing Muses while reading this.
On the plus side, I listened to a lot of Vic Chesnutt and Throwing Muses while reading this.
August 3, 2016
Was SO looking forward to this book! I loved her "Rat Girl". OK, so he loved to play word, and mind, games. The "charm" of his intelligence just does not come through enough to override that he was pretty much an insufferable asshole (and, again, I do LOVE his music!). Huge disappointment - have to admit I did not get past page 25 on this one. Too bad, I needed a music book to read.
January 21, 2016
Heartbreakingly beautiful book.
November 20, 2025
There’s this youtube video of Vic Chesnutt performing “Everything I Say” with Fugazi’s Guy Pichotto and Godspeed You! Black Emperor offshoot Silver Mt. Zion in November 2009, just a month before Chesnutt’s death. I’ve returned to this video so many times that the comments, many dedicated to the memory of Vic, feel warm and familiar. There’s something in the way he holds that room, his howl and acoustic guitar ricocheting off the band’s onslaught of electric noise, that I find endlessly stunning.
I’ve never been super familiar with Vic Chesnutt’s discography beyond this video and a handful of songs like his devastating masterpiece “Flirted With You All My Life” and personal favorite “Forthright” which has occasionally served as a sort of anti-anxiety medication for me. But recently I’ve grown a bit obsessed with his song “Where Were You”. Maybe because of the way he sings “Crying in my hummus”. It was in the nascent stages of this obsession last week when I checked Hanif Abbdurraqib’s instagram story and saw a little write-up for Chesnutt’s birthday. What synchronicity! That’s where I first encountered Don’t Suck, Don’t Die. Hanif showered it in such praise that I immediately added it to my to-read list.
At work on Monday night I couldn’t listen to any podcasts on account of the Cloudflare outage, so on a whim I decided to download this audiobook. By 6am, I was weeping in the bathroom listening to the final chapter. I can safely say this is now one of my favorite memoirs ever, maybe one of my favorite books period. In Kristin Hersh’s description of her friendship with Chesnutt, wryly tender and achingly funny, there’s a whole dreamlike southern universe. Even as they dance forward towards that inevitable tragic end, these vignettes are dazzlingly alive, and I often found myself with a big fool smile, utterly elsewhere, an altogether unproductive worker.
Perhaps because of Hersh’s second-person address, the whole book flowing forth as a sort of long epistolary poem, Don’t Suck, Don’t Die spoke directly to the aliens and sad Peter Pans in my own heart and head, it showed me a way, maybe, to better love the acidic and annoying and difficult parts. I’d recommend this book to just about anyone, fan of Vic Chesnutt or not. Anywho, see you in my dreeeeams!
I’ve never been super familiar with Vic Chesnutt’s discography beyond this video and a handful of songs like his devastating masterpiece “Flirted With You All My Life” and personal favorite “Forthright” which has occasionally served as a sort of anti-anxiety medication for me. But recently I’ve grown a bit obsessed with his song “Where Were You”. Maybe because of the way he sings “Crying in my hummus”. It was in the nascent stages of this obsession last week when I checked Hanif Abbdurraqib’s instagram story and saw a little write-up for Chesnutt’s birthday. What synchronicity! That’s where I first encountered Don’t Suck, Don’t Die. Hanif showered it in such praise that I immediately added it to my to-read list.
At work on Monday night I couldn’t listen to any podcasts on account of the Cloudflare outage, so on a whim I decided to download this audiobook. By 6am, I was weeping in the bathroom listening to the final chapter. I can safely say this is now one of my favorite memoirs ever, maybe one of my favorite books period. In Kristin Hersh’s description of her friendship with Chesnutt, wryly tender and achingly funny, there’s a whole dreamlike southern universe. Even as they dance forward towards that inevitable tragic end, these vignettes are dazzlingly alive, and I often found myself with a big fool smile, utterly elsewhere, an altogether unproductive worker.
Perhaps because of Hersh’s second-person address, the whole book flowing forth as a sort of long epistolary poem, Don’t Suck, Don’t Die spoke directly to the aliens and sad Peter Pans in my own heart and head, it showed me a way, maybe, to better love the acidic and annoying and difficult parts. I’d recommend this book to just about anyone, fan of Vic Chesnutt or not. Anywho, see you in my dreeeeams!
August 9, 2017
I've been wanting to read this book for a while, but have only just got my hands on it. I'm a huge fan of Kristin Hersh, so I really enjoyed it. For me, it stands with her memoir Paradoxical Undressing, and her companion books to Purgatory/Paradise and Wyatt At The Coyote Palace, showing us that she's not just a great songwriter but also a brilliant author. I'm less familiar with Vic Chesnutt's work, but reading this made me want to get some of his albums. It's a memoir of life on the road as a musician, and the pain and friendship it can bring. Vic Chesnutt comes across as a very difficult person to be with, but also very funny and sharp. I like the way Kristin Hersh writes, she has a distinctive style, giving you little insights into her life - these are brief episodes rather than one long story. Although the subject matter here is often painful, it's also often funny and in many places I laughed out loud; in many other places I cried. If you're a fan of Kristin Hersh and/or Vic Chesnutt, I have no doubt that you'll enjoy it. But I think that it's suitable even those who are not familiar with either of these musicians.
