But Connelly's jazz isn't in the name-dropping, it's in the writing. You sense it in the dialogue, the structured plotting - as complex as a Gil Evans orchestration - the characters as individual as the various Ellington soloists.
Chandler, Hammett, Thompson, Woolrich, Spillane all walked down the mean streets without indication that they knew a yardbird from a game bird although they did meet up with a few of the latter.
The point I'm coming to, apart from mentioning that this is one helluva book is that, like it or not, jazz is the supreme American artform even if not every American realises it. As such, although European, Latin, Asian and African musicians have produced many outstanding jazz moments, at the root, they are dialects.
Admittedly, with globalisation, the gaps are becoming closer but the spoken language is the big giveaway. Talk to northeast American expatriate trumpet player Dave Weisser for the first time and be given the option of deciding if he was (a) teacher (b) doctor or (c) jazz musician you'd opt for (c). With, say, someone who'd just been awarded an Arts Council Grant (or similar) you may not have been so sure. The gist of this is that the American drawl, whether northern or southern, suggests music be it jazz, country, rock or blues. Likewise English, German, French, Italian etc. their musical identities are defined by symphonies and operas and their actual manner of speech tends to go along with it although, in fairness, they all have indigenous jazz musicians of their own capable of making it on the international stage.
The gist of all this is that Michael Connelly writes like a jazz musician plays - full of surprises - Lance
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