"An imaginary memoir" - with jazz-great Jelly Roll chattily
reviewing his life and career one night in 1940, after-hours at
Washington's Jungle Inn, shortly before his Los Angeles death. In
understated, reasonably authentic language (slang, repetitions,
digressions), the Creole pianist recalls his childhood in racially
tense 1890s New Orleans, his attraction to all-black honky-tonks
(where "you didn't have to act like no damned nigger"), his early
keyboard triumphs in Florida, his pride and ambition: "I was always
looking for someplace that was big enough for me and I'm still
looking today." He tells anecdotes about rival piano-players, about
a trip to color-blind Mexico, about his many girls and life on the
road. (Contrary to rumor, however, he never pimped: "I never took
nothing of what they made.") He touches on career-highlights -
recordings, songwriting, brief appearances in N.Y., longer stints
in L.A. and Chicago. And he occasionally goes into a little musical
detail, distinguishing himself from other, more celebrated jazz
giants - while proclaiming himself "the man who knew more about how
jazz music was supposed to be played than anybody else in the
world." Finally, however, though Charters is a veteran jazz-writer,
this chronological monologue offers no clear projection of the
musical history involved. Nor, on the other hand, despite the bits
of romance and comedy, does the mock-testimony provide any
novelistic shape or drama. Despite the conscientious, affectionate
crafting here, then: a flat, unfocused slice of bio-fiction -
marginally informative, mildly colorful. (Kirkus Reviews)
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