Rock and Roll, Part 3

More music history and biography
I occasionally review books on the history of rock and roll music. After reaching a critical mass of reviews, I periodically post a recap on the subject. This is the third of such “omnibus” posts, the prior installments being Rock and Roll (Auto)biographies and Rock and Roll, Part 2. Highlights of the past have included memoirs by Bobby Womack, Bob Dylan, and Neil Young, oral histories of Warren Zevon and Sly and the Family Stone, and a biography of session man Nicky Hopkins. Below are ten new selections reviewed by Old Books by Dead Guys over roughly the past year and a half. Click on the titles below to read the full reviews.

Heartbreaker: A Memoir by Mike Campbell with Ari Surdoval (5 stars)
Tom Petty’s lifelong guitarist Mike Campbell presents this candid account of his career as one of rock’s greatest sidemen. The story of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (and their earlier bar band, Mudcrutch) is an engaging rags to riches tale, and as Campbell tells it here, they wore rags for a long time before the riches showed up. Campbell also details his work as a sought-after session man and producer for other artists, including Bob Dylan, Fleetwood Mac, and Don Henley. Everything you'd want in a rock autobiography is here: every recording session, every touring milestone, every band personnel change, every interior personality conflict, and every record company business deal. Campbell’s humble and likable voice shines through in this very well-crafted narrative. This is one of the best rock memoirs I’ve ever read.

Drums & Demons: The Tragic Journey of Jim Gordon by Joel Selvin (4.5 stars)
Jim Gordon was one of the top rock drummers of the 1970s. He was briefly a member of Derek and the Dominos and Traffic, but he was also a session musician on thousands of recordings by many other artists, including the Beach Boys, George Harrison, John Lennon, Steely Dan, the Everly Brothers, and even television theme songs. This book provides a fascinating look inside the career of an expert session man. Behind this great talent, however, there was a darker side to Jim Gordon. A longtime sufferer from undiagnosed schizophrenia, he eventually went insane, killed his mother, and died in prison. Gordon’s tragic downward slide  into insanity is riveting, and veteran rock journalist Joel Selvin delivers a compassionate and moving account free of tabloid sensationalism. 

The Producer: John Hammond and the Soul of American Music by Dunstan Prial (4 stars)
John Hammond is a legend in the music industry. As a talent scout, record producer, and Columbia executive, he was one of the most influential trendsetters and tastemakers in 20th-century American music. Rock fans will know him as the man who discovered Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, and Stevie Ray Vaughan, but Hammond started decades earlier as a jazz impresario who helped launch the careers of Benny Goodman, Billie Holiday, and Count Basie. Hammond was also instrumental in desegregating the music industry and also served on the board of the NAACP. Author Dunstan Prial delivers a well-researched, balanced, and comprehensive biography that really gives you a sense of the personality of the man behind the music.

Why Bob Dylan Matters by Richard F. Thomas (3.5 stars)
An odd but interesting study of Dylan’s music by a professor of classics at Harvard University. Richard F. Thomas uses his prodigious knowledge of Dylan lyrics and classical (ancient Greek and Roman) texts to point out parrallels between the two. Focusing mostly on Dylan’s highly regarded work of the 1960s, his 1976 album Blood on the Tracks, and his late '90s and early 2000s renaissance, Thomas makes a reasonably convincing case that Dylan has drawn ideas and phrases from the works of Virgil, Ovid, and Homer and is somewhat obsessed with The Odyssey. Like most books of Dylanology, the depth of minutiae will be too much for casual readers, and not everyone is going to appreciate lengthy discussions of Cicero, Virgil, and Catullus.

