Don’t let the title of Cameron Crowe’s memoir fool you.

The Uncool chronicles the filmmaker’s early years as a rock journalist for Rolling Stone, where he became the magazine’s youngest-ever contributor as a 15-year-old. Crowe wrote cover stories on some of the defining acts of the 1970s: David Bowie, Fleetwood Mac, and Tom Petty among them. While his classmates back home in San Diego were studying for midterms, Crowe convinced a teacher to give him class credit for his time on the road with Led Zeppelin.

“I didn’t even know how to process what was happening in real time,” Crowe recently told Vogue. “I felt like a kid at the zoo walking into all these cages with the door left open.”

Crowe and Robert Plant backstage in Chicago, 1975.

Photo: Neal Preston

The book’s title refers to a scene in Almost Famous, Crowe’s semi-autobiographical masterpiece inspired by this period. His onscreen avatar is being consoled over the phone by rock critic Lester Bangs, a real-life mentor of Crowe’s played in the film by Philip Seymour Hoffman: “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool.”

At the peak of his career in journalism, Crowe didn’t drink or take drugs, never had a girlfriend, and frequently checked in with his mother from the road. By most metrics, he was never the “coolest” person in the room. But to a generation of wannabe journalists who saw themselves in the scrappy music nerd at the center of Almost Famous, Crowe will forever be something of a golden god.

The Uncool almost reads like a novelization of the film, with numerous stories, details, and quotes (“It’s all happening…”) that fans will immediately recognize. But as much as Crowe’s memoir is about the decade of music that defined him, it’s also a loving tribute to his mother, Alice, who died in 2019 at the age of 97.

“My mom always pushed me to write what was in my heart,” Crowe says. “And this book is about how it feels to love something so much that it drives you a little crazy.”

With The Uncool now a New York Times best-seller, Vogue caught up with the 68-year old writer-director to chat about some of the stories that inspired his memoir, as well as his next film: a Joni Mitchell biopic he plans to make—and release—in 2026.

Vogue: What first compelled you to write a book centered around these experiences?

Cameron Crowe: It started when I re-read Patti Smith’s book Just Kids. It’s quite diaristic, and you never feel like it was written for the world to appreciate. I love that it stops where it does, so you only get hints of what she’ll get up to later in life. It’s mostly about this youthful phase before she became a public figure, and I thought about what my version of that could look like. I’m always writing just to get stuff out of my system, and I’ve been trying to get back into analog habits like writing on yellow legal tablets. I began writing longhand late at night, and the stories just started pouring out.

A collection of cassette tapes from Crowe’s interview sessions with David Bowie.

Photo: Cameron Crowe

What was your process, as far as digging through your archives and deciding which stories to share?

It started with all the cassette tapes I kept from that time. Every month I put all my favorite songs onto a C90 cassette, and those were the best diary of all because listening to them immediately triggered all kinds of memories. I found a tape that I recorded over with an interview from a fishing trip I took with Lynyrd Skynyrd, and listening to it stirred up so many feelings. It was a cleansing experience, writing these stories after years of trying to get scripts right.

Was there a specific chapter that unlocked what you wanted the book to be?

Definitely my time with the Allman Brothers Band, which is a story I’ve told a few times over the years. But revisiting all of my notes and digging into how I felt during that time was quite emotional. I did a reading of that chapter last night, and it was the first time I’ve read it that I didn’t cry.

Crowe with Gregg Allman in 1973.

Photo: Neal Preston

What about that experience was so emotional to revisit?

Gregg Allman and his crew scared the shit out of me! I was 16 years old and these were tough guys. I was frightened, and I tried to cover that up with a sense of humor. I really didn’t know what was going to happen with the story, and I constantly thought I was gonna get beaten up. Writing about it took me right back to that feeling of being a scared teenager. It was also quite emotional writing about my mom.

As much as the book is framed around your passion for music, it’s such a lovely tribute to your mother.

She was the one who really pushed me to keep writing my entire life. She would always say, “Never give up, and always follow your bliss.”

I love her little words of wisdom that you opened some chapters with. My favorite was “Put some goodness into the world before it blows up.”

Those are from notes she gave me that are sprinkled all over my office. They range from 20 years ago up to right before she died. I thought more people could benefit from her way of throwing optimism at you. There was a lot of pain in my mom’s life that I didn’t realize was there until much later, but she remained such a warrior for optimism.

Photo: Cameron Crowe

How did you approach getting these artists to open up when, as you say in Almost Famous, journalists were seen as “the enemy”?

I became this little therapist everyone could speak to on tour—which was very emotionally educational. Here were these people not that much older than me who somehow felt they could tell me all their secrets. I was usually so grateful to be in the room that I’d make a joke just to break the tension. David Bowie had a great sense of humor and this big, wide-open laugh.

