Finally, I have in my hands the biography of Bruce.
I spent my teenage years admiring him. I know everything about him. Every move, every glance. In the yard, we all imitated him with his iconic poses that made history. Every time we had the chance to see him, we would go. I remember Fist of Fury perfectly, where he fought everyone and always won. The myth of Bruce Lee still lives among us.
When I reached page 100, I heard about Iron Maiden. I realized that perhaps it was not the Bruce I intended.
It is Bruce Dickinson.
Holy cow, I started the reading over because I hadn't understood anything. It seemed a bit strange to me that he loved beer and that, during his first drunken stupor, he vomited on Ian Gillan's feet.
Sorry. I reset myself.

Bruce, the long-haired Englishman, has a rather dull biography.
An adolescence far from interesting.
The entire section on fencing is useless for the reader.
His passion for flying and pages and pages of his studies, wasted time.
The best part, perhaps, is the transition from Samson to Iron Maiden.
About fifty pages are spared from this brick.
The sentiment is particularly lacking.
Never is there mention of the hatred for Steve Harris.
Nothing about the admiration for Adrian Smith.
Nothing about the love of writing.
Not even a word about the relationship that develops within a band, the most atypical family with precarious balances.
Just fencing and planes.
Here there is something wrong.
Like the beginning.
Like the purchase.
Like this terrible review.

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