is the name of the memoirs of jazz bassist Charlie Mingus' widow. I read the first 2/3 of the book, and the last two, short chapters. I did not like the book.
Putting aside his musical talent, Mingus was clearly (from this book) a kook. And Sue Graham Mingus, his second wife, who was with him, more or less, from 1964 until his death from ALS in 1979, was - proven by the fact that she stuck around - an enabler to his kookiness, and a masochist.
She had been married before to an Italian in what appeared to be an equally bizarre marriage and had two children. She met Mingus in 1964 and loved/was fascinated by/and disliked him (usually all at the same time) from the beginning.
He was about as bipolar as you can get (again from her description), extremely paranoid at times, and unable to hold back from making his presence known, or saying whatever was on his mind (or whatever he made up at the moment). He was cantankerous, prone to getting into fights, and flung insults from the stage as often as Don Rickles.
He died of Lou Gherig's disease. You had to feel sorry for him as he wasted away, and to wonder what would the end have been like were it not for her care and loyalty.
Once again (touching on a theme I have touched on before), I am interested in how well-known (and generally creative) people, know each other, often accidentally. Was it a coincidence that Mingus' analyst had been Timothy Leary's roommate in medical school? Or that Mingus' son lived with Tom Stoppard? Or that they rented (it sounded coincidental) an apartment from Diane Arbus? Or that his son's girlfried was a close friend of Andre Gide? Or that they ran into Allen Ginsberg at a party?
These connections (not the specifics, just their existence) fascinate me, as if there are parallel societies existing, and depending on which one you live in, you either do, or do not, continually run into your fellow inhabitants.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment