He Is … I Say: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Neil Diamond

I used to be a big fan of Chuck Klosterman. In FARGO ROCK CITY and most of SEX, DRUGS, AND COCOA PUFFS, he had a real fun, yet self-deprecating style that perfectly conveyed his love of metal and hard rock. They were really great reads.

Then something happened. He lost it. He lost that geeky Midwestern rock swagger that made him relatable and became your typical indie-rock asshole whose self-deprecation became self-loathing and, especially in the execrable KILLING YOURSELF TO LIVE, it was obvious that anything special that Klosterman had was now long-dead. Trying to appease all those SPIN magazine hipster fucks’ll do that to you.

Since this realization, it’s left a big hole in my regular reading. I like reading the thoughts, analyses and memoirs of music critics, but far too many of them have fallen prey to this Kloster-phobia. Too many of them now want to be “cool,” spending pages praising hacky “Brooklyn-based indie art-rock collective” types just for that ROLLING STONE paycheck. Maybe the rock critic, with his scenester need for chunky sunglasses, summer scarves, tight corduroy pants and the faux-approval of his too-cool-for-school peers, is as dead as Klosterman is. Maybe there’s no one left to champion their love, unironically, of popular music.

And then came David Wild.

I have always been aware of Wild, but it was a periphery thing. I never seeked out his work. But after reading HE IS … I SAY: HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE NEIL DIAMOND, I think Wild may be that lone, chubby, music geek beacon of light in what is a dark, dark night for us. Sure, many hipsters — the same assholes who oh-so-loved Johnny Cash a few years back — are quick to praise Neil Diamond, but it’s fleeting. It’s the hip thing to do and say. It’s an ironic love that revels in the kitsch of the man, with his well-manufactured coif and sequined shirts, and totally ignores his body of work. It sings along to “Sweet Caroline” at a ball game or karaoke, but spits on “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers,” his duet with Barbra Streisand. Because that’s not cool, right, guys?

In a little more than 200 pages, Wild instead writes an autobiographical/biographical treatise on how his intense Diamond fandom isn’t just some passing fad, but rather a lifelong love affair that has not only guided him throughout his career, but his life, from listening to Neil with his mom in the ’70s to dealing with the constant hurled insults for being a fan during Neil’s easy-listening 80s, coming to terms with the multiple musical changes the ’90s put Neil through to his triumphant comebacks in the ’00s. Through it all, Wild has stood by Diamond, like a real friend — not some fair-weather douchebag.

It’s this unabashed love that makes HE IS … I SAY required reading for those of us who don’t believe in the term “guilty pleasure.” It’s the ultimate manifesto for those of us who embrace and, more importantly, understand the words and emotions of this guy who is spilling his guts all over 12 inches of vinyl. HE IS .. .I SAY is a big “fuck you” to those hipsters who’ll never get it. But, by the time they realize this, they’ll be on to their next cult obsession, maybe Engelbert Humperdinck. Just give it a few days and a PASTE magazine cover.

“I just do not fit in … I’m sorry. I apologize to everybody. But I never tried to fit in, because that meant conforming what I could write or what I could do to a certain set of rules,” Diamond said. “Hip is something frivolous people had time to be.” —Louis Fowler

Buy it at Amazon.