“It’s a strange joy, reading this,” my partner commented yesterday as he replaced the bookmark between the pages of Fire On All Sides. He’s reading it at my insistence. I needed to share it the moment I closed the cover.
If you’ve yet to hear of James Rhodes, it’s time to type his name into Google. He is a prolific classical pianist, who only began professional training aged 28 after being hospitalised for PTSD, drug abuse and numerous suicide attempts, all brought upon by unimaginable childhood trauma. His journey to success is both remarkable and truly laudable. Today, alongside his music career, he dedicates himself to speaking out about mental health and campaigning on behalf of children.
Within two pages of reading Amazon’s free preview of the book, I knew I had to buy it, because not only is Rhodes all of the amazing things described above, he’s also an absolutely sensational writer. It’s actually mildly insulting.
In this sort-of-memoir of several months in 2016, Rhodes makes the exhilaratingly brave decision to put on paper exactly what is going on his head (”the ugliness and rawness within me”) because he believes that "it's deeply important for us to see and be seen as we really, truly are.” He gives the reader insight into a complex mind imprisoned by uncontrollable thoughts, self-hatred and acute pain. The impact is brutal: the very first moment in the book sees him waking from a nightmare at 3am and promptly vomiting in his hotel room. Every day, every encounter, every concert presents opportunities for his wounds to tear and sear and for his fears and insecurities to bubble up and out of control. But music is where he finds peace. His book is not just a journal of mental illness but also an homage to the composers that brought him out of hell. Each chapter is based on one of the pieces he played on the tour in question, and in each one he provides insight into the lives of the men who brought them into being.
The way Rhodes discusses music is unique and tremendously refreshing. He discusses the composers in a way that balances admiration with realism – Mozart was a bastard, Beethoven was a grump and Bach was a soppy Christian who never took credit for his talent (“the bullshit God routine”). Rhodes doesn’t so much tell you about the pieces he plays as take you into them, guiding the reader through the crescendi and diminuendi of each work, telling the story of each phrase and expressing his own passion for the music with unbridled enthusiasm. He describes Bach’s C-major prelude as “a breathtakingly beautiful cascade of notes that strips away everything we think we know, burrows into our souls and allows us all to float away somewhere warm and safe and magical.” The contrast in tone between Rhodes’ description of music and that of his own head is enough to explain why he has dedicated his life to the piano: music provides beauty, solace and comfort, whereas his thoughts offer only distrust, fury and fear.
If the combination of serious mental illness and analysis of classical music sounds like a recipe for uncomfortable reading, you’ll be relieved to know that the jewel in the crown of Rhodes’ book is his constant, biting and brilliant sense of humour. Paragraphs are laden with irony, sarcasm and self-deprecation, laced with a razor-sharp and caustic wit that will raise eyebrows as well as laughs (“If I ever travelled back in time and met Bach, I don’t know whether I’d punch him or blow him”). To find humour through the visible struggle of his day-to-day existence is admirable, and, combined with the extraordinary empathy Rhodes imbues in each page, is the recipe for an extraordinary, addictive read.
When I read Fire On All Sides again – and I will – I plan to go through it with a highlighter. So often when reading Rhodes’ words I thought “I know that feeling. I’ve done that. I didn’t know other people thought the same way I did.” I would never dream to compare my experiences with those of Rhodes, but life is difficult and bruises us all in different ways, and I found his words extremely comforting. It is indeed a strange joy to read this book, because it is suffused with sadness and pain, but Rhodes’ sense of perspective and distinct voice felt to me like that of a friend, speaking quiet words of comfort, and making assurances that even if things can’t be fixed or made whole again, they can at least be made to feel a little more ok. I needed that. I think perhaps we all do.