Before launching into praise of her exposed-nerve documentary, Linda Perry: Let It Die Here, and her chilling, vulnerable solo album of the same name—Perry’s first since 1999’s After Hours —it’s important to know that she doesn’t really need this shit. Not the film. Not the album.  Ask Perry if she’s happy she consented to having her life so scrutinized and documented, let alone finally seeing a big screen release, and she loudly and laughingly says, “No. I didn’t want to fucking hear about it.” To director Don Hardy, Perry conceded at filming’s start, “Just shoot what you’re going to shoot, and if I say it or do it, I’ll stand behind it.  Just don’t talk about it.”  Perry penned platinum-plated 21st-century hits for Pink (“Get the Party Started”), Christina Aguilera (“Beautiful”), Alicia Keys (“Superwoman”) and Ariana Grande (“Put Your Hearts Up”), among many others; each a contagiously smooth sentinel in opposition to her top-hatted, tattooed-love-goddess exterior and (seemingly)…