December 9, 2021
This hurt my heart
May 31, 2020
“Don't water down your berserk, don't suck.”
May 28, 2016
Vic Chesnutt has fascinated me since I was a teenager. I get an unusual joy from his homely howl, bibliophilic poetics, slow guitar solos, morbid humor, and uncompromisingly unique sound. His music influences my own songwriting and has wormed its way into my identity. There are even some of his seventeen albums that I have not heard yet because I am saving them--because I don’t want to run out of new Vic songs. I saw him live twice--the second time a couple of months before his death in 2009.
Vic the songwriter is known by many, but Vic the human being has been mostly a mystery which I have often wondered about, sometimes searching dark recesses of the web for clues. Kristin Hersh’s book cracks open the mystery by making you a bystander of Vic’s backstage conversations with his closest friends, inviting you into his house, and describing the deep impact of his friendship on her own identity. The book confirms parts of the southern gothic outsider hermit identity one would infer from his songs, but also replaces that stereotype with a real person who is both more mundane and more complex. Vic is fun-loving, goofy, bawdy, and hilarious, but also the type of person who swallows unidentified pills he finds on a men’s room floor. His songs are now even more powerful to me, having met the fascinating, flawed person behind them.
Besides being a loving description of Vic, this book is a beautiful meditation on life, specifically the life of a working-class artist. You watch her wrestle with her mental demons while she watches Vic mostly get pummeled by his. It’s an unromantic, intimate depiction of a long friendship and the touring travails of minor league musicians. Hersh is a superb writer--precise, concise, and colloquial with probably more scatological references and puns than three-syllable words. Best memoir by a musician ever.
Vic the songwriter is known by many, but Vic the human being has been mostly a mystery which I have often wondered about, sometimes searching dark recesses of the web for clues. Kristin Hersh’s book cracks open the mystery by making you a bystander of Vic’s backstage conversations with his closest friends, inviting you into his house, and describing the deep impact of his friendship on her own identity. The book confirms parts of the southern gothic outsider hermit identity one would infer from his songs, but also replaces that stereotype with a real person who is both more mundane and more complex. Vic is fun-loving, goofy, bawdy, and hilarious, but also the type of person who swallows unidentified pills he finds on a men’s room floor. His songs are now even more powerful to me, having met the fascinating, flawed person behind them.
Besides being a loving description of Vic, this book is a beautiful meditation on life, specifically the life of a working-class artist. You watch her wrestle with her mental demons while she watches Vic mostly get pummeled by his. It’s an unromantic, intimate depiction of a long friendship and the touring travails of minor league musicians. Hersh is a superb writer--precise, concise, and colloquial with probably more scatological references and puns than three-syllable words. Best memoir by a musician ever.
April 20, 2016
A big disappointment. It's a love letter of sorts, written directly from her to him, in a language that's intimate and personal. Too intimate and personal, in fact. Not because it's uncomfortable but because it's largely unfathomable. Most of the negative reviews I've read have taken it to task for not being more of a straight biography, but that's not my problem at all. I came in prepared for this, an impressionistic series of scenes from their long friendship and working relationship. What I didn't expect was how little it invites the reader in. It is private to the point of being somewhat impenetrable. I assume this would have made perfect sense in the idiosyncrasies and cadences of conversation between the two of them but it reads as precious and affected on the page, and frankly the small, irregular size of the book feels pretentious, as well. I mourn Vic and I miss his work, I respect Kristin Hersh, and I have no doubt that every single word of this is sincere and very deeply felt, but ultimately I felt like the whole thing was just none of my business.
November 4, 2015
This is not a biography, not even an homage to Chesnutt. It’s a view of the world from the inside of a friendship. Kristin describes herself, her life and thoughts, almost as much as she paints Vic, and what you feel, right from the first page, is a very particular dynamic between two people who live far outside the social rails. If another of Vic’s friends wrote this, it would seem to be hubris, turning a biography into a personal memoir. Here, though, it is all necessary. We live into their relationship, and are allowed to come to our own conclusions about Vic Chesnutt. I often wondered how he could have any friends at all, the way he treated people, but this all reminded me of people who I know, people who manage to draw friends and punish them simultaneously. This book is so much more than the inevitable tragedy of Vic Chesnutt. It’s a real view of the life of artists, a view from within, with little consolation or resolution. It’s an amazing piece of writing.
