Another book from the laundry room shelf, I should have read this a long time ago. I claim to love jazz, but I don't play, and I'm no student of it. I was always very fuzzy on Charlie Parker. His blazing fast style can be jarring to the ears, and I have to admit, I never got it. I usually prefer deep textures, a big sound, and long slow tunes I can follow, remember, and hum in the elevator. Bird is relentless, frenetic, (and sometimes a bit wheezy). The whole period of his music, the 40’s and early 50’s, has always been an undifferentiated blur to me.
Written in 1973 by a white producer who was one of the first to record Bird as a leader, back in 1946, this book has something of a bad reputation. The author himself makes a case for the raised eyebrow. Is it really appropriate for yet another white bystander to write a bio of a black jazz hero? There is some pretty good research here, based on a lot of interviews with musicians who worked with Bird. A lot of the story is fictionalized, with snatches of dialogue and descriptions of scenes for which there were no cameras. That gives a realistic documentary feel, but suddenly you turn the page on the chapter where Russell talks about his own involvement with Parker, signing back of the napkin contracts, lending him money, getting him out of rehab, getting crossed as Bird breached exclusive agreements, and you realize there can be no objectivity here. The language suddenly changes to the first person, and oscillates between being honest and defensive. There are people who thought Ross Russell was one of the many people in the music industry who didn’t do right by him, and Bird was one of them. The last time they met, Charlie Parker threatened to shoot him.
While it may not be the definitive biography, I still think it’s a great book. The language is evocative, and at times has a dark, beat edge to it. It makes a convincing case that Charlie Parker was a true cultural hero, and deserves to be a legend. He was a unique and powerful creative force in transforming jazz from swing, which was for dancing and entertainment, to bebop, where in the space of a few years, jazz became a form of personal expression, an Art. Parker was no civil rights activist, but he stood his own terms, and set an example for doing so. Like too many legends, he also set a standard for tragic self-destruction. When he died, his health destroyed by years of heroin and alcohol, the coroner estimated his age at 53. He was 34.
Well, then, on a lighter note, what also made the book valuable for me is that it also served as a listening guide. Thanks to the den of copyright thieves that is YouTube, every cut mentioned is available for instant listening with a few keystrokes. That includes some bootleg recordings that the author himself never heard, except by reputation. It sets the scene of individual recording sessions. It sketches out the dynamic among the players, legends in their own right, like Gillespie, Miles, and Monk. Sidemen and hangers-on whose names I’d only known from liner notes, became became fleshed out characters, with motives and styles of their own. With passionate commentary on choruses and solos, the book helped me dig (should I put quotes around that?) Charlie Parker, and bebop, in a way that escaped me before. I’ll never be able to whistle Charlie Parker solos, but in the past couple of weeks, I’ve been hearing them in my dreams, sharp and clear, utterly inventive, and blazingly fast.