The other night, I went to see Let’s Get Lost, a documentary about the life of jazz trumpeter Chet Baker. The friend I went with fell asleep at one point, and I didn’t blame him, because it was a meandering, undirected collection of archive clips about Baker in his young and handsome days then later in his drug-addled ruin, pieces of music set to unrelated film stock, and interviews with musicians who admired him and the many women he”¦ well, basically f*ed over.
Now that my novel is finished, I’m finding it fun to have all my creative energy free to do anything I want, instead of needing it all directed at the book. One of the things I wanted to do was try to sketch Baker ’cause it’s been a long time since I tried sketching, and by the end he was a haggard mess, which should make for a good life study. (That’s another thing: drugs are boring. Amazingly, Baker stayed talented and capable till the end both as a singer and a trumpet player, but when he spoke”¦ my God, the slow, lingering drawl of his junkie voice sounded like it would never find a thought.)
Two things struck me on thinking back about the movie. First, Baker definitely did have something that made him more compelling than other musicians, and it wasn’t technical ability. One of his women, a hard-edged, junk-shaky lounge performer, sang a number and was fine. In terms of vocal ability, she was probably equal to him. But”¦ she was just singing. I wasn’t a fan of Baker’s before this film, but when he sings, it’s like the smoky thought-stuff of a great poem or a dream you get lost in that you keep remembering for half the day. What is that difference?
The other thing that struck me was the bickering between these women over this wreck of a man, who obviously had an ability to mesmerise people, either with his talent or an affected vulnerability. And make no mistake, he was awful to them all, each in a uniquely abusive way. “But,” I thought, “Chet Baker didn’t have a problem. These women had a problem with Chet Baker. But Chet Baker had no problem with Chet Baker.” There’s a lesson in this for me somewhere.
I’m going to the reunion of my university theatre school this week. Chet Baker aged 57 was a frightening sight, and I couldn’t help wondering how I’ve weathered over these last twenty years. I’ve pulled out some pictures from back then and”¦ I think I’m better off now. At least a lot of my pictures from the Eighties have me in costume, sparing posterity from visions of my bad dress sense (which is no better now).
I dunno; I think being an adult suits me better. Not being a junky helps, too.
