staceysfeast's review
5.0
More novel than autobiography. There’s almost no jazz in it. Nevertheless, it’s Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus
sarahfish_30's review
3.0
Took me months to read. Probably because it was a shared project where I‘d read the book aloud to my partner (who has everything Mingus) whenever we had a minute. Cerebral, philosophical and perhaps NOT meant to be read aloud (the sex scenes are the most entertainingly lurid I‘ve ever come across in lit), it still didn‘t give me a satisfactory look into Mingus‘s early jazz-making. Oh well, it‘s his autobiography! He can write however he pleases.
joerichards90's review
3.0
Probably the strangest autobiography I've read, which immediately disarms the reader with a disclaimer that "some of the characters and incidents are fictitious". You're probably expecting a complete account of Mingus' early life, his musical development, perhaps some thoughts and feelings on his collaboration and interaction with such jazz titans as Monk, Bird, Miles, Duke, Max... however, 'Beneath the Underdog' is not that book.
Instead, Mingus presents a fractured 366-page account of his sexual conquests (in explicit, hyperbolised and sometimes simply untruthful detail), of his time spent pimping and hustling, his joint struggles with insecurity and bravado, and his discomfort with the nature of God, life, death, love and hatred.
The story is told in the form of a detached narrative, keeping the character of 'Cholly' at arm's length. Mingus obscures his thoughts, feelings and emotions behind a series of boorish, self-centred at times grotesque tales, and whilst simultaneously hiding his true feelings in plain sight in what appear to be the ravings of an egomaniac, but are perhaps just the sociological products of the time and place. He had every right to be angry.
I've come to understand how Mingus' mind was chronically fit to burst with creativity, egomania, insecurity, lust, anger, love, hatred, acceptance and intolerance, which this book underlines to great excess. I wish it had featured more (read: a LOT more) on his music, but I suppose that's already out there for us to dissect, with Mingus once again hiding in plain sight.
Instead, Mingus presents a fractured 366-page account of his sexual conquests (in explicit, hyperbolised and sometimes simply untruthful detail), of his time spent pimping and hustling, his joint struggles with insecurity and bravado, and his discomfort with the nature of God, life, death, love and hatred.
The story is told in the form of a detached narrative, keeping the character of 'Cholly' at arm's length. Mingus obscures his thoughts, feelings and emotions behind a series of boorish, self-centred at times grotesque tales, and whilst simultaneously hiding his true feelings in plain sight in what appear to be the ravings of an egomaniac, but are perhaps just the sociological products of the time and place. He had every right to be angry.
I've come to understand how Mingus' mind was chronically fit to burst with creativity, egomania, insecurity, lust, anger, love, hatred, acceptance and intolerance, which this book underlines to great excess. I wish it had featured more (read: a LOT more) on his music, but I suppose that's already out there for us to dissect, with Mingus once again hiding in plain sight.
choirqueer's review
1.0
The first 1/4 of this book was pretty good, and seemed like it was really going somewhere interesting. But after that, it just didn't do anything for me. I felt less and less like I understood why the author was choosing to portray himself the way he was as the book went on. I didn't feel a sense of connection to him or to his story by the end of the book. I wanted to hear about his journey as a musician, and instead I just learned way more than I wanted to about his sex life and his frustrations regarding women. It was a struggle to make it to the end of the book, but I held out hoping it might get interesting again, and I'm sorry to say that it really never did.
noraalshamlan's review
I really want to pick this book up again because the way it’s written and unfolds is so fascinating and interesting, and I would like to reimburse myself in the world of Mingus again but I don’t think I will be doing that very soon. I really was attached to the material in the sense that I want to keep learning more about him but it was very dark and uneasy to read some parts and I had to take a break. It’s very thought provoking; even though I don’t think it’s intended to be the way I think of it.
steveatwaywords's review
4.0
This memoir may not be for everyone. I say this because, as I scan over the other reviews, there seem many who walk into it with expectations that they will receive insights into the jazz techniques of this musician genius. They instead are put off (as I was) by the extended and coarse descriptions of sexual scenes and moral decadence, the awkward dialogue, the powerful bending of truths. When (mostly white) people have an expectation of jazz, writes Mingus, they create "white jazz," people who don't understand that there are "spaces" in music where play and interplay abound. As a result, they may hear and appreciate technique, but they don't "get it." I wonder, as I read, if the same is not happening here. It is not my place to explain jazz but to experience an artists' work with it. How might this be different from one's lifetime? Mingus offers us a lot of spaces inside his head as he bounces from woman to woman, combo to combo. The memoir has not offered me a way to better understand his music, but it has offered me a more profound means to experience a life.
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