“The Sporto: Tales from the Rock Mecca of South Florida” by C. Rich

So I discovered this book by chance while doing some online research for information about the Hollywood Sportatorium, nicknamed The Sporto. My other blog, The Stub Collection, is where I post scanned images of my old concert ticket stubs, along with my memories of the shows. Having grown up in South Florida in the 70s and 80s, I ended up seeing quite a few great shows at the Sporto, including Eric Clapton with Muddy Waters, Elton John, Roger Waters, Robert Plant, The Firm (w Jimmy Page), Deep Purple, Yes, Blue Oyster Cult, Black Sabbath with Van Halen, just to name a few.

So as I was looking for quotes and images relating to the Sportatorium, I discovered this book, and my interest was piqued. I shared the info with some of my friends, a few of whom were quicker to acquire and read the book than I was. I was promptly informed that the book was terrible. My friend Miriam told me not to waste my money and that she would send me her copy (which she did). My friend Jim said the writing was so bad it was like reading a 5th grader’s book report. These critiques were pretty harsh. Yet, when the package from Miriam arrived, I was compelled to read the book. I have to say, this is one of the worst books I have ever read, even worse than Dr. Sax by Jack Kerouac (which I hated). Thankfully, the book is very short (less than 100 pages) with large font, so it was essentially like reading a long magazine article.

Rather than focusing on the negative, which would be easy, I figured I would say what I did like about the book, and that was the nostalgia. Having lived in South Florida, and knowing the types of people who frequented the infamous Sporto, I could relate to some of Rich’s musings. The crappy acoustics, the god-awful traffic, the riots, the indulgence, all of the things that made rock and roll what it was in those years of decadence. For someone who never experienced a concert at the Sportatorium, this book would be a complete waste, but for those of us who have memories of the venue, there will be fragments that will cause you to nod your head and say, “Oh yeah, I remember that.”

The problem with living in a world where anyone can publish a book is that, well, anyone can publish a book. For those of you thinking about self-publication, I would offer a word of advice—hire an editor. You will avoid obvious grammatical problems, typos, and incorrect information. And let’s face it, even T.S. Eliot benefitted from Ezra Pound’s editorial expertise.

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