Read Ray Charles' profane, outrageously self-revealing "as-told -to" autobiography, then spin his epochal gospel drenched version of "America." This is an exemplary lifestory, and proof of the pudding as to the "why" of American exceptionalism, which came in for much ridicule in the last election cycle. Brother Ray overcame a succession of childhood traumas, both staggering and sadly commonplace (poverty in the segregated south, absent father, witnessing the accidental drowning of his brother at age 5, blindess, devoted but sickly mother dying when he's still a kid, 20 years of heroin addiction...); he went on the road as a professional musician when he was 15 years old; young Quincy Jones, encountering Ray pre-fame in his late teens said he seemed 100 years old. By 25, he had single-handedly invented soul music, the fusion of rhythm and blues with gospel, scandalizing the faithful while roughening pop music with blues realism in a way no white rock and roller ever managed. By 29, he had, in Gary Giddins' words, jazz in one pocket (his ace 8-piece hard bop band, his sides with Milt Jackson, his great album of standards, "Genius") and R & B in the other pocket. He then confounded expectations by signing an unprecedented contract with a fledgling label,which gave him ownership of his masters and complete artistic control, and started cutting country sides, and selling gazillion copies. He crossed the same racial divide as Elvis, but from the other direction, a far more audacious move. In 1962, the titan of black music completely upended cultural hierarchies by singing the hell out of the music of the white southern working class; as he said, soul, country, its the same damn thing. He also said he would never be satisified with headlining the Apollo Theater, as all of his African American peers would be. Ray knew from an early age he could take over the world, and he did. Black, blind, orphaned, beyond poor, addicted, and he never seemed to have a moments doubt as to where he would end up. Proud and thorny, he could make Sinatra's boast of doing it his way, but he never had the assists of dangerous powerful people and Hollywood that Frank had -- Ray was alone, and wanted it that way. If he spent the last 35 years of his career coasting, with fitfully inspired moments on record, his live performances were always committed and stellar. This book is one of the best log cabin to mansion stories I've ever read, and it has the sting of truth. Not coincidentally, Ray is self-admittedly a selfish SOB of the first order, single minded in his pursuit of his art, to the detriment of scores of women and the childen he begot on them. But his book, like his singing, cuts though with the ring of truth and authenticity. As other reviewers here have noted, his co-author blanched about Ray's frankness when he read the proofs, and Ray instructed him, "Don't change a goddamn word."
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