Unauthorized biographies are a curious beast.  Generally, a biography can benefit in innumerable ways from being “authorized” by the people that knew the subject best; narrative structure, believability, and the inclusion of juicy details that only the subject’s closest associates can contribute are a few examples.  When that subject is “Dimebag” Darrell Abbott, the Pantera guitarist who was murdered in one of the most bizarre deaths in music history, the unauthorized biography Black Tooth Grin: The High Life, Good Times, and Tragic End of “Dimebag” Darrell Abbott has a daunting task ahead of it.  The guitarist’s legacy has been so closely guarded by his family that any attempt to tell his story without their input seems both unwarranted and unworkable.  Making matters worse is author and music journalist Zac Crain presenting the life of Darrell Abbott with all the literary verve and vigor of a high school research paper.  

Even for the relatively short length, the content of Black Tooth Grin is extremely padded.  Crain fills the book with rambling, page-long quotes from interviews and oft-repeated details.  One can only read about Pantera’s use of spandex in the 1980s so many times in the same chapter.  Of course, this results from most interviewees having the same set of things to say about Abbott; that he was full of life, that he was always positive, that he was an amazing guitar player.  While all of this may be true, it is also well-known by anyone interested enough in Dimebag to read the book.  Though it is obviously necessary to discuss such things in the biography of a guitar hero, the sheer volume of near-identical statements (especially when they are made by non-musicians) quoted in page-long blocks about how “Darrell was great, man” becomes tiresome.  His greatness was and is apparent to anyone interested in Metal.  Crain telling the reader how Abbott was great would have been welcome, at least beyond stories of the guitarist pissing on roadies while drunk. 

Another glaring deficiency in Black Tooth Grin is that when the words of people that the reader would be interested in hearing are used (former band mates, intimate friends, etc.), those statements are usually taken from previously-published magazine interviews or various music websites.  The pervasive nature of secondary sources not only contribute to the research paper feel of the book, it also makes the reader wonder why none of those people were willing to talk to Crain or why Crain was unwilling or unable to talk to them.  If that wasn’t bad enough, the rather sloppy citation of information not previously-published makes what little original material there is in the book seem dubious.       

The upside to Crain’s repetitive way of telling Dimebag’s life story is that it hammers home how universally loved the man was.  Sure, such affection was poured out by fans and friends after he died and he always had a reputation of being a well-meaning wild man, but reading person after person declaring their affection for someone, whether they had known him for decades or days, is inherently affecting.  This is even more surprising given Abbott’s fame and willingness to intoxicate himself.  It’s a very rare thing to hear about a drunken rock star that people actually liked.  Those individuals usually end up alienating everyone around them, getting STDs, or causing the accidental death of a close associate.  Not Abbott.  

Ultimately, Black Tooth Grin doesn’t offer any new insights into Dimebag Darrell that one couldn’t have gathered from the songs he recorded.  Namely, that he was an extremely talented guitar player who had a lust for life as insatiable as his desire to create music.  Unless it is from people who knew and loved him personally, no other testament is needed.