Customer Reviews

Deep in a Dream: The Long Night of Chet Baker

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While this book will certainly make compelling reading for any Chet Baker fan, or any follower of the 1950s-60s jazz scene, be prepared for a frigid treatment of the subject. Mr. Gavin may have a knack for writing about jazz musicians, but he neither understands nor appreciates the music itself one whit. There was a definite gap in the Chet Baker bio market, and Gavin has filled it. Unfortunately, he has not only taken the same angle that the tabloids always did, covering the drugs-and-domestic-violence aspect of Chet Baker, but he has gone them one better--to suit his theme he paints Baker not as a hip musician, which he was, but as a bumbling Okie square, who could never keep up with the music's 'advances'. Baker's conservative opinions of free jazz and fusion, to name just one example, are held up to ridicule. He is dismissed as being 'incapable' of such 'catharsis', as if his opinion were formed out of jealousy or open-mouthed incomprehension. In fact, Miles Davis, who is repeatedly held up as an example of what a great musician is made of so Baker can pale in comparison, despised free jazz. For that matter, many very hip black jazz musicians hated free jazz, and fusion as well. Louis Armstrong thought bebop itself was a joke. All the usual jazz cliches are resurrected here: white jazz is intellectual and precise but lacks feeling, while black jazz is earthy, charged with life and dripping with soul, etc. Except for frequent put-downs of Baker's music for its alleged "lack of feeling" (what, if not feeling, is Baker's music known for?) Gavin barely mentions any of Baker's recorded legacy, aside from occasional session details which always involved Chet's forgetting the date because he was stoned, and his subsequent lack of blowing power when finally coaxed into the studio. His quiet, intimate music is repeatedly dismissed as 'cold' or 'dead', either because Gavin apparently cannot understand feeling unless it is loud, sweaty and intense, or because any other analysis would complicate his single-minded theme. History features no shortage of creeps, louses or idiot savants who packed their music with feeling--Mozart anyone? Charlie Parker? Miles? Then what's all the fuss about? Why do we listen to this man's music 30, 40 and 50 years after it's been recorded? Why aren't we listening to Abbey Lincoln's or Albert Ayler's or any of the other cathartic free jazz or fusion that Gavin holds up as supreme examples of hip? If you didn't know before reading the book, you won't know after.

It's difficult to recreate the arrival of Chet Baker to the world of jazz. At that time, around 1950, the trumpet masters were Roy Eldridge, Dizzy Gillespe, Fats Navarro, and the Stan Kenton trumpet section, with Maynard Fergueson, and Buddy Childers. These "monsters" played above high C. F's, G's, and yes even DOUBLE high C's were their daily vocabulary. Along comes a kid from Oklahoma, whose family settles near LA, who never practices, has no high register(if he ever played a high C, I've never heard it) and decides to confront these guys, and the public with his idea of jazz, and jazz singing.He is an immediate sensation. His chamber music approach to jazz trumpet playing affects many people as does his singing. There are those who rate him a spinoff of Miles Davis, and that his singing isn't singing at all. I rate him a true master in both categories. The only fly in the ointment was his discovery and love of heroin. It superceded everything in his life---loved ones(some say he only loved heroin) children, musical associates etc. James Gavin does a masterful job recreating a life if possible, more tragic than Art Pepper's, or Charley Parker's. It's not for the faint of heart. If you worship every note and vocal of this master as I do, it's a must.

Deep in a Dream is a thoroughly researched and well written biography of Chet Baker. Baker was a one of the leading stars of West Coast jazz in the 50's and early 60's, and as he played trumpet, was at times held up as a white version of Miles Davis. This comparison was unfortunate; although gifted with a natural talent, Baker never matured into a major figure like Davis, and the one time they played on the same bill, Davis's group blew them away. Baker was also blessed with model-like looks (although by the time he died, he looked like a walking corpse), and often sang in an androgynous, subdued voice that many people found very moving. (Matt Damon imitates this in the Ripley movie, where he sings a Baker standard, My Funny Valentine, in the style of Baker.) Unfotunately, as this book documents thoroughly, Baker was a heroin addict for most of his adult life, and cared much more about getting drugs than anything else. Not surprisingly, this led to a downward spiral in his career. By the early 1960s he was getting bad reviews in the US, and relocated to Europe, leaving his family behind. He toured widely there, and became something of a cult figure.