Sound Man by Glyn Johns (3 stars)
Glyn Johns is one of the most highly respected record producers and sound engineers in the history of rock. He worked with the Who, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, and Eric Clapton on albums like Who's Next, Abbey Road, Let It Bleed, Led Zeppelin I, and Slowhand. Johns gives the reader a whirlwind tour of his career, recalling recording sessions with a multitude of arts, from Rock and Roll Hall of Famers to obscure has-beens. This is primarily a music-business memoir about making records. There aren’t a lot of anecdotes here about rock stars’ personal lives, with the exception of the Rolling Stones. If you’re a classic rock fan, you’ll enjoy Johns’s perspective on the music biz of the ’60s and ’70s.

Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin): A Memoir by Sly Stone with Ben Greenman (3 stars)
Sly Stone was a genius songwriter, musician, and record producer who changed the landscape of soul music. He was also kind of a scary character, with a drug problem that allegedly fueled a vindictive demeanor and violent tendencies. That’s the picture that his bandmates and colleagues give in Joel Selvin’s book Sly and the Family Stone: An Oral History. Here, Sly has the chance to set the record straight, if indeed it needs to be straightened, but he mostly glosses over all the negative stuff and focuses on upbeat anecdotes about recording sessions and talk show appearances. The text, written in the hip conversational voice of Sly, is fun to read, but you don’t end up liking the guy.

Slowhand: The Life and Music of Eric Clapton by Philip Norman (3 stars)
British rock journalist Philip Norman provides an overview of Clapton’s life, but it’s not particularly well done or pleasant to read. It focuses heavily on Clapton’s early career and doesn’t cover much after about 1986. Because Norman is known as somewhat of an expert on the Beatles, nearly half of this book is about the relationship between Clapton, George Harrison, and Pattie Boyd (the woman who married them both). Norman has nothing good to say about Clapton in this book and seems to enjoy digging up dirt on him, so it’s a book about a not very nice guy written by someone who doesn’t like him. Sound like fun? You’d be better off just reading Clapton’s autobiography. It gives you a better understanding of the man and his music.

Hüsker Dü: The Noise-Pop Pioneers Who Launched Modern Rock by Andrew Earles (3 stars)
Minneapolis post-punk band Hüsker Dü never became a household name on the level of Nirvana, but they had a profound influence on all alternative rock that followed in their footsteps. Author Andrew Earles is so awed by this influence that he would rather write about all the bands that learned from Hüsker Dü rather than concentrate on a biography of the band itself. This book is more of a music-business narrative about recording, touring, and selling records, with little information about the personal lives of the band members. Earle also digresses into stories about every obscure band of the Minneapolis scene. Drummer Grant Hart and bassist Greg Norton participated in interviews for this book, while guitarist Bob Mould did not.

Trouble in Mind: Bob Dylan’s Gospel Years—What Really Happened by Clinton Heylin (2.5 stars)
Clinton Heylin has written at least a dozen books on Bob Dylan, but does he even like his music? He certainly doesn’t like the period he’s writing about in this book: Dylan’s three gospel albums from 1979 to 1981—Slow Train Coming, Saved, and Shot of Love—and the tours that followed them. Heylin has assembled a detailed chronology of events from this period, much of it too trivial for all but the most diehard of Dylan fans. I like this period in Dylan’s music, so I liked learning more about it, but I couldn’t stand Heylin’s snarky, pompous attitude and the way he denigrated Dylan throughout the book. The artist and this work deserve more respect and consideration. Read Scott Marshall’s Bob Dylan: A Spiritual Life instead.

Black Caesars and Foxy Cleopatras: A History of Blaxploitation Cinema by Odie Henderson (4.5 stars)
This is actually a film book, but if you know anything about the Blaxploitation genre you know that the music made to accompany these films was some of the best soul and funk music of the 1970s. Maybe about 15% of this book is about the music, discussing soundtracks and scores by such artists as Isaac Hayes (Shaft), Curtis Mayfield (Super Fly), Marvin Gaye (Trouble Man), James Brown (Black Caesar), Willie Hutch (The Mack), Bobby Womack and J. J. Johnson (Across 110th Street), Roy Ayers (Coffy), the Staples Singers (Let’s Do It Again), The Impressions (Three the Hard Way), and more.

The Secret Life of the Universe: An Astrobiologist’s Search for the Origins and Frontiers of Life by Nathalie A. Cabrol

Discouraging recap of our quest for certainty

Nathalie A. Cabrol, a French-American astrobiologist, is the director of the Carl Sagan Center of the SETI Institute (SETI = Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence). She is very much qualified, therefore, to write about the latest research on extraterrestrial life. Her book The Secret Life of the Universe was published in 2023. These days, it’s hard to keep track of all the piecemeal press releases about exoplanets, unmanned space probes, Mars rovers, and such. I hoped to find in Cabrol’s book a comprehensive and intelligent recap of what we know about the possibilities of life within and without our solar system. She does a fine job of summarizing the present state of knowledge in this area. This book is generally organized from the Earth outwards, from Venus and Mars to other bodies in our solar system, and then on to the recently discovered exoplanets beyond.

Although we’re talking about other planets and stars here, astrobiology relies much on geology and meteorology—the workings of water, ice, gases, volcanism, and plate tectonics, for example. Since the life forms are unknown, Cabrol’s work, at least as revealed in this book, is more about studying environments that might be conducive to life rather than speculating about the life itself. She has deliberately written this book to be accessible to a wide audience whenever possible. In general, the text is less challenging than articles in Scientific American or National Geographic; it’s more on the level of USA Today. There are passages, however, where complex chemistry can’t be dumbed-down enough, and the lay reader may find it tough going.

In addition to filling Sagan’s role at SETI, Cabrol also tries to fill his shoes as an inspirational science communicator, but she is less successful at that. This book is educational, but it doesn’t generate a lot of excitement or a great deal of hope. As someone who cares about science and wants to learn more about the universe, I am hopeful that in my lifetime we will discover extraterrestrial life—by that I mean evidence of microbial life elsewhere in our solar system. After reading Cabrol’s book, however, I doubt that’s going to happen anytime soon. She points out lots of possibilities for life in our solar system, but also gives plenty of examples of why confirmation is impossible. We’ve had landers on Mars for 50 years, and we still don’t have a definitive yes/no answer on life there. For almost every other body in the solar system, Cabrol says again and again that there may be life miles beneath the surface. Given how many years and dollars it takes to develop exploratory space missions, it’s unlikely we’ll be digging that deep in the near future.

Exoplanets, and their diversity of environments, offer more hope of finding life of some kind, at whatever stage of development, but we’re nowhere close to sending a probe over light years of distance. Our only hope of discovering interstellar life is if it discovers us first. Cabrol briefly discusses UFOs, or UAPs, but that’s really outside the scope of this book, and she’s a skeptical in that department. More coverage is given to the SETI program, which is actually a number of different programs under the SETI umbrella. Not much luck there yet, either. Cabrol then goes from disappointing to depressing by closing the book with an environmentalist tirade that reminds us that we’re on the verge of rendering ourselves extinct anyway.

Scientists who take on the role of educating the public—Sagan, Neil de Grasse Tyson, Bill Nye, and so on—generally try to inspire a sense of awe and wonder in the reader, hoping to spark their interest in the workings of the universe. Cabrol tries to do the same here, but this reader was just left feeling hopeless and kind of bored.

The Naturalist on the River Amazons by Henry Walter Bates

An exemplary narrative for armchair explorers

Henry Walter Bates (1825–1892) was an English naturalist. His area of expertise was entomology, the science of insects, but in the 19th century scientists were allowed to be generalists, so he made discoveries in other areas of biology as well. In 1842, Bates embarked on an expedition to explore the Amazon rainforest and gather specimens of the animals and plants that live there. Upon completing an expedition, 19th century naturalist-explorers would compile volumes of scientific texts describing the species they brought back with them. In addition, many would publish a narrative account of their travels intended for a general audience of non-scientists. In Bates’s case, the popular memoir he wrote of his South American journey is The Naturalist on the River Amazons, published in 1863.

