The subtitle for Ben Mason’s memoir "Sex, Trucks, and Rock ‘N Roll" is “a Spiritual Journey,” but that’s much too tidy for this book. “ It’s four in the morning,” starts chapter one, “ and I’m still wired.”

So starts this headstrong story of the life of a musician, songwriter and free-thinking drummer. Every girl wants to go home with the members of a rock band, but Ben, hoarse from screaming bawdy lyrics over guitar riffs and backup vocals, only wants to go home to the woman he loves.

Shiny with sweat and glitter, Mason dreams of a hot shower and the honest love of his girl. That isn’t as easy to come by as he hoped, and this book trails behind him as he stumbles and marches ahead determined to find them.

There’s something edgy inside of Mason that drives him, and when he includes snatches of his song lyrics in this narrative, it’s clear to see how powerful that something is. He’s honest, trusting and generous; and readers may find themselves thinking — or perhaps even muttering out loud — “Oh, Ben. Don’t do that.” But the book is already written, and Mason’s already done it.

He’s a fine writer, both wicked and poetic. His prose charges ahead with irresistible purpose. He wins over sloppy drunk audiences in small-town bars, but he also lands recording deals with big-name labels. He’s always on the edge of making it big, but on the edge doesn’t pay the bills. Organized, creative and confident, he strikes out by himself to make some money as a one-man moving company.

Years of hauling speakers, mic stands and drum sets out of the back of the band’s old van prepared Mason for loading and unloading couches and breakfronts in and out of the back of an eighteen-foot truck.

Here the book presents an unexpected storyline. Mason and his truck become Big Boy Movers, with its cast of well-intentioned friends, losers and muscle-bound ne’er-do-wells. The survival of Big Boy Movers becomes as engrossing as Mason’s passion for music, as magnetic a story as his volatile love life.

Throughout this carnival of a life, Mason experiences an inexplicable blue presence — an aura, a sudden blue cloud out the corner of his eye — that instead of unnerving him, brings calm. He doesn’t question it till late in the book, and why it comes to him may never make sense. It doesn’t matter; Mason is too involved in keeping his metaphorical head above water. Which, incredibly, he manages to do.

"Sex, Trucks, and Rock ’N Roll" stands alone as a damn good read.

But to add to the mix, it’s worth it to Google Primadonna, the head-banging rock band that Mason played in where he set fire to dolls’ heads and tossed them into the crowd — and then compare that to his solo music, backed up by familiar names in rock & roll. The difference explains the “spiritual journey” he claims with the title of his book. Unquestionably a journey from sweat and shouting and demanding to an almost sweet and haunting sound of suggestion. “ Hold on,” he sings. “ Breathe deep and dream.”