Everything I'm Cracked Up To Be
By Jen Trynin, Harcourt, 2006

If you’re like me, you don’t remember Jennifer Trynin. Maybe the singer’s name sounds a little familiar, and maybe you think you might have heard one of her songs sometime in the past, but you can’t quite put your finger on what that song might have been. That’s what 10 years can do to a pop musician’s career, even a musician like Trynin who, in the mid-90s, sparked one of the most frenzied bidding wars ever seen among record labels. Like many a rock music rags-to-riches story, though, Trynin’s dream quickly reached its apex and began to trace the opposite trajectory; her story became a riches-to-rags tale before she knew what was happening.

Everything I’m Cracked Up to Be is Trynin’s autobiographical account of her down-and-up-and-down career. When it all started, she was a modest singing/songwriting rocker in Boston; she was mostly a solo act, but after recording a collection of her original songs and self-producing a CD, she got together a couple of other musicians and hit the local club circuit as her very own rock band. Things were going just so-so when, without much warning, her CD fell into the hands of the right people and the awesome power of buzz took over. Trynin, who had trouble thinking of herself as a rock star, soon found herself the object of every major record label’s affection. Lawyers, managers, agents, label execs - everyone wanted to be her best friend, and the labels were fighting over who could offer her the most lucrative record deal.

When the dust settled, Trynin had a deal of unprecedented generosity, and it looked as if the sky were the limit as her career left the launching pad. She whisked out onto the road on a tour during which she was subjected to the full rock star treatment, including a grueling, alcohol-and-tobacco-fueled schedule of photo and video shoots, interviews and personal appearances.

In hindsight, it seems incredible that such hype could surround just another singer/songwriter. But let’s not forget that for a few minutes in 1995, it looked as if the angry rock chick might become the cash cow to replace the ailing golden goose of grunge. Tracy Bonham had had a minor hit, Jill Sobule was angsting all over the place and Alanis Morissette was about to break it big. It makes perfect sense that labels would crawl over each other to get their hands on the next sure thing; just a few years later, similarly astute business minds would be fighting over kozmo.com.

Trynin didn’t know anything about that, though. Studiously ignorant of the national music scene, she pointedly couldn’t remember Morissette’s name (“Alice Morrison?”). She avoided reading reviews while on tour, and she was apparently unaware that her single wasn’t exactly shooting up the charts. Moreover, she wanted no part of the whole deal; she had gone out of her way to avoid being pigeonholed as a female singer/songwriter, and she went so far as to ban female-fronted acts from opening for her (a decision that caused her no small amount of grief). Her insistence on doing things her own way, coupled with her record’s disappointing sales, soon brought an end to her love affair with the music biz. Before her tour was over, it was clear that Trynin was about to wake up from her dream with a nasty hangover.

Trynin’s book is honest and comprehensive, and she makes the life of a rock star - especially an untested, provisional rock star like herself - seem like no fun at all. Between the mind-numbing parade of sleazy industry players, the antics of jerk band members, the monotony of life on the road, the inhumane schedule and the ever-present pressure of self-doubt, Trynin makes the reader wonder why anyone would want to be a commercially successful musician. No one really cares about the music, she discovers, and even the money isn’t much of a consolation, since all the zeroes on the contract made it look as if she was going to be a lot wealthier than she actually was.

What makes Everything I’m Cracked Up to Be more than just another rock n’roll bio about a failed career is that Trynin can really write. More than just the usual lists of places, people, dates, and figures - although that’s all here, too, and the details serve to illustrate the kind of whirlwind which had consumed her - Trynin’s book is introspective and unflinchingly self-critical. If a lesser writer had claimed, as Trynin does when it’s all over, that she never really wanted to be a rock star anyway, we’d be tempted to think that she was engaging in defensive rationalization, but Trynin does such an excellent job of conveying the unpleasantness of almost-success, we’re willing to admit along with her that stardom probably isn’t worth the heartache after all.

So, you might not remember Jennifer Trynin as a pop musician - even when her single was nearly a hit, no one could remember the song’s title - but if her songs are half as good as her memoir, the music industry missed out on a solid talent. That’s just as well, though; Everything I’m Cracked Up to Be is probably a more valuable product than her fifth major label record would have been, and at least, one presumes, she had fun writing the book.

Copyright 2006 Ad Media Inc.