SEARCHING FOR THE SOUND: My Life
With the Grateful Dead. By Phil Lesh. (Little,
Brown, $25.95.) It's hard to say which
of these miracles is more profound: the fact
that after three decades with the Grateful
Dead, Lesh has any memories of the experience
whatsoever, or that he's been able to consolidate
them into a single volume of less than
20,000 pages. In his marvelously economical
and engrossing memoir, Lesh, the band's
bassist, recounts the Dead's creation against
the backdrop of the Bay Area's beatnik culture
and its historic performance at Woodstock
(and nonperformance at Altamont), but
he also takes a frank look at the drug abuse
that marred the group's later years, as well as
his own struggles with alcohol and with liver
disease. Through it all, Lesh proves to be as
capable and enthusiastic a writer as he is a
musician; whether he's describing the ''immense,
turbulent, Druidic'' snoring of Jerry
Garcia, the ''saber-toothed crotch cricket''
hum of the Woodstock sound system or a roadtrip
travel game called ''Radio I-Ching,'' he
consistently exhibits a peculiar and poetic
fondness for language, transforming what
could have been a routine exercise in nostalgia
into a work as graceful and sublime as a
box of rain.
DAVE ITZKOFF
LIKE A ROLLING STONE: Bob Dylan at
the Crossroads. By Greil Marcus. (Public-
Affairs, $25.) The books written about Bob
Dylan could fill up a bookcase — and any suspicions
that the publication of Dylan's extraordinary
memoir, ''Chronicles,'' would slow the
tide seem premature. ''I've written a lot of
books and after reading Dylan's book, I realized
I would never write a book that good,''
Marcus said recently. Yet that hasn't stopped
him from trying. Marcus's latest — published
eight years after ''Invisible Republic,'' his exploration
of Dylan's ''Basement Tapes'' album
with the Band — is a ''biography'' of the
singer's signature hit, a single that Rolling
Stone magazine recently selected as the greatest
song of all time. (Some readers might begin
to wonder if Marcus's next book will be an
exegesis of the chorus to ''Jokerman.'') Marcus,
the author of such landmarks as ''Mystery
Train,'' perhaps the finest book ever written
about pop music, can still deliver blazing
insight. His description of the pure sonics of
''Like a Rolling Stone'' — a sound so complete
and perfectly realized that it ''never plays the
same way twice'' — forces you to approach a
40-year-old song with new ears. The song
''promises a new country,'' Marcus writes;
''now all you have to do is find it.'' But too
many tropes in Marcus's cultural criticism
are starting to feel overfamiliar, and too much
of his own Dylanology is starting to fold in on
itself. This book's subtitle is ''Bob Dylan at the
Crossroads''; the opening line of ''Invisible Republic''
was ''Once a singer stood at a world
crossroads.''
ALAN LIGHT
THE MAYOR OF MacDOUGAL STREET: A Memoir. By Dave Van Ronk with Elijah Wald. (Da Capo, $26.) Wald, a music journalist, pulled together this autobiography of Dave Van Ronk, a folk music pioneer in the 1950's and 60's, from interviews and from a manuscript the singer left behind after his death from cancer in 2002. Van Ronk makes no secret of his curmudgeonly tendencies, and as a narrator he proves to be a mostly endearing and gregarious grouch. In between reminiscences of Dexedrine-fueled road trips and attempts to unload bootleg bottles of absinthe, Van Ronk recounts how he and his youthful contemporaries would toss barbs at old-guard folkies and record labels with the reckless zeal of modern-day bloggers. Sure, he says, ''we threw some babies out with the bath water, but bath water -- comfortably warm and bubbly -- was exactly what a lot of our targets were purveying.'' But his tone shifts noticeably when Bob Dylan arrives on the Greenwich Village scene, and as the student gradually outpaces the master, Van Ronk's resentment is palpable; he even dredges up the old story that Dylan stole his arrangement of ''House of the Rising Sun.'' It's the only unwelcome detour in an otherwise genial and picaresque ramble.
D.I.
THE ROCK SNOB'S DICTIONARY: An Essential Lexicon of Rockological Knowledge. By David Kamp and Steven Daly. (Broadway, paper, $12.95.) Developed from a recurring column in Vanity Fair, this slim book is a note-perfect lexicon of the names, recordings, places and ephemera treasured by those who lord ''their encyclopedic musical knowledge over others.'' (Think John Cusack in ''High Fidelity.'') From provocateur producer Steve Albini to Nudie's Rodeo Tailors (whose bespoke Western wear outfitted Hank Williams, Gram Parsons and Beck), with stops at such unavoidable terminology as ''post-rock'' and ''seminal'' and mandatory references to Brian Wilson every few pages, Kamp and Daly's book equips readers with a sufficient arsenal to make it through the latest issue of Mojo magazine or a thick set of liner notes on a Rhino Records reissue. Of course, try as they might to present their book as a way to ''bridge cultural gaps between snobs and nonsnobs,'' the obvious danger here is that this dictionary is really a way for self-satisfied music geeks to feel even more smug by demonstrating that they -- O.K., we -- can laugh at ourselves. To complain about the occasional odd choice (Kurtis Blow and Whodini, but no DJ Premier?) would be to out myself as a snob among snobs, so . . . never mind.
A.L.
ALL YESTERDAYS' PARTIES. The Velvet Underground in Print: 1966-1971. Edited by Clinton Heylin. (Da Capo, $26.) At bare minimum, this book should finally dispel the adage that whoever saw the Velvet Underground perform live went on to start a band of his own. (Unless Bosley Crowther, the former Times film critic, founded an avant-garde rock combo I'm not familiar with.) To the extent that Heylin's meticulously curated collection of on-the-scene Velvets reportage and reviews forms a narrative, the tale it tells is of how a critical consensus formed -- and then re-formed -- around Lou Reed's group, and it's a story that contains a few surprises, though its ending is never in doubt. In their Warhol-associated days, the Velvets' music managed to alienate the mainstream and alternative presses alike (''What can you say?'' wondered one exasperated writer from Boston Broadside), but in rapid succession, John Cale left, Reed masterminded the albums ''The Velvet Underground'' and ''Loaded,'' and eventually everyone -- even The New York Times -- was compelled to acknowledge their latent greatness. Following a lucid and scholarly introduction, Heylin wisely lets these primary texts speak for themselves, and after Lester Bangs's bittersweet 1971 post-mortem on the recently broken-up band, it's arguable that another word never need be written about them.
D.I.
THE WU-TANG MANUAL. By the RZA with Chris Norris. (Riverhead Freestyle, paper, $16.) This busy handbook is a glimpse inside the brain of the RZA, the producer/spiritual leader of Staten Island's revolutionary hip-hop collective, the Wu-Tang Clan. A glance at the chapter titles -- ''Martial Arts,'' ''Capitalism,'' ''Chess,'' ''Organized Crime,'' ''Technology'' -- presents the recipe for a worldview that made this nine-member group the most distinctive force in urban music of the 1990's. Fifty pages of annotated Wu-Tang lyrics is probably too much, but it's worth trawling through the explications and translations for such gems as the footnote for the line ''Flowin' like Christ'' from the classic single ''Protect Ya Neck'' -- ''We can assume Jesus had mad flow because he could rock any crowd.'' There's something touching about the RZA's account of how kids from the projects learned life strategies and ethics from kung fu movies, and something weirdly inspirational about their ability to take those lessons and expand into brand extensions like a Wu-Tang comic book and a nail salon.
A.L.
THE THRILL OF IT ALL: The Story of Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music. By David Buckley. (Chicago Review, paper, $17.95.) Drawing upon what seems like every previously published word on the subject of Bryan Ferry, the melancholy magnate of glam rock, Buckley has written a classic piece of obsessive British trainspotting. If you've ever wanted to know how the bass line for ''Love Is the Drug'' was recorded or which role Ferry played in his grammar school production of ''Twelfth Night,'' this is the Roxy Music biography for you! Even so, Buckley succeeds in painting a remarkably sympathetic portrait of a decadent musician with an eight-figure net worth. By 1977, Ferry finds himself a poseur in an era of punks, dumped by Jerry Hall for Mick Jagger, creatively outpaced by his former Roxy bandmate Brian Eno and filed under the ''Hates'' column of a famous Malcolm McLaren T-shirt design. After this, though, it's not clear why the book needs to continue for another 100 pages, particularly when Ferry's subsequent recorded output has been so spotty and the details of his life aren't exactly a mystery. It's not as if he's Morrissey, after all.
D.I.
