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10
Ampersand
Derrmhrr, 197V
under ilie* pseudonym Jean Jacques Fer
ial; yes, (hose feu and nodouhl others that
u ill Ire sniffed out by fans and academi-
t ians prone to the pi* king of nils. Bui...?
No douhl about it: this is the indispensa
ble sf reference work. Exhaustive, accu
rate, srintillatinglv written, and cross-
indexed so clearly it w ill supersede all pre-
vious volumes of its kind, ft is a ter
minological and historical wonder; but
nothing less could be expected from
Nil bolls, the guiding intelligence behind
Fngland's Foundation magazine, and Clule,
probably the finest sf critic alive todav. An
extravaganza of invaluable information. It
is to stand in awe at its excellence. I cannot
recommend it highly enough.
But then, you figured that out for your
self. right?
King of Bebop
What more apt title than to Hr or not... to
Hop (I)oubleday. $14.95) for the memoirs
of John Birks “Dizzy” Gillespie? Here is a
man whose historv u largely the history of
bebop (he is credited wth coining the
onomatopoeic word suggestive of the stac
cato phrasing often found in the "new"
music), whose cascading eighth notes and
rhvthmic inventions propelled jazz from
the Armstrong era to the Colira lie era and
whose work with Charlie Parker, Kenny
Clarke. Thelonius Monk and others de
fined both a musical era and a cultural
phenomenon.
The book moves swiftly through his
pugnacious younger years to his involve
ment in the hands of Cab Calloway, Earl
Hines, and Billy Eckstine and finally to
Gillespie's own remarkable career as
trumpeter, bandleader, and composer. Diz
and coauthor Al Fraser display a rare tal
ent for developing an intimate
portrait — when we're not on the
bandstand, we're no further than the first
table away.
The hist person narrative is inter
spersed with reflections on Cillespie’s a<-
complishments hv musicians and relatives
(where never is heard a discouraging
word). The names alone are dazzling, a
pantheon of ja/z legends; Miles.
Thelonius Monk. Kenny Clarke. Ella
Fitzgerald. Sarah Vaughn. Max Roach, et
al. Only once does the parade of names
pause long enough for the reader to see
the fairytale-like atmosphere of those
magic times blown awav. the pathos be
come palpable; Charle Parker — altoist,
genius, and heroin addict near death im
ploring "Save me, save me" to a helpless
Diz.
A ladies' man ("like a bee... not stopping
anywhere Inn always buzzing") with a ten
dency to be in the w'rong place at the
wrong time that makes Leon Spinks look
blessed by the Fates. Gillespie did little to
belie his nickname. Random knifings,
hoax paternity suits, close calls w ith drugs,
and tricks like slipping Benzedrine into
bandmembers' drinks managed to keep
life interesting.
Cognizant of his own contributions to
music ("If he's voungei than me and play
ing trumpet, he's following in my
footsteps"), cut by racism but never scar
red, (iillespie remains at 62 a remarkable
musician, teacher, and humanitarian.
Some men grow old like coins, wearing
away until only the outlines are visible, but
Diz...“I hope to live to Ik* aliout 160 so I
can get some of that money hark that I give
these jive people for my social security.’
Berets off to this man and his hook.
Terry Gioe
Baldwin: Bearing
Witness
During the Filies and early Sixties, James
Baldwin stood among the nation's leading
young writers, offering an articulate re-
The Beats Go On
It's hard to know w hat Jack Kerouac would have thought of this party held in his
honor on October 21st. There we were at the Old Spaghetti Factory in San
Francisco's North Beach, a hangout of the “lieatifu generation” Keroua*
tendered so bnlliantlv twenty vears before. Only now there were streamers in
the doorways, and video crews, and a three-piece romlm plaving "hilka Dots
and Moonbeams” and "Our Love Is Here to Stay." In fact, it looked like one of
those scenes Kerouac assiduously avoided.
The date was the tenth anniversary of Kerouac s death, but the real purpose
of the gathering was to publicize Jack's Hook: An Oral Hiogiaphy of Jack Krrouac by
Barry Gifford and 1 .aw mice Lee which has just lieen published in paperback,
joining several other biographies and some half-dozen critical studies and a
soon-to-be-released film w hich have emerged aliout this most elusive of
authors. I hose who knew him well were there — longtime friend Victor Wong,
poet/critic Kenneth Rex rot h, and Garolyn Cassady, whose book HeartHeat
records the tempestuous menage she lived with both Kerouac and her husband,
Neal Cassady. Carolyn Cassady told me how HrartHcat's first draf t of 863 pages
was eventually whittled down by the editors to 92 pages and she feared even
more would be cut from the upcoming film version “because they think it* been
done before. That's the tragedy," she said, "they think they have the whole story;
they only have a pan, and they don't even know what that part means.”
