The Man in the White Suit

Nick Drake

The Man in the White Suit is a decent enough book that just goes on about its merry way until roughly halfway through, when Drake (no, not the singer of Pink Moon, more's the pity-- I don't think this Drake was yet born when that one shuffled off this mortal coil) hits you with "Heaven (for Mark Wilson White, 1957-1994)," and you realize you may well be in the presence of greatness:

"They showed us up, shadows in our dark suits
as through North London's traffic we progressed
past the chorus line of incredulous angels
at the bus stop, the shining parade
of shop windows, and the syncopated lights
until we turned down into Jordan Road.

I was a lamentable accompanist
ruining Nina from Argentina,
unable to keep time or find the notes;
he'd smile and offer: that was nearly perfect" ...

You wonder where, exactly, this came from, look back at the slight, usually amusing pieces before it, and realize it's all been some grand setup for Drake, who's been playing the patsy, to catch you with a roundhouse. Immediately the book starts landing a flurry of body blows before tapering back off into lighthearted wit again. It does taper off, though (in intensity, mind you, not in talent). Which is good, because sixty-four pages of Nick Drake at his harshest might be enough to send you screaming for the razor blades, and I mean that in the best possible way. This is, like most of what one finds published by Bloodaxe, an ugly piece of work with lots of rough edges that one simply can't find a way to mesh with the dcor in the conservatory, dahling. This, of course, is what makes it almost unbearably attractive, and well worth your time.