Back when I was just a casual book buyer and not the galley-juggling superclown of today, I thought of Da Capo Books as that cool rock’n'roll reissue press. Everything I ever needed to know about the precursors to pop music icons of my lifetime (e.g., Elvis, the Beatles, the Clash, Madonna) could be found in the pages of seminal texts like Charlie Gillett’s The Sound of the City, Giles Oakley’s The Devil’s Music: A History of the Blues, and Nick Tosches’s Country: The Twisted Roots of Rock’n'Roll. Like a good little student of the devil’s music, I vowed to devour those books and more whole.

I didn’t—still haven’t (except for Gillett’s book). College homework and music nerd boyfriends got in the way, but I’m still enamored of Da Capo and as the music book editor, I have the great pleasure of assigning its books. I know what Senior Director of Publicity Lissa Warren is thinking: “Actually, Heather, after being purchased by the Perseus Books Group in 1999, Da Capo expanded eons beyond music—it now does health, self-help, and even parenting.”

This is true. But as the editor also responsible for those three areas, I still say music makes up the heart of Da Capo. YAs, don’t come looking for photo-heavy, cut-and-paste biographies of the latest post-emo, pretty boy outfits from New Jersey. Da Capo tackles quality, often out-of-the-way music figures (e.g., Dave Van Ronk) without being holier-than-thou. And when it comes to the nearly dead white males of rock’n'roll, as well as the newer icons, the books don’t take the usual approach.

My reviewers would back me up. James Perone, for one, has sung the praises of the 2006 entry in Da Capo’s ”Best Music Writing” series and singled out Everett True’s gritty forthcoming biography of Nirvana (see LJ 3/1/07). His December 2006 review of The Show I’ll Never Forget, edited by SPIN writer Sean Manning, inspired me to take home an extra galley two Fridays ago, and unlike most anthologies, it completely engrosses despite, or maybe because of, the disparate voices and performers included. So no one waxes ecstatic about the Clash at the Palladium. I’ll live. I got to read Linda Yablonsky’s plaintive portrait of Nina Simone (and her late father) at the Village Gate.