May 25, 2016
I am a huge fan of Kristin Hersh’s music, lyrically and sonically, and have always been interested in Vic Chesnutt as a person if not as a musician as well. However, I’ve found that what compels me in Kristin’s music might be exactly what turns me off in her writing. I don’t know why this is—maybe because songs are perfect vessels for stream-of consciousness fragments, whereas whole books—not so much. I don’t fault anyone who finds the language beautiful and haunting—it is, but I was unable to glean much from the conversations between Kristin and Vic, because as loaded as they are with metaphor, humor, and almost an intimate shared language, the real meaning was lost on me. I’m not proud to say I only lasted 24 pages into this. Like others said, I wanted to like this so bad, and I don’t blame Kristin for writing the way her heart speaks, but it just wasn’t for me. For those it was for, they have certainly received a lovely gift.
July 17, 2022
Insightful and absorbing memoir about a man whose nature was mercurial and full of contradictions. I burned through this book in a day and a half. I look forward to reading Hersh's memoir about her own musical underpinnings "Rat Girl". I am grateful for the music Chestnutt gave us in his short life and and I admire the fortitude it must have taken for him to undertake and cultivate his talent, this in spite of formidable challenges presented by his disability. This is a nuanced look at the man, a warts and all portrayal, that is simultaneously compassionate and empathetic. Hersh is a terrific writer, in addition to her many other talents as a musician and songwriter.
June 10, 2018
I have been a fan of Kristen’s work since I was in high school. She is a very evocative writer. I think her visionary work is better suited to the short shock of songwriting. The longer narrative weakens some of her verbal powers in my opinion.
I think if you are a fan of either artist in this book, you will enjoy the insight into their relationship and personalities - but I don’t think this book would interest casual readers.
I think if you are a fan of either artist in this book, you will enjoy the insight into their relationship and personalities - but I don’t think this book would interest casual readers.
January 15, 2016
disappointing. too personal, like an inside joke or some secret language shared between friends that annoys others. couldn't wait to get my hands on a copy. fans of both musicians. glad i didn't pay for it. it was given to me by someone who bought it and disliked it about as much as me. oh well.
Want to read
August 25, 2015I love Vic's music and I enjoyed Rat Girl so I'm really looking forward to this!
Read
April 15, 2016I just can't get into Kristin Hersh's writing. I tried and failed with Rat Girl and this too was a big let down. The intro, written by another person, however, was great. Oh well.
April 30, 2017
Raw rock memoir of the drunken angel in a wheelchair who left behind a lot of unique and brilliant music before his 2009 OD.
February 15, 2021
I was never a huge Vic Chesnutt fan; I saw him in concert, just once. Not a huge Kristin Hersh fan, either, although I own a few of her solo and band records, and have seen her twice, decades apart — with Throwing Muses opening for R.E.M. in 1989, and in a solo acoustic set just in 2019. But while these two were never central to my own listening, I always recognized that their very distinctive, off-kilter songwriting skills were critical in the generation of music in which I spent my formative years, the college rock of the 90s. So I didn't even know how closely tied Hersh and Chesnutt were — she tells the sad-funny-scary tales of touring in Spain and Canada, living on the artistically fulfilling, if commercially negligible, margins of the music industry.
I needn't go into Chesnutt's well-known past: the addictions, the car accident, the near-quadriplegia. Hersh know him for just a splintered moment before he was put in a wheelchair for the remainder of his difficult life. But despite the pain of Chesnutt's life and its difficult ending, much of Hersh's memories focus on the joy that she and Chesnutt experienced together, with their respective and long-suffering spouses. Indeed, the most joyous stories involve two perfectly-mismatched couples, Chesnutt and his wife Tina and Hersh and her husband Billy, a bunch of self-professed ugly people, flawed people, misfits whose beauty was created in their partnership and their music. There is a lengthy tale of road trips through Spain and assorted shenanigans; one delightful anecdote involves a Mary Margaret O'Hara concert and party in Toronto.
This story gets painful and ugly. It's not a secret that Chesnutt eventually took his life, after a divorce from his wife, and increasing isolation from his friends, Hersh included. But while the story ends in tragedy, it doesn't end without some more of that rare beauty, including when Chesnutt steals the show at an R.E.M. tribute in New York City, the last time she ever saw him alive, with a performance of "Everybody Hurts" with fellow Athenians Elf Power.
Hersh's writing, largely in the second person, is both idiosyncratic and luminously particular. She writes unapologetically of feeling ugly and writing songs to get the ugliness out; Chesnutt's songs in comparison were moments of oddball beauty and whimsy amidst a sense of cornball humor and horniness. It's particularly heartfelt in her appreciation for Tina Chesnutt and her agony when that marriage, and her own, ended, amidst the stress of endless touring and the challenges of mental illness and addition.
