Pilots, Planets, and Percussionists: Book Reviews
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A diverse bunch of books kept my attention this month.
“Jackie Cochran: Pilot in the Fastest Lane,” Doris Rich, 2007.
A friend and valued colleague, Amy Shira Teitel, is putting the final touches on her own book about aviatrixes Jackie Cochran and Jerrie Cobb. It’s a sign of how much I enjoy what she has done with the story that, having read her drafts a couple of times, I went off to find what else is out there about Cochran.
This book is fascinating. Cochran is someone who started life in poverty among the saw mills of Florida. Pregnant in the first year of her teens, she could have been stuck in a tough life forever. But she was fiercely ambitious, getting a job as a beautician that allowed her to leave her past behind and, soon, work her way into high society. Surrounding herself with influential people, she worked every networking opportunity available until she was friends with American presidents, and able to influence operational decisions in World War Two. Along the way, she had found her passion – aviation – and it was no surprise that Cochran snapped up every record she could in that field, becoming the first woman to fly faster than the speed of sound.
I have known people like this. They are streetfighters. They have grown up needing to fight for the basics of survival and stability since they were kids. That drive can make them successful, but they never lose that survival instinct, like a shelter animal that will never fully settle into domestic warmth and relaxation. They’re always ready if the next meal does not show up and they have to fend for themselves again.
Cochran found a way to operate in the man’s world she was born into, knowing instinctively how far she could push. She knew when to flatter, when to insist, how to build up favors, and when to call them in. She alienated many by being too driven, but she also frequently went out of her way to be kind and charitable – on her terms, and usually with some publicity attached.
After World War Two, however, my sympathies for Jackie Cochran begin to sharply erode. Rich has been tactful and insightful throughout when it comes to explaining how Cochran put her public image ahead of her accomplishments. As the book reaches the early 1950s, Cochran behaves increasingly like a petulant prima donna, offending many in her push to get her own way. She tours to promote an unwritten “autobiography” that her seriously ill husband is in fact working away on day and night back home. Despite an increasing toll on her health, she chases aviation records that are increasingly meaningless: the public knew that she had essentially bought them, using her exclusive connections and funding. She increasingly lies about her family background, to the bafflement of living, caring relatives. She runs for political office using equal parts glamor and bigotry as tactics, and deservedly loses. Political friends begin to keep her at arm’s length. They keep up social visits, but deny all of her requests for political positions, evaluating them as purely self-serving and egotistical. The image of Cochran sweeping in to inspect food for purchase at a local store, literally green bean by green bean, stuck in my mind in particular. She sounds obsessed with status, in a way that many who began in poverty and yearned for influence can become. In short, she sounds awful.
It’s the dark side of driven people – sometimes they don’t see how their ambition alienates, person by person, the connections they had spent a lifetime building up. It inevitably means that when things go wrong, there are few people left who are willing to help. They end life alone. The last decade of her life is covered in six pages. This is not an oversight on the part of the author: it’s because there is little left to tell. Cochran has shrunk to an editor of her own papers, trying to amend her own legacy in her favor. She surfaces only to share reactionary opinions that show her increasingly vocal bigotry, vastly out of touch with ever-changing times. It’s a sobering lesson, at the end of one hell of a life. This book tells the story very well: every chapter ended with something that made me want to know what came next. There are some minor factual errors, but overall the research feels solid. Rich always shows, not tells, and uses sources wisely to chronicle how a once heroic person can crumble to dust through nobody’s fault but their own.
“The Next Earth: What Our World Can Teach Us About Other Planets,” Tom Jones and Ellen Stofan, 2017.
A single-issue magazine from National Geographic, this publication took me by surprise. It has the depth of a good book, but the big glossy photos and snappy summaries of a magazine. For this subject, it turned out to be the best of both formats. Astronaut Tom Jones and volcanologist Ellen Stofan both have extensive knowledge in planetary sciences, combined with the skill of explaining complex subjects in simple and engaging ways. This publication does a wonderful job of showing how our own planet functions – wind, ice, volcanoes, tectonic plates, water – and compares what we have here on Earth with other planets. It’s a perfect way of learning quickly not only the wonders of our home, but also the mysteries and bizarre conditions of other places in our solar system and beyond.