Baker's life does not make for pleasant reading. He used people whenever he could, paid no attention to his children (other than to steal his son's trumpet on a rare visit home), and recorded primarily to get money to fund his drug habits. Since he always needed money right away, he usually signed away royalties in return for an advance. This left him perpetually broke. Eventually he died under mysterious circumstances (probably suicide) in Holland.

James Gavin has talked to just about everybody that had contact with Baker, as well as researching reviews of his performances and records. Gavin is clearly taken with Baker's music but does not hesitate to repeat the sometimes vitriolic reviews Baker received. As depressing as Baker's life is, Gavin has not written a slash and burn biography designed to show his subject as an awful person. His judgments seem quite fair. However, I would have liked more discussion of Baker's music -- what made his playing and singing popular even today. There is some discussion of this but not enough to convey why we should care about Baker as an artist. This book makes an interesting contrast with two biographies of Baker's contemporary Bill Evans (My Foolish Heart and Everything Happens to Me), who may have been as big a drug user, but whose biographies mention his drug use in passing and concentrate almost entirely on the music. The Evans's biographies probably go too far in neglecting his messy life, but they still do a good job of showing why Evans is still an important figure today.

Nevertheless, it is difficult to imagine anyone writing a biography of Baker as good as this one, and this is certainly the book to read if you want to know more about Chet Baker. There is also a tie-in CD, with the tracks selected by the author, that is an excellent introduction to Baker's music.

They say that the key element in engrossing drama is a main character with a tragic flaw. Chet Baker, it seems, had that - his inability (or lack of motivation) to care about anything (including consequences). At least, that seems to be Mr. Gavin's take in this gripping and unfinching tale of jazz trumpeter turned ravenous junkie, Chet Baker. From his early days that saw an overly doting mother to the many loves in Baker's life that played more the role of a mom than a lover, Chet Baker is portrayed (probably correctly) as a wrecklessly detached, yet childlike, soul all too content to drift through life letting others clean up increasingly heinous messes.

As other reviewers have noted, this book is not a pretty read. For me, I recall many evenings where I couldn't pry myself away from these pages, yet hardly "wanted" to continue reading. (The former emotion always won out!) We see a junkie, an egocentrist, a master trumpeter, an inveterate manipulator, and - somehow - even a childlike innocent who we never cease, in some way, to feel at least some compassion for (and in some sense, that was part of Baker's ease of manipulation). And Mr. Gavin's well-written biography gives us a front row seat to it all!

Now, I've never been one to assume that in order to 'understand' a musician, one does best to know their history. But it is hard for me to imagine that I will ever be able to listen to one of Baker's glossy ballads in exactly the same way again, now knowing about the torturous life that his notes belie. And if you are a Baker fan (I have to imagine that if you are here, you are) no doubt the book will do the same to you.

To close, I must reiterate that this is a wildly engrossing book that reads as much like fiction as a biography can. Baker's life, of course, is as intriguing and multidiminsional as any novelist could write. James Gavin obviously did his homework (as at very least evidenced by the huge list of sources and notes). Though certainly not for the faint of heart, Gavin's book should be a valuable addition to any fan's library.

Chet Baker had it all: an amazing musical talent, handsome looks, fans worldwide and a drug addiction that took it all away. In this extraordinary biography by James Gavin, we get an intimate glimpse at the artist. It's not pretty but it truly is riveting.

I, too, heard James Gavin on Terry Gross' "Fresh Air" and bought the book as a result. Gavin deserves much kudos. He presents a well-balanced portrait of Chet Baker, the the best one I've read on him. Gavin clearly demonstrates keen knowledge of the jazz world and his subject. This book could not have been an easy undertaking. Yes, the drug aspect is dealt with in great detail, but how could it not? Unfortunately, it appears music and drugs didn't exist without each other in Baker's life. In one of the more poignant moments of the book, Baker has finished playing one of the most celebrated gigs of his career, only to be found within a week playing on the street to scrounge up a hundred bucks for a fix.