A HOUSE ON FIRE: The Rise and Fall of Philadelphia Soul. By John A. Jackson. (Oxford University, $35.) Jackson's book tells the story of Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff's Philadelphia International Records, the last of the great soul empires. In the late 1960's and early 70's Gamble and Huff, along with the producer/arranger Thom Bell, racked up a series of hits that elevated them to the ranks of the better-documented Motown and Stax labels. With the O'Jays (''Back Stabbers''), Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes (''If You Don't Know Me by Now''), Billy Paul (''Me and Mrs. Jones'') and others, the three created a sophisticated, dramatic new interpretation of rhythm and blues, heavy on luxurious strings and propulsive beats, that dominated the charts only to help set in motion the disco movement that ultimately sank them. Jackson, the author of fine histories of Alan Freed and ''American Bandstand,'' isn't the most elegant writer; phrases, even entire anecdotes are repeated, and his attempts to merge the story of Philadelphia soul with that of the era's social and political changes, though entirely valid, are sometimes awkward. The reclusive Gamble and Huff both refused to participate in the book, which makes it even more difficult for Jackson to decipher Gamble, who was driven at times by a volatile mixture of capitalism and black pride. But ''A House on Fire'' is a meticulously researched and engaging story, and there are lessons to be learned from the often forgotten Philadelphia International; before the triumph of the more mechanized sounds of disco and then hip-hop, it was a place where the human dynamics of musicians, songwriters and producers, all collaborating under one roof, were essential to success.
A.L.
BILLY JOEL: The Life and Times of an Angry Young Man. By Hank Bordowitz. (Billboard, $24.95.) Say what you will about his body of work, after nine multiplatinum albums, three marriages, three suspicious car crashes in two years, one Broadway musical and one trip to a substance abuse treatment program, Billy Joel surely deserves a biography of his own, whether he chooses to participate in it or not. Alas, in the case of Bordowitz's book, the people's Piano Man has opted out, leaving the author to rely upon recycled material and interviews with various former Joel confidants and aides-de-camp in order to construct his story. While it dutifully describes Joel's upbringing in Hicksville, N.Y., such early career miscues as his heavy metal band Attila and his eventual success with albums like ''The Stranger'' and ''An Innocent Man,'' the book is undermined not by the absence of its subject but by its author's workmanlike approach, which reduces Joel's journey to one long trade publication article. When a biography devotes two pages to the 1981 renegotiation of Joel's recording contract with Columbia, but just one paragraph to his discovery that he has an Austrian half brother, well, what can you say?
D.I.
METALLICA. This Monster Lives: The Inside Story of ''Some Kind of Monster.'' By Joe Berlinger with Greg Milner. (St. Martin's, $24.95.) Berlinger was one of the directors of the acclaimed documentary ''Some Kind of Monster,'' which chronicled two and a half years in the life of the biggest hard rock band in the world, during which its bass player quit, its lead singer disappeared for months, its members underwent seemingly perpetual group therapy and, finally, it recorded an album. Like the film itself, ''Metallica: This Monster Lives'' continually flirts with self-parody, dancing right on the edge between ''Spinal Tap'' cluelessness, ''Behind the Music'' cliché and genuine emotional revelation. A book about the making of a movie about the making of an album obviously risks irrelevance, and Berlinger is hardly shy about his own opinion of his work with his directing partner, Bruce Sinofsky. But the book gradually takes on the momentum of a suspense novel, and triumphs because of the commitment and fearlessness of Metallica. More a book about filmmaking than about music, ''This Monster Lives'' shows that tenacious reporting can still produce great narratives, even about the most mega of megaplatinum rock stars.
A.L.
TURN THE BEAT AROUND: The Secret History of Disco. By Peter Shapiro. (Faber & Faber, $26.) It's more than just the much-maligned genre that gave us ''Funkytown,'' the Village People and a movie in which Gene Kelly roller-skated with Olivia Newton-John: in Shapiro's effusive and engaging musical history, disco is the Fiorucci-clad bastard child of any number of 20th-century cultural movements, from Nazi Germany's Swing Jugend to Britain's Northern Soul scene to the post-Stonewall gay movement of downtown Manhattan. Disco also proves to be a laboratory of innovation second only to the American space program, yielding early antecedents of such present-day musical devices as the mash-up and the 18-minute-long dance remix. Though the thematically organized chapter structure can sometimes result in confusing chronology, Shapiro's no-rhinestone-unturned approach makes for highly entertaining reading, including short profiles of such dance floor icons as Chic and Giorgio Moroder and an exploration into the origins of disco's ubiquitous ''whoop! whoop!'' sound effect, all before the music meets its fate at a ''Disco Demolition Derby'' night at Chicago's Comiskey Park in 1979. Try to resist the temptation to turn directly to the book's discography to see how many of the albums it cites are in your own collection.
D.I.