This Amazon expedition started out as a joint undertaking with fellow British naturalist Alfred Russell Wallace, who is now better-known than Bates for having formulated the theory of evolution about the same time as Charles Darwin. Once in Brazil, Wallace and Bates seem to have often split up and conducted their own research, and Wallace returned to England several years before Bates. It’s hard to tell how much time the two spent together. Bates only mentions “Mr. Wallace” a few times in this memoir. That’s not unusual for scientific memoirs of this period, however. There seems to have been a gentleman’s agreement that each explorer would talk about himself and leave his traveling companions to write their own books. Wallace published his account, A Narrative of Travels on the Amazon and Rio Negro, in 1889.

Bates’s mode of operation was to travel up the Amazon to a certain city, acquire a house on the outskirts of town, and live there for a few years. From these home bases, he would make hiking or boat trips deeper into the wilderness to explore and gather specimens. In this memoir, Bates’s explorations center around three main locations: Pará, near the Amazon delta (today there is a state named Pará, but the city is named Belém); Santarém, several hundred miles further up the river; and Ega (now called Tefé), a small village on the upper Amazon near the Peruvian border. The Amazon region was already somewhat “civilized” by this time. Bates interacted mostly with Whites (Portuguese) and Mamelucos (people of mixed Portuguese and Indigenous heritage, the Brazilian equivalent of Mexico’s Mestizos), but he did encounter some Native tribes living a relatively untouched existence, as well as Blacks of African descent, both slaves and free. Despite the extent of Portuguese colonization, very few European scientists had explored the Amazon by this time, so new, undescribed species were ripe for the picking. In the book’s introduction, Darwin states that Bates collected specimens of 14,712 species, about 14,000 of them being insects, and about 8000 of those species (not just insects) being previously “unknown to science.”

The problem with a lot of exploration narratives of this era is that despite attempts at accessibility for a popular audience, they end up being too academically scientific. Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle (1839), though still widely read and highly regarded, is a difficult read for the non-scientist, as is Alexander von Humboldt’s Personal Narrative of Travels to the Equinoctial Regions of America (1814). Bates, however, really strikes the perfect balance between travel memoir and scientific text. He really armchair travelers a vivid impression of what the Amazon region was like in these frontier days, but if you’re interested in biology, there’s also plenty of good stuff in here about the bugs, birds, monkeys, reptiles, and plants of Brazil. You also learn a great deal about the people of Brazil—communities of all different races and levels of economic and cultural development. While Bates was certainly not the anti-colonial liberal that Alexander von Humboldt was, he does not display a great deal of expected Victorian-era racism in this memoir. He does have a tendency, however, to judge people by their level of “civilization” and view those living further in the bush as dumb hicks, regardless of race. All in all, the strengths of Bates’s writing add up to an exemplary exploration narrative. For those who envy the lives of these pioneering naturalists—traveling to exotic lands, studying the natural environment, and discovering “new” species—Bates’s book is a dream come to life.

Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley

Ma Kettle’s Travelin’ Bookstore

American author Christopher Morley (1890–1957) wrote or edited more than a hundred published books, but he’s probably best remembered for his first two novels, Parnassus on Wheels (1917) and its sequel The Haunted Bookshop (1919). In Greek mythology, Mount Parnassus is the home of the muses, and thus the word “Parnassus” has come to be used as a metaphor for anything related to education, literature, and the arts. In Parnassus on Wheels, Parnassus is the name of a bookstore in the form of a horse-drawn wagon that travels the countryside bringing literature to rural readers.

