sic insider, who had already gained a reputation for dispensing sound technical advice via Usenet, started chronicling the day-to-day goings-on of a recording he was making for a large record company. It was a little slice of the rock and roll dream-a young band promised stardom, a big budget, and a name producer. However, instead of the story we'd all heard about getting to the top, riding in limos, and being chased by throngs of screaming fans, this was something different. It had all gone terribly wrong. Not only had the wheels fallen off, but, as one delved further, one started to see the truth illuminated: This immethodical circus was not the exception. Perhaps it was the rule. Perhaps it always had been. Industry professionals immediately identified with the empirical details, and the uninitiated were equally drawn in by this rubbernecking view of making records. There was clattering speculation as to the who, when, and where of it, but everyone knew Mixerman was not a poseur. To those who knew him personally, he was an established, respected professional. To those who didn't, it was clear he was no Trojan horse. By its fourth week, the diary was drawing attention from every stripe of the music business, as well as other bloggers, Internet junkies, and insiders. It was a phenomenon. In this book, for the first time, we now have the completed diary as God and Mixerman himself intended. The final chapter is here, too, for new readers, as well as the more than 140,000 Web readers who may have lost a night's sleep here or there, wondering what became of their all-too-human, less-than-gifted cast of characters. Rock and roll is dead. Consider this its autopsy. (From the Forward by Philip Stevenson)