If you were ever curious about Thelonius Monk, the incomparable and (really) inimitable jazz pianist, this should answer most of your questions, at least about his mature years.
What a guy. Forty-some years ago, Monk's portrait appeared on the cover of Time Magazine and I remember reading about the difficulty that the artist had in keep Monk upright and properly posed in his chair. Monk would take innumerable extemporaneous breaks and return with a different hat ("lid"). He appeared to keep falling asleep during the sittings.
Monk never moved or spoke quickly. Everything he did seemed slow and deliberate. But the movement was almost constant. We see him walking through some sort of transportation hub, shuffling, and then he stops and begins slowly turning around -- and around and around -- leaning slightly from side to side as he twirls in slow motion, muttering to himself or to anyone nearby.
He smiled when he spoke, even if his speech was barely interpretable. If he's sitting at the piano and a member of his group asks him "A flat?", he says, "Yeah, A flat." Maybe. "Is it A flat or B flat?", asks the other musician. "Yeah, B flat." All very accommodating and even a little cheerful.
And it was all done with such self-absorbed deliberation. Except when he played the piano. Well, he didn't exactly "play" it, so much as he "attacked" it -- so forcefully that it seemed unlikely he was hitting the keys he intended. WHAM. WHANG.
I'm not a musician so I can't do some sort of vivisection on his music. His chords crashed, his harmonies were all over the place. The lines of his melodies were uniquely jagged. He could play anything, including cocktail piano -- "Laura" and the like -- but it was never likely to make you feel warm and fuzzy. Maybe that's why so few people can name any of his compositions except maybe "Round Midnight." They're not likely to walk down the street whistling "Straight, No Chaser." It's not my impression that he had a wide influence. His style -- either his playing or his composing -- never founded a school or anything. How could it? There wasn't anyone else like him.
The documentary gives the viewer about equal parts of Monk playing and Monk doing things like sitting on the subway, mumbling once in a while, grinning at some thought or some memory that looks as if it's swimming in the benthic depths of his impenetrable mind. Thank God his wife Nellie helped him get some of it out.
What a guy. Forty-some years ago, Monk's portrait appeared on the cover of Time Magazine and I remember reading about the difficulty that the artist had in keep Monk upright and properly posed in his chair. Monk would take innumerable extemporaneous breaks and return with a different hat ("lid"). He appeared to keep falling asleep during the sittings.
Monk never moved or spoke quickly. Everything he did seemed slow and deliberate. But the movement was almost constant. We see him walking through some sort of transportation hub, shuffling, and then he stops and begins slowly turning around -- and around and around -- leaning slightly from side to side as he twirls in slow motion, muttering to himself or to anyone nearby.
He smiled when he spoke, even if his speech was barely interpretable. If he's sitting at the piano and a member of his group asks him "A flat?", he says, "Yeah, A flat." Maybe. "Is it A flat or B flat?", asks the other musician. "Yeah, B flat." All very accommodating and even a little cheerful.
And it was all done with such self-absorbed deliberation. Except when he played the piano. Well, he didn't exactly "play" it, so much as he "attacked" it -- so forcefully that it seemed unlikely he was hitting the keys he intended. WHAM. WHANG.
I'm not a musician so I can't do some sort of vivisection on his music. His chords crashed, his harmonies were all over the place. The lines of his melodies were uniquely jagged. He could play anything, including cocktail piano -- "Laura" and the like -- but it was never likely to make you feel warm and fuzzy. Maybe that's why so few people can name any of his compositions except maybe "Round Midnight." They're not likely to walk down the street whistling "Straight, No Chaser." It's not my impression that he had a wide influence. His style -- either his playing or his composing -- never founded a school or anything. How could it? There wasn't anyone else like him.
The documentary gives the viewer about equal parts of Monk playing and Monk doing things like sitting on the subway, mumbling once in a while, grinning at some thought or some memory that looks as if it's swimming in the benthic depths of his impenetrable mind. Thank God his wife Nellie helped him get some of it out.