
I don't care much for Baker, so I'd enjoy a little bashing, but what an awful book this is. Especially the shrinkery: the guy's a lifelong junkie but every needle still has to do with an overbearing mother, an innate disability to love another person beside his trumpet, and repressed homosexuality which conveniently leads to the book's climax hijacking the glory of that Baker portrait movie by a Nazi underwear fashion shootist. When it comes to music, the author has neither ears no words. The only thing I took away from this was the European touring during the 70s and 80s, and recordings on small labels here which were standing around in my local record store when I was a kid, and it all seemed so connected to the big world and glorious past (though why was Steve Lacy gigging in that small basement discoteque for 5 people), when it really was about scraping by, daily.