Still, authors Gifford and lee were on hand to sign (looks, and they showed
the Koliert Frank him Pull My Daisy which Kerouac narrated, and everyone
had a good time. Kerouac *s daughter, Jan, came closest to summing up
everyone's feelings when she told how she learned of her father's death: "I was
up in Little Rivet, and one day this f riend of mine came running down to the
c abin. she'd heaid a Unit it on the radio. She said tomeAbui father's dead' and
then she looked at me w ith this reallv expectant expression, like she was waiting
to see what I'd do. Finally, I said *()h, wow — gee — that's too had' liecause I'd
onlv met him twice in my life, you know? But I like to think I know him — in
spirit, at least — through his hooks. I think we all feel like that." pyj art(
Lauxi LArt
construction of black experience in
America, and — as one critic put it —
serving as "a kind of measuring rod for the
nation's social conscience." With the rise of
black nationalism throughout the mid-
Sixties, Baldw in's preeminence as the voice
of black American literature faltered con
siderably, giving way to younger, more out
raged, and more conspicuously political
spokespersons. In'Sou! on Ice, Eldridge
Cleaver gave his due to Baldwins talent as
a "personal" writer, but roundly criticizeci
his fiction for a near-total lack of "political,
economic, or even social reference." Of
course, literary lights have shifted once
again, and while Eldridge ('.leaver has or
chestrated one of the most public spiritual
conversions in recent memory, James
Baldw in has continued to write and speak,
fulfilling his own designs to serve "not [as]
a spokesman exactly, but as a public wit
ness to the situation of black people."
The concept of “witnessing" is again key
to Baldwin's latest novel. Just Above My
H$od (1 be- Dial Press, $12.95). 1 Ins long
work (nearly 600 pages) strives to follow
the destinies and conditions of a half-
dozen black men and women over a period
of about thirty years. The story — an epic
reminiscence in the first-person — is prop
elled by the fate of one Arthur Montana,
gospel singer, as he moves from the streets
and churches of Harlem to Birmingham
in the Sixties ("If there was one righteous
man here he had to be in an asylum"), to
cosmopolitan stardom and a bad end in
the restroom of a London pub. In the
terms of the novel’s pervading gospel im
agery, Arthur's journey is a long one and
the road is not smooth: f riends and family
variously succumb to (or survive) the perils
of incest, heroin, madness, murder, and a
state of constant anger and pain that
Baldw in submits as being the standard of
Black life in America.
In some sense, Baldwin has come full-
circle as a novelist. The black church, its
music, homosexuality, and the crucial
though often deadly relations between
parent and child have all been themes
central to his fiction since do Tell It on the
Mountain (1953) and Another Country
(1962). But whereas the earlier work re
vealed youthf ul characters who were about
to embark upon the dangerous trek into a
world beyond the ghetto. Just Above My
Head is the chronicle of a man who has al
ready made that journey and has returned
with the judgement that things are even
worse than he had suspected. The tenor of
this entire novel might best lx* summed up
by a description of the South as seen by the
teenaged Arthur Montana and his quar
tet, the Trumpets of Zion. “Here" writes
Baldwin, “they are confronted by the de
vastating reality of their youth. Here they
begin to suspect, for the first time, that the
world has no mercy and they have no
weapons. They have only each other, and
may, soon, no longer have that." Given such
discoveries, there is little wonder that the
most heartfelt singing can produce no joy-
ful n,,ist Fr.d S.tterberg
Slow Train Going
Paul Theroux has his own approach to
travel w riting. (Getting there isn't just half
the fun; it's all of it. The Old Patagonian Ex
press, subtitled Hy Train Through the
Americas (Houghton Mifflin,! 11.95). is the
follow-up to The Creat Railway Haiaar
(1975), his first and best book about long,
exotic train trips. By coincidence. I read
Hazaar and loved it enough to buy several
copies for friends. Alas, this will not lie the
case with Old Patagonian.
The premise was the same in both
books —that he boarded his local com
muter train and just kept going, but it's less
wonderful the second time around.
Theroux boards the train in Boston, his
childhood home, in the teeth of the most
vicious winter, and heads south — way
south: Patagonia by way of all the
Americas. I he America he leaves is icy and
bleak. The Americas he encounters are
largely hot, stark and poor. There are few
exceptions. The journey is nasty, brutish
and long. It is |>ossihle that the listlessness
of his surroundings made Theroux more
introspective and querulous. The exuber
ance in Hazaar was real. Here, on the few
occasions when it surfaces, it feels forced.
Considering it was his idea to make the trip
in the first place, he is palpahlv homesick a
good deal of the time. The further he
gorges into the single-tracked wastes, the
more domestic his imagery — hills "like
failed souffles" and deserts "like kitty-
litter.”
The book's 22 chapters take their names
from the trains he rode — the Aztec Eagle,
the Balboa Bullet and such. The train was
often the poor people's transport, busses
and planes being preferred by those with a
choice. Scenery is dutifully described, al
though he sleeps through some of (he best,
he says. T he characters aren't special,
which is had luck as much as anything else.
This is less a book of scenery and charac
ters than one of sheer observation, lumi-
nation and philosophy about Theroux's
two chief interests — travel and writing. We
hear all about the books he's taken with
him, so Twain, Conrad and Boswell are
strewn amongst the cactus, played off
against the responsibly gathered snippets
of historic, socio-politic and economic data
about the places passed through. He's
done his homework. There is emphasis on
the Catholic church. Theroux was raised
Catholic and finds much to say aliout the
architecture and practice in the solidly
Catholic territories he traverses.
T here is a solitude/loneliness on this
expedition that seemed not to plague the
Theroux who wrote Haznar. Although the
worst that befalls him is rats in his room,
altitude quease and a gashed hand, he
admits to the fear of death so far from
home. And that rings true. Theroux does
succeed in making us feel what he feels
and see what he sees. He is strong on
physical detail. What disappoints is the
way this good writer is, here, too self
consciously a writer. T he stufT is work
manlike, fastidious, but not flowing.
He coyly makes the point, too early and
then far too often, that this weird trip
started out on the Boston commuter train.
He even uses it as his closing sentence, by
which time it is blanched of all irony;
there’s no punch left in the line. Read The
Creat Railway .Hazaar instead. It's terrific.
Shelley Turner