“The Doors Unhinged: Jim Morrison’s Legacy Goes on Trial,” John Densmore, 2013.
This book is quite a paradox: it’s a sweet and loving book about a bitter lawsuit between former colleagues from one of the greatest bands of the 60s.
We’ve seen many classic rock bands lose original members and yet keep going. Some of them seem to function well enough, because the key members are still alive: Jagger-Richards for The Rolling Stones, and Townsend-Daltrey for The Who. Other bands fare less well. Journey. Queen. They should really stop, because they’ve become an embarrassment. The difference? Their lead singer was the key to their whole sound and persona. Without them, they’re a bunch of people we don’t know. They run the risk of becoming a parody of themselves – their own tribute act.
Queen are down to two members touring under the original name: the lead singer passed away in 1991, and the other original member said that, without the lead singer around, the band was over, and declined to participate any more. He was wise to do so.
In 2002, The Doors were in the same situation. Jim Morrison, the charismatic lead singer, had passed away in 1971. Yet Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger, the keyboardist and guitarist, decided to play new shows with a new singer and drummer, under the name “The Doors of the 21st Century.” They used the old band logo, and the first two words of the band name significantly larger on promotional posters. I’ve watched some of their shows online. Ian Astbury of the Cult does a creditable job singing Morrison songs – complete with the same haircut and leather pants. But, a little like watching The Eagles or the execrable modern Beach Boys (down to one original member), it’s a squint-and-pretend job. A fun show, sounding enough like the original albums to have a good night out, but not really the actual band in anything other than name. It’s an act in both senses of the word.
John Densmore, the drummer for The Doors, had not been asked to participate in this bizarre reboot. He asked Manzarek and Krieger to use a different name. When they didn’t, he sued them – not for financial gain, but to insist on keeping the original band’s integrity. And in return, they sued him back for more money than any of them had ever made in their careers.
Densmore comes across as a rare character. He truly believed in the idealism of the 60s and, unlike most other musicians who became rich in that era and slid into the much-parodied, shiny-suited and bizarrely-mulleted “rockbroker” category, he still does. He vividly recalls and recounts Jim Morrison’s wish for all four band members to share every writing credit, and for band decisions to be unanimous. Morrison insisted the band turn down lucrative advertising deals because that was not the legacy he wanted for his music. In turn, Densmore vetoed very tempting major offers to use Doors music in advertising after Morrison died – apparently to the great annoyance of Ray Manzarek.
Densmore could perhaps have used a firmer editor on his book. His heartfelt explanations on the meaning of artistic integrity and the spirit of the Doors music often digress and repeat – and repeat. His message would have been much more powerful if he had chosen to make many of his points once. And I would love to have learned more of some of the points he passed over too fast. For example, his meeting the straight-laced parents of Jim Morrison for the first time, decades after working with their son, and collaborating on a lawsuit. How did that come together? What conversation was had with parents who Morrison had declared were dead in his first press releases? He also mentions, very briefly, how the stress of the lawsuit contributed to the end of his marriage. It’s a painful moment that I felt needed more than a brief aside.
Yet the book is all the more charming for some of Densmore’s rambling. It feels more like listening to someone pouring their heart out, than the feeling of reading. This seemingly gentle soul found his core identity in a time of great social change and personal spiritual discovery, and it seems he’s remained that way with immense strength of character. It does not seem to have been easy for him to enter a courtroom. But once he does, his fierce passion of conviction – backed with persuasive evidence and the support of Jim Morrison’s family – makes the reader think about their own choices in life. Where does our own personal integrity lie? Would we be willing to compromise when offered millions of dollars, and the old elementary school excuse of “everyone else is doing it” applies?
I already admired Densmore because of his great musicianship. I ended up admiring him even more because of his character and integrity. He seems like the kind of guy Bruce Dern would play in a movie, sitting alone on a beach, ready for the lead character to come across him when he needed advice: the emotional core of a story. A favorite uncle who would gently give profound advice. A lifelong friend who would always be there to help, not judge, when needed. I think I’d like him in person. I’m glad there are people in the world like him.