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Precis-ely


Almost Blue

Nearly two months, I got to choose some English language books for my birthday. Books I actually wanted to read, as opposed to what I should be reading. In addition to two Indridason krimis (English lacks this useful German/Dutch word), and a study of Robert Doisneau 'From Craft to Art', I also brought home Dennett's 'From Bacteria to Bach', and two books on Jazz: Ted Gioia's 'History of Jazz', and James Gavin's 'Deep in a Dream: The Long Night of Chet Baker'.
While I suspect that Ted Gioa's book, and Doisneau's plates are the only things I'll look at again-though I haven't properly started on the former-it's the comparison of Dennett and Gavins, and their relationship to their subject matter, that interests me most here.
First to Dennett's book. I should say straight off that I haven't finished this, in fact, I'm only a third of the way in, and it's quite likely that this is as far as I'll get. At the obvious risk of 'pot-kettle-black' comment, I will say that this kind of rambling, self-referential writing contains little to endear itself to me. Excepting of course, the ideas he's writing about, which are hugely important and fascinating, if only the writer were able to convey them concisely and accessibly. (The contrast with Richard Dawkins' accessible and entertaining approach could not be sharper; even among philosophers, this does not hold a candle to Jerry Fodor). This is a work in sore need of a good editor, or better, self-censorship, to which a less important philosopher or linguist (!) would be forced to submit.
Which brings me to Gavins' biography of Chet Baker. I'd been a fan of the musician for more than twenty years before I learned anything of the man. And in a way, I'm sorry I picked up this book, because the projection from album covers is so much finer than the reality. Gavins paints a 400-page portrait of a unique and beautiful musical talent trapped inside a lazy, narcissistic, chronically immature, inarticulate, occasionally violent and deeply unethical thug--it seems, from the start--who spent the rest of his adult life sinking deeper into heroin addiction, and in more lucid moments, evading every responsibility to his partners and child. Watching 'Let's get lost' after reading half of this book confirms the view that Baker was someone I'm glad I never met. (That's quite a long list, it should be said...)
Yet his talent redeems Baker, at least to some small extent, and some may defend him on the grounds that he, like 90% of his jazz generation, was a victim of heroin. 'It was the drink, talking'. Especially since currently we are in thrall to someone with all the same character flaws but no redeeming talents, and no similar excuse: he doesn't even drink beer.
What's so fascinating about Gavins' writing is that he manages to paint a picture of a 40 year-long suicide that is simultaneously perceptive, unsentimental and--in a weird way--sympathetic.
Although I'm only half-way through, and know exactly how it will end, there is no question that I'll keep going in spite of the harm it will do to my image of Baker.
Yet, if I chose not to persevere to the bitter, or rather pathetic, end, I've just found--in Gioa's book pp. 264-265 a two-paragraph précis of Baker's life (and by extension of Gavins' biography)
Shorter than this review, then.
Hopefully, someone will provide the same service for Dennett's book, very soon.
So, there goes an hour of Showa Day that might have been better used.

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