I once saw jazz pianist Paul Bley playing “My Funny Valentine” in a Montreal music store. He did a kind of Goldberg variation à la Glenn Gould on the tune, turning conventional melody every which side. His melodic conception, unique inflections, and remarkable touch have kept me interested in this restless experimenter for over 40 years. So I let out a yelp of joy when I first heard of Stopping Time.

David Lee’s portrait, culled from several interviews and tapes over a 10-year period, sheds considerable light on the art of Bley, who had already played with Charlie Parker before he left Montreal for New York City when he was in his early 20s. He went on to become a central figure in the 1960s jazz revolution.

Bley’s analysis of the redundancy of the traditional form is highly informative, as are his reflections on the quest for atonality in jazz, and the attempt to move music “beyond its own limitations.” Also interesting is his chapter on the Hillcrest Club in Los Angeles in 1958, where he played with the unknown Ornette Coleman and Don Cherry. During that memorable gig, all the constraints of repetitive structure fell away.

“You never play where you are,” Bley says. “You play where you’re going…. I can hear a whole solo in advance – not note for note but structurally.” Bley’s recounting of what he listens for before playing a phrase is enlightening for the layperson.

Stopping Time comes with a skimpy bibliography. A selected discography lists 118 records and is far from complete – there are, I believe, over 160 Bley recordings. Not bad for a guy who was once hired “to clear the club between sets.” There is an occasional flippancy of tone and a few colloquial clichés, but these are minor notes among this book’s virtuoso tone.

Having devoured Stopping Time, one is left wondering why this musical genius is not well known the world over.