“The Eagles have never been anybody’s favourite band,” writes Mick Wall, and certainly there is much about the group not to love. He begins this account with a recap of Don Henley’s renowned hostility to biographers of the group, and the response to his request for interviews being that he should go fuck himself.
There has always been a fundamental lack of moral worth to the Eagles – joylessly ambitious (“art for art’s sake, hit singles for fuck’s sake”), and a band whose reaction to success was to sink into a mire of cocaine. When new wave and disco came along they made defiant noises about the “long run” but effectively capitulated as a creative force. Wall, however, handles his invidious task more than capably; is an insightful and stylish account. He adopts a narrative voice that is deliberately atmospheric, Americanised, Tosches-esque, puts you right in the vibe of 1970s California. It’s a tough trick to pull off, and could be embarrassing