The level of access you had with these artists is unbelievable: you interviewed Bowie over a span of 18 months, flew on a private plane with Fleetwood Mac, and moved in with Glenn Frey and Don Henley while profiling The Eagles. Most journalists I know struggle to get 15 minutes on Zoom nowadays.

I think part of the reason people are enamored with these stories is because I used to have weeks—sometimes months—with these artists just to get to know them. That’s simply not the case anymore. There were only a few people back then who got that kind of access, like this big character Lisa Robinson who acted like she’d just stepped out of the 1930s. She would walk up to Led Zeppelin and say, “Hello, sweetie darlings, I want to dish right now! I saw Mick last night, but let’s not talk about Mick!” She only wrote notes on pink memo pads that she stole from the Beverly Hills Hotel.

God, that’s chic.

She’s the chicest. These guys had never seen anyone like her, which became her point of access. She had some special key that unlocked these celebrities and made them let their guards down. Then once you form a connection and get on the road, you’re sorta swept away into their world. It’s a one-of-a-kind feeling and it bums me out that most journalists don’t get to experience that anymore.

Crowe with Tom Petty in 1983.

Photo: Courtesy of Petty Legacy LLC

Reading The Uncool, I never got the sense that you tried to insert yourself into these people’s inner circles. You were always there just to talk about the music.

Rock stars really don’t want you to do more than that—unless you have amazing drugs and you’re giving them away for free. Then they’re like “Hey, man, come on in, welcome to Jethro Tull!”

Do you recall any interviews where you felt like you didn’t crack the artist?

Ian Hunter [of Mott the Hoople] was tough, but I broke down his walls over the course of our conversation. Pink Floyd didn’t go quite how I would’ve liked. I found the band quite distant, and I couldn’t get close enough to really crack that story. But in retrospect, you kinda want it that way with Pink Floyd. You don’t want Roger Waters pulling up a chair and offering you a beer, like, “Whatever you wanna know!” They’re supposed to feel monolithic.

How does that compare to someone like Stevie Nicks, who seems to really understand the artist-journalist dynamic and the power of using interviews to build personal lore?

I adore Stevie. I interviewed Linda Ronstadt shortly before going on that plane with the band, and she was all Stevie wanted to talk about: “Do you think Linda would ever wanna meet me? Do you think we’d get along?” I later realized that was her way of flattering me and suggesting, Can you hook me up with Linda? The great thing about Stevie is that she’s the world’s biggest Stevie Nicks fan. She’ll quote her most obscure, beautiful lyrics at you with no sense of irony. She is a Stevie historian, and she cares so much about her music. Those songs are her children, and she’ll tell you as much.

A note from Crowe’s time reporting on Fleetwood Mac in 1973.

Photo: Cameron Crowe

I got goosebumps reading the passage where Stevie played you “Silver Springs” before the record had come out.

“Silver Springs” is one of those songs that stops you dead in your tracks the first time you hear it. I felt like I could physically feel the song in the room with me. The emotions on that record were just so powerful.

Did you know it was about Lindsay Buckingham?

Sorta. I knew it was deeply felt, and I knew what was going on between the band members, but not to the extent that they told me. I recently interviewed Fleetwood Mac about that period for another project I’m working on, and they didn’t quite align on how things transpired—or how they all ended up in bed on the cover of Rolling Stone. Annie Leibovitz created this elixir to draw out the drama of what was happening in the band and really capture their dynamic with that cover.

What was your biggest takeaway from spending 18 months with David Bowie?

David was incredibly smart and quite knowledgeable about where he thought the culture was headed. I don’t know if he gave himself enough credit for the things he expressed at the time about fame and self-preservation. It all kinda got washed into the “Thin White Duke” period that he tried to put behind him. One line I remember is when he told me, “Who am I? I’m David Jones throwing David Bowie at you to see how you’ll react.” But he never made it feel like he was just throwing you a pull quote, because lots of artists do that.

I’ve definitely left an interview thinking I got an incredible story, then I see the artist tell it beat-for-beat on a talk show that night.

The worst is when you create that great interview by pulling it out of the person, and they give it to the next guy with no problem because they rehearsed with you.

Or when you have a pleasant conversation with an artist but then you listen back to the recording and realize they said nothing interesting.

That’s every Jagger interview. Everyone who’s ever left an interview with him always thinks they just scored the Mick Jagger interview because he’s so damn charming. But there’s usually not much there. When I initially wrote Jerry Maguire for Tom Hanks, I met him in New York so he could look at some pages I’d written. I saw him read the scene where Jerry sends the memo out then immediately wants to take it back. Tom goes, “I’m not ready and would need to prepare, but if I did play the character it might sound like this: Yeah, this is Jerry McGuire. Hey, listen, did those memos go out?’

I can hear it perfectly.

About a year later, I gave Tom the finished script and waited overnight for his reaction. All the people involved with the movie were in the room when he called, so I went outside to speak to Tom. When I came back in they were all like, “How’d it go?!” And I was still on a high from the call. I was like, “It went so well—he passed, but we had an amazing conversation!” Sometimes in journalism you have a nice conversation, but that doesn’t always translate to a good interview.