Parnassus on Wheels opens with a brief preface addressed to David Grayson, a popular author of the time, who wrote Adventures in Contentment and The Friendly Road, both of which served as inspiration for this book of Morley’s. Right from the get-go, therefore, the reader knows he’s in for the same kind of wholesome, homespun, lighthearted fiction for which Grayson was known. The character of Andrew McGill in Parnassus on Wheels, perhaps a fictional equivalent of Grayson, is a successful author and a bachelor who lives on a farm in the Long Island area of New York State with his sister Helen, who serves the role of his housewife, managing his domestic affairs. One day while Andrew is away, a traveling salesman pulls up to the McGill farm, driving the aforementioned Parnassus bookmobile. The proprietor of this traveling bookshop, Roger Mifflin, is not just looking to sell books but also to sell his entire business—wagon, books, horse, dog, and all. Helen decides to buy Parnassus, partly to stick it to her brother, who takes her for granted, and partly just to experience some adventure in her life for a change. She heads out onto the road with her new business. Mifflin accompanies her for the first day to show her the ropes of bookselling.

The spunky heroine of Parnassus on Wheels is not the typical beautiful young woman one usually finds in popular literature of this period. Helen is 39 years old, and by her own admission, “fat.” She also seems the unlikely owner of a bookstore since she opens the novel with an attitude that don’t take to no book-learnin’. The novel itself gives mixed messages about literacy. Morley’s clearly preaching the love of books, but in almost an anti-intellectual way. A century ago, it would have been difficult for rural Americans to get their hands on books, so Parnassus is a solution to that problem. It brings the bookstore to those who live nowhere near a bookstore. The message that Morley imparts through Helen in this novel, however, is that reading is good for people as long as they don’t challenge themselves. Country folk should stick to popular literature like Treasure Island, Robinson Crusoe, and cookbooks. Shakespeare would be a stretch for them, and they should stay away from philosophy or poetry.

Morley’s biggest mistake in writing Parnassus on Wheels is that he gives away the ending in the preface, so you spend the whole novel waiting for the inevitable to happen. Nevertheless, this book is moderately entertaining. Helen and Mifflin are likable characters. Everything that happens in the plot is utterly predictable, but you don’t mind so much because it’s clear that the novel was meant to be light, dumbed-down fare and never strives to be anything deeper. I certainly prefer Morley’s writing to Grayson’s. I put both authors into a literary category I call, “chicken soup for the soul,” which is not a compliment, but not necessarily an insult either, as long as you know up front what you’re in for.

Cubism in Color: The Still Lifes of Juan Gris, edited by Nicole R. Myers and Katherine Rothkopf

The beautiful book his work deserves

The modernist painting style of cubism is generally considered to have been invented jointly by painters Pablo Picasso and Georges Braque around 1907. Most art aficionados, if questioned for a third artist in that movement, would call up the name of Juan Gris. In fact, though Gris followed in the footsteps of Picasso and Braque, some (myself included) consider Gris to have been the one who really took cubism to its creative apex. Gris pushed the stylistic experiments in form, structure, and color farther than his better-known contemporaries, and in the process managed to produce many beautiful paintings. Even those who can’t stand cubism (and that’s probably the majority of the world’s population) might very well enjoy looking at a Juan Gris painting.

The still life, usually an arrangement of objects on a table, was a common subject matter for cubist artists and a particular specialty of Gris’s. Now his work in that area gets its deserved recognition with the beautifully produced coffee table book Cubism in Color: The Still Lifes of Juan Gris, edited by Nicole R. Myers of the Dallas Museum of Art and Katherine Rothkopf of the Baltimore Museum of Art. This book was published in 2021 by Yale University Press to coincide with an exhibition of Gris’s still lifes organized by those two museums.

This book is not intended to be a comprehensive biography or retrospective on Juan Gris. That has already been done at least twice, by Antonio Gaya Nuño in 1986 and by Christopher Green in 1992. This book is meant to focus solely on Gris’s still lifes, but it nevertheless does contain a biological overview and a fair share of scholarly content on Gris’s work. The assortment of essays included, however, is a bit random. Myers delivers a truly excellent essay examining how Gris went about planning and executing his still life paintings. For anyone who paints or draws, this chapter reads like a behind-the-scenes exposé into Gris’s methods and materials. Another essay is a string of brief institutional histories of every Spanish museum that owns a work by Juan Gris. It’s hard to see how that’s useful; wouldn’t a list have sufficed? Another essay explores the influence of Gris on abstract artists in South America. The connection feels only tenuously established, but this chapter did bring to my attention some Latin American artists with whom I was previously unfamiliar.

