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Miles Davis: a Critical Biography

himself. Arthur Blythe, the black alto saxophonist, one of whose albums featured liner notes by Giddins, is properly hailed as a new and distinctive voice 'jazz, blues, and balladry intersect in his work' (p. 136). Giddins, then, is that rarity in jazz writing, the ecumenical critic, able to enthuse equally about Jack Teagarden's 'unfettered elegance', Parker's alternate takes, and Art Pepper's 'splintered tones and . . . acerbic wit' (p. 257). A refreshing dash of romanticism in his writing sits surprisingly well alongside a general Greenwich Village hipness. Thus: The jazzman may be the last American hero. He has to fight for his sound, his vision, his tradition. His victories are mostly pyrrhic: most of the great innovators never reach fifty' (p. 283). (Good or bad news for Stan Getz and Dizzy Gillespie?) These essays, which have been revised for 'reasons of concision, elaboration, accuracy, stylistic vanity and . . . to amend opinions' (p. xiv), belong in the higher reaches of musical journalism. Balliett has also remarked that 'it is a compliment to jazz that nine-tenths of the voluminous writing about it is bad, for the best forms often attract the most unbalanced admiration' (The Sound of Surprise (New York, 1959), p. 9). Giddins' musical emotions reordered in tranquillity suggest that he belongs in the Top Tenth. George Benson could read these pieces with artistic profit; for Wes Montgomery, alas, they appear too late.