Throughout all this, I don't for one minute believe that Gavin is out to slay his subject by painting a tabloid picture. Unlike many tell-all biographies, Gavin truly cares about Baker. And it shows thorough a deftly crafted chronicle of Baker's wild roller coaster life that shoots to the top then plunges only to go faster and faster. Taking us along through twists and turns, spiraling out of control until a final stretch, that although we know what's coming, we want to read more.

At times Baker's music merit is debated. There is one thing that isn't. That's his legacy to the world of jazz: Over 150 albums; a recording of "My Funny Valentine" that, to this day, all others are compared; and now we have Gavin's remarkable yet very disturbing portrait of the legend.

When I finished reading, I was left with one question. Has Hollywood noticed this book? It should.

A tortured soul, living a hell in a wasteland, howling and desolate, junked up, paranoid, insecure, with the one goal most if not every junky ascribes to...getting the next dose. Did you ever wonder what makes people like the Baker or the Charley Parker , Kurt Cobain or Bix Beiderbeck reach down to the bottom when they have so much to offer. Jaco Pastorius too and Jerry Garcia could have also been lumped into this terrible category. Yet, we as humans are fascinated by this lifestyle and glamorize the "stars" and talents. But do those same people find their life glamorous? Or, are a few of those stars and talents incomplete, seeking, never satisfied, bored, living on some sort of edge which leads them into a self destructive lifestyle. I've read a number of books about musicians who have self-destructed, perhaps I hold a perverse fascination with the phenomena and I can't explain why. As a musician for over 40 years I have always admired the musicianship of the greats like Beiderbeck or Getz or Baker or Pepper, Pastorius and many more, but could never understand the penchant for killing themselves through extreme substance abuse. What were they missing in life, which left them so unfulfilled?

In "Blue Room," a Rodgers and Hart standard on the CD released in conjunction with James Gavin's biography, Chet Baker croons to an unnamed lover that they'll "Have a blue room.../Where every day's a holiday/Because you're married to me." Chet's three wives and his various girlfriends, however, would no doubt disagree with this romantic sentiment. Rather than make every day a "holiday " for the women in his life, he virtually abandoned his third wife and children, wrapped a telephone cord around the neck of one girlfriend, and accidently burned another's residence to the ground by throwing a lit cigarette into a wastepaper basket.

These and numerous other sordid details from the life of jazz's most lyrical trumpeter fill the pages of Gavin's biography, making for some riveting--and sometimes painful--reading. We learn of Chet's almost miraculous facility with his instrument--how he would arrive at the studio completely unfamiliar with a difficult piece of music, and then deliver a bravura performance. We read about Chet's meteoric rise to the top and his being voted best trumpet player in the world--incurring the jealousy of Miles Davis. And then Gavin tells us in excruciating detail how Baker's downward spiral as a junkie led him from the glory of the stage to a bathroom with his pants bunched around his ankles, trying to find a usable vein on his track-ridden body.

Gavin paints a detailed image of Chet Baker's life and times--you can almost smell the cigarette smoke in the Parisian bars where Chet wove his magic. But Baker was musically active from the fifties to the eighties, and I would have liked to have learned what he thought about the changing face of music as Elvis Presley--not to mention The Beatles--exploded upon the scene. Gavin hints of what Chet thought about rock 'n' roll--one criticism of his third wife is that "Her favorite singer is Elvis Presley!" And he doesn't seem to think much of Van Morrison: "He's not singing--he's shouting!" But he does have some admiring words for Elvis Costello who brought Baker in to play on one of his albums: "He's a very talented man, Elvis."

Nevertheless, "Deep in a Dream" provides a vivid portrait of a tortured artist who still managed to produce some of the most timeless and lovely melodies in jazz.