Did you have any sort of “uniform” for when you interviewed musicians?

I basically tried to dress how Neil Young did on his album covers. I always wore a plaid flannel shirt, boots, jeans, and a yellow shoulder bag to interviews. When you look at all those iconic photos that Annie took of The Who on their 1975 tour, I’m the schlumpy guy in the background while Pete Townshend looks like the coolest guy alive. There were some writers who dressed like rock stars—Lester Bangs had that vibe, and this guy Nick Kent dressed exactly like Jimmy Page.

Was that frowned upon?

I think it pissed Jimmy off, because writers aren’t rock stars. You don’t show up to interview Led Zeppelin in a velvet jacket and a scarf that you bought from the same place they shop. I learned early on not to do that, so I kinda subconsciously went aggressively in the opposite direction.

Crowe with Todd Rundgren on the subway in 1973.

Photo: Neal Preston

One of my first interviews was with Isabelle Huppert, and I thought it might be cute to show up wearing my shirt with her name on it. She did not seem amused and I’ve never done anything of the sort ever again.

You’ve gotta learn by trial and error. One time I was on the Venice Film Festival jury with Catherine Deneuve, and I was shoulder-to-shoulder with her in the back of a cab trying to make chit-chat. I’m a huge François Truffaut fan so I asked which book she’d recommend about him, and she looked like she wanted to push me out of the cab. I saw a lot of people try to approach her at the festival, and she was always so unfazed. I only saw one compliment land. Some guy about 30 feet away got out of his cab, saw us sitting at some outdoor cafe, and shouted, “Denuvre—magnifique!” And just kept on walking.

A perfect celebrity interaction.

She loved it. Simple, to the point, and from a distance.

What can you tell me about this Joni Mitchell biopic you’re developing?

It’s happening, but it’s a matter of how soon. I really wanna shoot, edit, and release it all next year. I’ve had a lot of time to think about how I wanna approach it.

Did she approach you?

I approached her. I called up Joni’s right-hand person and said, “If anybody comes knocking to make a movie about Joni’s life, please come to me first because I have ideas.” She said, “Joni’s wondering why you didn’t ask sooner. People are knocking all the time, they were knocking two days ago. Come over now!” Lots of directors approached Joni saying, “I wanna tell your story this way,” and she turned them all down. I went over to pitch my ideas and she liked them, so she told me to come over every week on Monday night to sit at her table and ask all my questions.

Crowe with Joni Mitchell on opening night of the Almost Famous musical in 2019.

Photo: Getty Images

Are artists typically this involved in developing their own biopics?

I can vouch that it truly never happens this way. But it’s built on a level of trust that I’ve accumulated from talking to Joni over the years. It started when I was 16 and she wandered into a dressing room where I was interviewing Bonnie Raitt. This was at a time when she did no interviews, so it felt like catching a white whale. She didn’t say too much, but she kinda started interviewing Bonnie with me. It was fantastic, and she was such a good hang. But her manager found out and called me up saying I couldn’t use any of it. But I will always remember her drifting into that room. She looked like she’d walked right off the cover of For the Roses.

Can you confirm the rumors about Meryl Streep playing Joni?

We’ve officially tiptoed into territory that I cannot discuss. But you have no idea how much more I’d love to say. Developing this film has been my bliss. It’s been very special getting to spend so much time with Joni so it’s not somebody else’s take on her, but Joni’s take on herself with no filter—and using all her music.

I know you attempted to make a Marvin Gaye biopic over a decade ago, but having made one of the all-time great movies about a fake band, why has it taken you this far into your career to make a biopic?

The genre is tricky because it’s exactly that, a genre. I like the biopics that bust out of those genre constrictions.

Have you seen Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story?

Of course, it’s a must-watch for anybody making a music biopic because it clocks every cliché. You can’t have a character say, “People will never listen to this eight-minute song!” and then cut to the song going number one.

So there won’t be a scene where Joni sees a big yellow taxi and says, “I have an idea for a song…”

There will not. There’s a tendency for biopics to feel like like you’re watching an artist’s life through this beautifully-curated window. I want my movie to feel like you’re in the room with Joni, so that it feels as personal as her music.

The Uncool cuts off right around the time you wrote your first script for Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Would you ever write another book that dives into your filmmaking career?

Maybe, some day. That’s definitely a different set of obstacles to write about. The Uncool is about a time when everything imprinted in a way that stayed with me forever. These stories evoke a very specific feeling and time and place for me. I didn’t write it to be the first in a series. As much as I’d love to know more about what happened to Patti Smith after Just Kids, I like that it captures a specific moment. That’s why I wrote this book. But never say never, because I definitely have a few more stories left to tell.

This conversation has been edited and condensed.