Why I hate my band

The unspoken rule of rock ‘n’ roll memoirs — especially ones about drug-addled players who get clean — is that the author tends to mend fences rather than sling mud. Mike Doughty: not so much. In “The Book of Drugs,” the former Soul Coughing frontman writes with a lacerating candor about his family, his narcotic and sexual excesses, the idiocy of the music industry, and, most of all, his former band mates.
This will come as bad news to the small but persistent fan cult who harbor hopes of a Soul Coughing reunion. (And I might as well admit right now that I’m one of them.)
For a few years there back in the ’90s, Soul Coughing was making the most interesting music on the planet, a sonic collage of Doughty’s downtown beat poetry and guitar riffs, the monstrous syncopation of bassist Sebastian Steinberg and drummer Yuval Gabay, and the zany sampling of Mark De Gli Antoni. Doughty called it “deep slacker jazz.” The critics, by and large, raved. But the band minted only a few minor hits before imploding.
Doughty details this implosion in the new book, as well as his own stifling childhood, his descent into addiction, and his eventual recovery via the 12-step program. The 41-year-old has since built a thriving solo career, turning out albums full of catchy pop melodies and droll lyricism.
Salon interviewed him by phone from his home in Brooklyn, N.Y.
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