While the essays are hit-and-miss, the images strike the bullseye time and time again. The text divides Gris’s tragically brief career into five distinct stages. All of those stages are well-represented by selected artworks, and one can clearly see Gris’s progression as an artist over time. The paintings are all beautifully reproduced, most of them appearing at full-page size. The photography of the artworks and the quality of the printing are impeccable. When it comes to art publications, Yale University Press always makes a quality product.

I still think Green and Gaya Nuño’s books are better overall volumes on Gris’s life and career, but Cubism in Color is a great addition to the literature on Gris’s art. I doubt any art lover would ever say, “I’m of fan of Gris, but I don’t like his still lifes.” Still lifes were so integral to his thought and vision as an artist. This book celebrates Gris’s innovative visual experimentation and sublime talent for composition. His still lifes deserve a great showcase in print, and that’s what they’re given here.

Flowers, 1914

The Violin, 1916

Still Life with a Bottle of Bordeaux, 1919

The Open Window, 1921

Birds and Man by W. H. Hudson

More concerned with words than birds

W. H. Hudson was born in Argentina to a family of English and Irish heritage. He grew up in South America, emigrated to England in his early thirties, and published his first book in his early forties. Despite his late start, however, Hudson became a prolific author and published about four dozen books, mostly nonfiction but also a few novels (Green Mansions being his best-known work). Hudson was a naturalist who studied the plants and animals, particularly birds, of his native Argentina and later did the same in England. His book Birds and Man, published in 1901, is a series of essays about birds. In this volume, he’s only writing about English birds, not those of South America.

Hudson may have literally wrote the book on Argentine Ornithology (1888), but the books that I’ve read by him make it hard for me to believe he was a scientist. He writings come across more like the work of an avid birder with literary aspirations. What surprised me about this book, and why I dislike it, is because I learned almost nothing about the birds discusses, other than Hudson’s “artistic” descriptions about what they look or sound like. Each chapter focuses on a particular species, family of birds, or bird-related subject, within which Hudson will rattle off a string of anecdotes. These usually take the form of “I once saw a bird do this . . . It made me feel this way . . . That reminds me of a poem . . .” This book is not about the birds, it’s about Hudson’s feelings, and him showing off how he can relate those feelings through flowery language. 

This is not the first time reading a Hudson book has left me somewhat irritated (see also Idle Days in Patagonia). He seems like the kind of writer who one day decided, “I’m going to be a writer, and I’m going to write x thousand words a day . . .” whether he has anything interesting to say or not. Here in Birds and Man he shows no interest in educating the reader about birds. Rather, Hudson is trying to earn his place among the great British essayists like Thomas Carlyle and John Ruskin. One way to get there, he thinks, is to reference poets—Wordsworth, Tennyson, Cowper, etc.—any chance he gets. Despite his attempts to flaunt his erudition, Hudson is just not that good of a writer to belong in such company, and most of this book ends up being an utter bore. 

As a birder, Hudson also sports a very snobbish, know-it-all attitude towards those who aren’t his equals in bird knowledge. There is no sense of him welcoming amateur birders into the fold. Anyone who doesn’t fly into fits of ecstasy at hearing the song of the Wood Wren is a Philistine. Those with pet parrots are simpletons. Those who can’t name the species in their local woods are idiots. Hudson complains a lot in this book about taxidermy. He prefers living birds to stuffed ones. He thinks dead birds belong in specimen drawers where only ornithologists can view them. He hates museum displays of stuffed birds, from which the public might actually be able to learn about and appreciate birds, thus becoming less of the Philistines he despises so much.

