Nightfly, which claims to be a biography of Donald Fagen, tries to avoid being also primarily about Steely Dan. That the band’s name is prominently highlighted on the cover says more about marketing strategy than the intentions of the author. Throughout history there have been those whose lives have been fascinating enough in themselves whereby a biographer can treat their master works as further dazzling chapters in the captivating overall portrait of the artist. The life stories of Van Gogh, Frida Kahlo and Gabriel Garcia Marquez come to mind. Donald Fagen’s biographer, Peter Jones, approaches his subject from this perspective but soon enough this proves a dire misjudgement. Certainly Fagen has a life separate from his creation, but is it notable enough to justify a biography that so shabbily presents the masterly art of Steely Dan as if it was just a thing that he once did among all the other things? Only a fool would say that.
For those who might not know, Donald Fagen’s small recess in music history is golden. In summary he wrote and recorded more brilliant songs than not during the 70s with his partner-in-crime Walter Becker as Steely Dan, conjured renewed scintillation with his first stunning solo album The Nightfly in 1982, then retreated into isolation and therapy for a decade only to re-emerge, disappointingly, as a lesser creative force. More solo albums of varying quality, a slow-burn reunion with Becker, two new Dan albums which were admired but not much loved and regular low-key touring of the oldies circuit followed. It’s kind of a shitty narrative arc to rely upon as the framework for a page turner. Cranky uncle Don, as portrayed in his erudite 2013 autobiographical portrait Eminent Hipsters is likeable enough in his gleefully snide but elusive way. As a stand-alone subject for a biographer however, he ain’t much to write about.
He was talented as fuck but quickly developed a public persona early on that was cool, detached and witheringly sarcastic. It became an open secret that his and Becker’s approach to recording was unhealthily obsessive, but the results were so uniformly amazing and revered that this was generally regarded as a positive. Despite their frequent chart success, Steely Dan from 1972 to 1980 were no mere hit-makers. In an age where glam and glitter shared the world stage with confessional singer/songwriters, Steely Dan existed slightly outside the celebrity sphere to deliver cryptic, earthy tales of outliers struggling for air in their hidden corners of existence. Sometimes sordid, occasionally humorous, more often intriguing, these highly literate vignettes were paired with an exquisite jazz leaning rock/pop hybrid which repeatedly struck hitherto undiscovered sweet spots at each turn that clearly targeted the insatiable reward centre of your brain. Venerated then, as now, by musicians and authors along with the general music-loving public, the Becker/Fagen credits on a record label sticker have always been regarded as a near-guarantee of top tier song craft.
Regretfully Peter Jones skills as an interpreter of this output is inadequate. We are told plenty about what happened but very little space is dedicated to an appreciation of the art in a meaningful way. His analysis of the lyrics is facile. The song “Green Earrings” is reviewed as if he had never really given the words much consideration, if any. There are some basic factual errors that don’t inspire much faith in the writer’s hard-wired knowledge of the band, for example when he writes that the album Pretzel Logic has “three songs with a historical theme—the title track, ‘Black Friday’ and ‘Chain Lightning’”. These last two songs, as any Dan fan knows, appear on Katy Lied, not Pretzel Logic. Maybe a trifle, but a mistake like that wouldn’t pass without disbelief in a book about, say, The Beatles. On this matter he makes a bizarre attempt to draw parallels between the careers of Steely Dan and The Beatles, which while flimsy to the point of being transparently invalid, enters the realm of embarrassment when he claims that Abbey Road is one of The Beatles “less celebrated albums”. It means nothing, but it also means everything if you are wanting your little book to be taken seriously. There is more cringe to be found at various places among the okay stuff, of which there is thankfully enough to keep you going.
While fans of Donald Fagen will find much of interest here, we need to wait for a scribe with greater gifts than Peter Jones to write the definitive history of Steely Dan, which is the infinitely more interesting story. Jones has done a workmanlike job of compiling the component parts but has failed to provide the absorbing narrative and scrutiny this enduring body of work and its place in time deserves.