I am enjoying the book now in 2009 but in 1957 at 20 years of age I lived at 1727 1/2 Western Avenue almost on the corner of Hollywood Blvd.
I was a budding jazz drummer (still am) and used to hang around Peackock Lane every night listening to my idols. One night I remember standing in a group outside the club and being introduced to Billy Holliday and Buddy Rich.
I had met Chet Baker at the club during his residency and used to talk to him with a group of the musicians he hired. One of whom was Larance Marable.
Chet seemed like a very gentle person and used to ask me why I spelled my name Geoffrey with a G and other things like how do you play Cricket (I'm English).
The day in question, on page 137 of the book, I was privileged to be hanging out with Larance Marable walking around the area and he was happy to spend time with me talking about jazz and drumming. One time he said to me "I hate playing with these white guys" Although he did say "I don't mind talking to you but I don't want you coming round my house" :-)
As we walked round the corner of Hollywood and Western near the club he suddenly pushed me into a doorway and ran up Western as a car screamed round the corner and two plain clothed policemen jumped on him and put him in handcuffs and drove off. I never saw him again.
A short time after that while I was recovering from the shock of it, Chet drove in to the parking lot of the club on Western in an open 2 seater sports car with a lady in the passenger seat. He rushed into the club and emerged straight away with arm fulls of music, dumped them behind the seat of the car and raced
away into the distance.
He and his band were due to play that night. I think the club had to get a pickup group. Anyway that's my eyewitness account of that fateful afternoon which differs from the book. It comes from a young, naive jazz fan at the time.
Enjoy the book.

For all the people complaining that this book doesn't delve enough into the music of Chet Baker, this is a biography, not a music criticism. If you want to hear the music, put on a record or a CD and listen. If you want to read about the music, read a music criticism or reviews of his records. If you want a biography, this is it.

This is a tough book to get through, but thanks to James Gavin's journalistic skills it becomes almost impossible to put down. Chet Baker's personal life was a mess from start to finish and the author manages to keep us riveted despite the relentless feeling of gloom from one chapter to the next. To sympathize or not with the hero's trials & tribulations is something that each of us has to come to terms with. However, before we assign anyone a God-like status as an artist it would be prudent to separate his musical and personal attributes. Separating these aspects of the life of a performer or composer becomes even more important when viewing it from a distance, in this case anywhere from 20 to 40 years, depending on what one considers his prime playing years.

Baker was a decent trumpet player in his day. Every now & then he climbed a level or two and managed to raise some eyebrows. However to put him among the trumpet giants of his era - Dizzy, Miles, Clark Terry, Clifford Brown, etc. - is not only a huge stretch, but also a disservice to these great artists. Any well-traveled musician will tell you that there are (jazz) musicians all over the world, but especially in this country, who are generally unknown to the listening public, who can knock you out with their playing at any given time. The reasons why the public isn't aware of them can be anywhere from personal situations in their lives, simply not caring and just wanting to stay in their own towns eking out a living, not having been "blessed" by critics, or a myriad of other reasons - musical or non - that keep them out of the lime light. Baker was no better than scores of these players. If he had remained reasonably straight it's possible that his music making might have continued on an upward arc. The myth that we'll somehow play among the gods when we're stoned has been so over-romanticized by writers and critics for so long that many musicians - mostly in Rock these days - still believe it. The truth of THAT matter is that when one of the guys is heavily spaced-out, whether from alcohol or harder stuff it becomes a huge drag for the rest of the band. If more than one is flying it's usually leads to disaster.

The other problem I have with the book is that the author occasionally falls into that same predictable trap as many other jazz critics and writers. It seems that (the great) jazz players (improvisers) must somehow move us to the heights of ecstasy without actually knowing how to play their horns. Technique is of course regarded with the usual suspicion. In his description of (Stan) Getz's "icy-smooth perfection of his youth," we get that hackneyed attitude possessed by many that distrusts the players with chops. To this I can only say; Hey guys, this improvising "art" is about putting it ALL together. Yes, there are certainly many instances of some (technically) well-endowed player fitting thousands of notes, all perfectly in tune, onto the head of a pin, with result being a big, collective yawn. And there are also times when someone might come up with a solo that is riddled with clams and/or slightly (or grossly) out of tune, but will transport a whole lot of people to the twilight zone. But, in reality there are precious few of the latter that we have the luxury of going back (via a recording) to scrutinize. To his credit Gavin does not harp on these fixations unduly. In fact he does point out rather thoroughly Baker's constant intonation problems in his singing, which I might add, was a constant source of joking among musicians.

Despite these qualms I would recommend this book to anyone interested not only in Chet Baker's self-destruct mechanism, but also in having an intriguing look at the mind-set of much of the jazz world of the 50s & 60s.