Blue Monday: Fats Domino and the Lost Dawn of Rock and Roll by Rick Coleman

There is a big difference between being exhaustive and being engaging. There is also a huge disparity between being detail-oriented and being definitive. Just because you have access to a wealth of previously unreported information that will radically change the public perspective on a long forgotten fixture of early rock and roll doesn’t mean that every final bit of data deserves discussion. Sometimes, facts require narrative in order to get their many points across. Such a schism is noted since it permeates, and in some ways poisons, the first real literary look at Antoine “Fats” Domino and his legitimate claim as the true king of rock and roll – Rick Coleman’s ambitious and frequently overreaching book Blue Monday.

Thanks to his passion for the subject, the ability to track down even the most obscure persons who were part of Domino’s legacy, and with what appears to be an unlimited access to ‘the Fat Man’ himself, Coleman’s contextualizing of the New Orleans artist are nothing short of authoritative. Arguing for – at the very least – Domino’s place as one of modern music’s cofounders, Blue Monday makes it very clear that, without the piano man’s preference for a “big beat’ and his fiery concert performances, rock may never have gained a foothold in American popular culture. This is especially true when you consider the role race played in both initially stifling, and finally celebrating the music’s social significance.

One of Blue Monday‘s major themes is the reconciliation of so-called “race music” (how r&b by black artists was categorized back in the ’40s and ’50s) and the growing teen rebellion of the era. Both will play a significant role toward desegregation and integration. Indeed, one of Coleman’s most telling sections discusses Domino’s initial treks across the country on his first few tours. Constantly faced with prejudicial barriers (no available “blacks only” accommodations, limited restaurants that would actually serve someone ‘of his kind’) and the fear of riots and discriminator retaliation, Blue Monday has the makings of more than a mere biography. It has the potential to stand as a searing indictment of a country caught up in its own horrifyingly bigoted past, and how the downtrodden and disenfranchised rose up to realign the nation’s civil rights priorities.

Sadly, this doesn’t really happen. Coleman compiles many arguments, both pointed and occasionally superficial, about how artists like Domino, Chuck Berry, and Little Richard made record companies and radio realize how unimportant skin color was to the success of a song. There are many sections in the book where previously segregated audiences break down the boundaries keeping them apart to simply dance together, and Coleman loves to condemn the city officials who would cancel a Domino appearance for fear of all out race wars (they happened, but were very rare and usually instigated from the outside). Yet the debate gets lost in page after page of minutia, details meant to give Domino’s legacy near encyclopedic coverage.

From the very beginning of the book, Coleman simply piles on the facts. He doesn’t try to bring the subject matter to life, he merely wants to get all his research out on the record before moving on to the next mountain of information. Whenever an individual is introduced, be they long time Imperial Records chief Lew Chudd or frequent Domino collaborator Dave Bartholomew, entire backstories are offered up and discussed. Everything from birthplace to business plans are ironed out in endless passages meant to fill in the glaring gaps marring rock’s earliest history. While this may be acceptable for persons as important as these two (they were major forces in Domino’s career) listing every single band member to pass through Fats formidable traveling and recording entourage – and there are literally dozens – deadens the narrative in its tracks.

It’s no surprise then that when Domino is established, cutting hit records and bringing down the house in concert, Blue Monday suddenly comes alive. Without the need to explain every element involved in his reign of sonic supremacy, Coleman simply settles in and delivers the kind of plotting that suits his story’s dual purpose. We learn the truth, and in addition, almost experience the excitement and exuberance of the time. Yet just as we think we’ve gotten over the routine rough spots and are ready to follows Fats through the rest of this career, eras change, new sounds emerge, and suddenly it’s back to the drab detail-oriented approach.

Granted, anyone looking for scholarship instead of scandal will adore Blue Monday. Whenever, in the future, a question comes up about Domino and his early days as a artist and trendsetter, Coleman’s book will be the first source considered. It’s impossible to imagine that any other tome out there contains as many cold hard facts as this openly annotated testament. But this does not mean we gain any psychological or personal insight into Domino as a man. Coleman’s take on the musician is more hands off than in depth. After nearly 300 pages, we discover that this ambitious artist loved to drink, gambled a lot, chased the occasional woman, played his music with a fiery passion and really cared for his family. Rarely does Coleman’s book claim more than this. Sure, we hear how Domino didn’t like the middle of the road records he made near the end of his chart tenure, but that’s more common sense than insight.

No, what fans of any biography hope to gain is real personal perspective. We don’t want to know that John Lennon recorded three tracks with Phil Spector behind the boards on 17 June, 1971. We could care less how many takes it took Elvis to capture a definitive performance of “Heartbreak Hotel”. We want indirect correspondence with our idols, a fly on the wall viewpoint that brings us closer without corrupting our inner vision. But Blue Monday doesn’t tender such an outlook. Instead, it spends nearly two hundred pages following Domino from 1949 to 1962, using the last 75 to skim and skip over the next four decades. In keeping with Coleman’s stated purpose – to reposition Domino as rock and roll’s originator and primary sonic salesman – it’s a necessary conceit. But it makes for rather rote reading.

Yet, because of the man being considered, perhaps this was all there was to Domino’s tale. Still, there has to be some reason why equally important music pioneers like Little Richard and Chuck Berry remain constantly considered as part of the pop culture landscape, but the Fat Man sits sadly on the outside looking in. It’s indeed one of the greatest crimes in any discussion of the rock genre. Now, it could simply be that, as a founding father, what he did and who he did it with was far more important than who Domino was as a rather amiable human being. Without some juicy gossip (Richard) public controversy (Berry) and the strident racial connotations of the ’50s and ’60s, the “out of sight, out of mind” notion of celebrity is obviously firmly in place here.

Unfortunately, Blue Monday will not do much to change that. Coleman deserves credit for taking on the basic, brutal challenge of arguing for one forgotten artist’s legitimate place in the pantheon of an over analyzed art form. And with a category like rock and roll, in a seemingly endless state of critical and scholarly flux, finding the right amount of support for your stance is crucial. Again, the data presented here is specific and quite vast in scope. Lost inside all the facts and figures however is a man whose music – and more importantly whose beat – formed the foundation for an entire aural revolution. Too bad his far too long in coming recognition ends up being so routine.