Really an essential read if you know the music of these two songwriters, and even if you're a lesser fan, a fascinating one. And if you're completely unfamiliar with their work, this deeply personal memoir will make you want to learn more.
I needn't go into Chesnutt's well-known past: the addictions, the car accident, the near-quadriplegia. Hersh know him for just a splintered moment before he was put in a wheelchair for the remainder of his difficult life. But despite the pain of Chesnutt's life and its difficult ending, much of Hersh's memories focus on the joy that she and Chesnutt experienced together, with their respective and long-suffering spouses. Indeed, the most joyous stories involve two perfectly-mismatched couples, Chesnutt and his wife Tina and Hersh and her husband Billy, a bunch of self-professed ugly people, flawed people, misfits whose beauty was created in their partnership and their music. There is a lengthy tale of road trips through Spain and assorted shenanigans; one delightful anecdote involves a Mary Margaret O'Hara concert and party in Toronto.
This story gets painful and ugly. It's not a secret that Chesnutt eventually took his life, after a divorce from his wife, and increasing isolation from his friends, Hersh included. But while the story ends in tragedy, it doesn't end without some more of that rare beauty, including when Chesnutt steals the show at an R.E.M. tribute in New York City, the last time she ever saw him alive, with a performance of "Everybody Hurts" with fellow Athenians Elf Power.
Hersh's writing, largely in the second person, is both idiosyncratic and luminously particular. She writes unapologetically of feeling ugly and writing songs to get the ugliness out; Chesnutt's songs in comparison were moments of oddball beauty and whimsy amidst a sense of cornball humor and horniness. It's particularly heartfelt in her appreciation for Tina Chesnutt and her agony when that marriage, and her own, ended, amidst the stress of endless touring and the challenges of mental illness and addition.
Really an essential read if you know the music of these two songwriters, and even if you're a lesser fan, a fascinating one. And if you're completely unfamiliar with their work, this deeply personal memoir will make you want to learn more.
November 30, 2021
Kristin Hersh's "Don't Suck, Don't Die: Giving Up Vic Chesnutt" is as beautiful, painful, inscrutable, hilarious, angry and sad as the best of Vic Chesnutt's songs. When I was a teenager in the late '70s, living in an unfinished basement room in my parent's home, I would obsessively listen to Randy Newman and John Prine records, whereupon my father would clomp to the top of the stairs off our kitchen, and yell down to me, "TURN OFF THAT SUICIDE MUSIC!" Well, I didn't, and thank God I didn't, because the music of my youth abides with me still to this day. If I had been a child of the 90s and aughts, instead of the 60s and 70s, I certainly would have found and inhaled the recordings of Vic Chesnutt (one "ess" and two "tees").
Kristin Hersh, co-founder of the indy band Throwing Muses, is a stunningly good prose writer. Here, she is less interested in re-hashing the major milestones of Vic's life - his car accident at 18 which left him a paraplegic, his bouts of fragile mental health, multiple suicide attempts - than in creating a sort of character study and, in places, an elegiac poem of his essence. Touring together numerous times in the 90s and early aughts with their spouses, Chesnutt and Hersh share an elevated banter full of insider jokes and finishing each others sentences that, at times, feels like a madcap 1940s comedy. All of the anecdotes and jokey moments, in cheap hotels, greasy spoons, and depressing pre-concert green rooms, though, are shot through with an inherent sadness that make much of this memoir tough-sledding to read. Written effectively in the second person, which gives this book a powerful intimacy, "Don't Suck, Don't Die" reads almost like a letter from Hersh to her old friend Chesnutt.
By Christmas 2009, when an overdose of painkillers does him in, his ghost fills the final pages of this lovely, sad book with shimmering memories and apt lyrical turns of phrase that will stay with you for a long, long time.
Kristin Hersh, co-founder of the indy band Throwing Muses, is a stunningly good prose writer. Here, she is less interested in re-hashing the major milestones of Vic's life - his car accident at 18 which left him a paraplegic, his bouts of fragile mental health, multiple suicide attempts - than in creating a sort of character study and, in places, an elegiac poem of his essence. Touring together numerous times in the 90s and early aughts with their spouses, Chesnutt and Hersh share an elevated banter full of insider jokes and finishing each others sentences that, at times, feels like a madcap 1940s comedy. All of the anecdotes and jokey moments, in cheap hotels, greasy spoons, and depressing pre-concert green rooms, though, are shot through with an inherent sadness that make much of this memoir tough-sledding to read. Written effectively in the second person, which gives this book a powerful intimacy, "Don't Suck, Don't Die" reads almost like a letter from Hersh to her old friend Chesnutt.
By Christmas 2009, when an overdose of painkillers does him in, his ghost fills the final pages of this lovely, sad book with shimmering memories and apt lyrical turns of phrase that will stay with you for a long, long time.
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