The thing is, though, that despite his contributions to jazz and his basic human decency... Carter as a person doesn’t emerge as terribly interesting. Yes, he’s crossed paths and played with a who’s who of jazz. He virtually re-defined the role of the bass, assuming a prominent role in the musical tapestry. And he’s driven by a relentless musical curiosity, determined to challenge himself, fellow musicians, and audiences alike in his ongoing quest to ‘find the right notes.’ But his life comes across as little more than a laundry list of gigs, dates, and recording sessions, with complimentary commentary from colleagues who, more often than not, regard Carter with respect rather than affection. Indeed, the most common metaphor throughout is Carter as anchor, both rhythmically (he is, after all, one of the world’s finest bassists) and as moral compass for band mates, many of whom regarded him as a father figure.
But anchors, however admirable, rarely make for interesting stories. There’s simply not much drama surrounding a guy who’s always on time, who’s invariably dressed appropriately, thoroughly prepared, and quietly keeps his own counsel. Perhaps it’s just that Carter occupies a rarified sphere as a master musician. His music tends to the rigorously intellectual, seemingly more concerned with the mathematical precision of harmonic progression than with exuberance or emotional expression.
There’s a great deal of history here, and Oullette is exhaustive in gathering anecdotes and observations. But like a compendium of baseball statistics, there’s little sense of life. (Oullette traces Carter’s early education in detail but barely mentions his wife and children). One learns much about jazz, but in the end Carter himself remains rather reserved and aloof, and his music speaks more about the man himself than his biography reveals.
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