The Fredösphere

It's right there on the front cover. It says it in the title of Geoff Dyer's book, But Beautiful: A Book About Jazz. It says it again, in LA Times critic David Thomson's blurb: "maybe the best book ever written about jazz." It's those two words "about jazz." I'm not sure those are the words—the precise words—I would have written.

I would have written that this book is about the jazz life. And this difference feels like more than a nitpick to me. Call me crazy (in fact, call me a crazy composer) but I was hoping for more talk about the music. You know, all that crazy theory stuff: harmony, counterpoint, form, orchestration. Or maybe some words on performance: the ins and outs of getting sound out of the iconic instruments of the style, or even talk of performer-audience dynamics.

Instead, Geoff Dyer gives us something completely different. My expectations (unformed, unfounded, I admit) was so subverted it took me a while to adjust. It took me a while to realize Dyer is attempting something very different. Something very risky.

Inspired by the intuitive and improvisational character of the music itself, he's composed a series of riffs in prose on some of the heroes of the style that he finds compelling. With caveats, he writes a kind of history of imagination. Maybe he's another Capote, writing a non-fiction novel. Maybe this could be classified most simply as historical fiction. In any event, it feels very unusual to me, possibly sui generis. (Hey, I've been called sui generis before so it can't be bad, right?)

It ain't history, but it still feels like an exhaustively researched book. Dyer convinces you he's been inside the heads of his heroes. It's a leap of the mind good enough to be disturbing. I'm honestly afraid to finish reading But Beautiful; I might end up with my head stuffed with a bunch of truths about the heater in Duke Ellington's car or the flask on Private First Class Lester Young's hip that just ain't so.

I'll also admit to a bit if disconnect from these stories. So much of the jazz life, particularly the rootlessness and especially the booze & hookers & drugs--is so utterly unseductive to me. The Lester Young chapter is the one I have in mind especially. Unless it were an overwhelming pity, I can' imagine what motive would make Dyer write it. (Maybe if I listened to some of Young's music, I would get it. Or maybe not; long ago I learned to appreciate jazz; more recently I've begun to steal from it; but to this day it still typically leaves me cold.)

Well, at least I've given you some information. I hope those of you who will love this book have figured out who you are, and will go get a copy. Believe me, this book has an audience. Any book this imaginitive is bound to.

Labels: Jazz