I’ll be honest: I had no idea who Peter Wolf was when I read this piece in the Washington Post about his new memoir. Sure, I’d hum along to “Centerfold” and “Freeze Frame” by the J. Geils Band, but the name Peter Wolf? Blank slate. Even so, that piece made the book sound unmissable:
The book opens in 1957. His parents took him to see a French film, “He Who Must Die,” in an art house. When the lights went down, a couple rushed in, and the lady — wearing a mink coat over a lacy nightgown — sat next to him. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, and young Peter nodded off. Only when the film finished and she scrambled out did he recognize her. The chapter is titled “I Slept With Marilyn Monroe.”
Waiting on the Moon delivers. Peter Wolf is almost the Forrest Gump of rock and roll – he’s just always in the room when history happens. Especially in his youth, Wolf wsa the physical embodiment of the axiom about luck being the thing that happens when preparation meets opportunity.
He fixes Eleanor Roosevelt’s mic at a school event. He’s in Greenwich Village when Bob Dylan plays “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” to a near-empty club. He rooms with David Lynch in Boston—who has a horrifying encounter with a cockroach that might have foretold his entire career.
The stories keep coming. He’s got Muddy Waters spinning 45s in his tiny apartment, and Alfred Hitchcock trying to get him drunk. He’s pals with the Rolling Stones, jams with John Lennon and Harry Nilsson. It’s not name-dropping; Wolf’s as surprised as anyone that he’s there, and his writing makes it feel like we’re there with him.
And the stories snowball in unexpected ways. When Martin Luther King was assassinated, Wolf was with Muddy Waters at the time. He managed to get Waters on stage with Cream and Eric Clapton (who was a huge fan) in a show of racial unity, only to watch as Clapton snubbed Waters entirely. Oblivious and embarrassed, Clapton apologized at length years later.
The second half of the book turns the camera on Wolf’s personal life — mainly his tumultuous relationship with the bipolar Faye Dunaway and his years with the J. Geils band. The pace slows down a little, and a few of the stories will appeal more to fans of the music than those in the first half. Still, there are wild surprises, including a dangerous run-in with Sly Stone, Wolf’s role in shaping Van Morrison’s iconic Astral Weeks record, and a shockingly low-effort dinner party at Julia Child’s house.
There’s also a bonkers story about visiting Jack Nicholson during a particularly difficult period with Dunaway. At one point, after some partying, Dunaway and Nicholson go upstairs for a moment, which turns into an hour. Eventually Wolf clues in to what’s going on, and he dumps Jack Nicholson’s coffee table—coke, books, and all—into a pool.
How is this one guy at the heart of all these stories?
He’s met everyone, been everywhere, and has some outrageous stories to tell. These aren’t rock-and-roll stories though – Nicholson moment aside, there’s surprisingly little debauchery, even less gossip, and Wolf is almost completely complimentary in how he describes people, even his ex-bandmates. There’s very little salacious material here: Wolf is an enthusiast, a fan, a joiner, a connector, and a reveler.
What puts the book over the top is Wolf’s personality as the narrator. He writes like he’s telling you these stories at the pub. It’s one jaw-dropping moment after another, but he’s not bragging; he’s marveling at his own luck. Waiting on the Moon isn’t about rock-star excess; it’s about a kid from the Bronx who stumbled into history and wants to bring us along for the ride. It’s not perfect, but it’s a blast, a love letter to music and the great things that can happen when you show up early. Even if you’ve never heard a J. Geils song, you’ll want to buy a beer for Wolf.
Further Reading
Boston.com interview (I swear I came up with the Forrest Gump thing before reading this)