One interesting matter he discusses is how English bird species have been driven to extinction or endangered status because so many collectors want to have glass cases full of pretty stuffed birds in their living rooms. There are also a couple mildly amusing stories about a pet owl and some pet parrots. Other than that, I found this book to be a complete waste of time. I’m a birder; I enjoy books about birds, but I did not enjoy this one.

Marcus Aurelius: A Life by Frank McLynn

More historical context than biography

British historian and author Frank McLynn has written over two dozen books of history and biography including books on Napoleon, Genghis Khan, and Carl Jung. His biography Marcus Aurelius: Warrior, Philosopher, Emperor was published in 2010 and has since been rereleased as Marcus Aurelius: A Life. Marcus is often cited as the best of all the Roman emperors (or at least the least cruel and crazy) and is highly regarded as a paragon of leadership and wisdom. In this in-depth life history, McLynn sets out to investigate whether Marcus actually deserves such praise.

Besides being a Roman emperor, Marcus was also a philosopher. Many regard him as perhaps the closest anyone has come to the ideal of the philosopher-king that Plato put forth in his Republic. Marcus’s brand of philosophy was Stoicism, and he is considered one of the big three of that school (along with Epictetus and Seneca) because of his book Meditations, a classic Stoic text. If you’re considering reading McLynn’s biography because you are a modern disciple of Stoicism, prepare to be disappointed. McLynn despises Stoicism, calling it “nonsense” and “gibberish.” He thinks Marcus’s philosophical pursuits were a waste of time. Marcus should have concentrated on military and economical matters, as McLynn mostly does in this book. To McLynn’s credit, however, he does give some thoughtful and intelligent discussion to Marcus’s views on philosophy and religion, at least three solid chapters worth, plus a relentlessly negative appendix on Stoicism. Although tens of thousands of books have been published disputing contradictory views on Christian theology, McLynn thinks any time two Stoics disagree with each other, such inconsistency renders the whole school of thought null and void. I don’t agree with everything (or much) that McLynn has to say about Stoicism, but he’s certainly done his research, and I learned a lot about Marcus from this analysis of his philosophical thought.

The biggest complaint I have about McLynn’s biography of Marcus Aurelius is that only about a third of the book is actually about Marcus Aurelius. As the book opens, we get biographies of other figures who were connected to Marcus: a chapter on Hadrian, a chapter on Antoninus Pius, one on Lucius Verus, and maybe two on Fronto, Marcus’s tutor. McLynn provides historical context about what was going on in Rome at the time of Marcus’s reign, but he goes way overboard with it. For example, when he informs us that a war against the Parthians was underway during Marcus’s reign, we then get a complete detailed history of Rome’s relations with the Parthians going back two or three centuries, then a discussion of the Parthians themselves—their governmental structure, internal conflicts, the various nations and peoples surrounding them—then a primer on the organization of the Roman military, before we ever even get to talking about Marcus. After all that, what Marcus actually did about the Parthians, I couldn’t tell you. The Germanic tribes get a similar background treatment, but then you actually do get a pretty detailed blow-by-blow account of Marcus’s relations with them. McLynn sometimes wanders pretty far afield in his digressions, particularly towards the end of the book. In a book about Marcus Aurelius, did we really need the whole life story of Jean-Jacques Rousseau?

McLynn’s books have achieved a wide popular audience, but if this book is any indication, he writes with the scholarly rigor of a historian. This is not Marcus Aurelius for Dummies. Part of the historian’s job is to bust myths, and McLynn does some of that here. Given all the adulation that has been heaped upon Marcus over the centuries, the truth can’t help but be less flattering than the legend. McLynn points out that life was not so fine under the Marcus administration, and of all the Roman emperors, he was one of the most severe in persecuting Christians. McLynn certainly does admire Marcus as a leader, and he shows his respect for his subject by conducting a fair and thorough character analysis, neither a panegyric nor a hatchet job. He should have narrowed his focus more tightly on the man himself, however, instead of cramming in so much extraneous detail.