Chasing the Eight Bar Rest isn’t a celebration—it’s a confession. It’s the sound of a sideman remembering the years he spent chasing two things: the perfect solo and the next fix. Set during the raw, unruly zenith of American jazz, this memoir takes you inside the rehearsal rooms, flophouses, emergency rooms, and after-hours clubs that defined a generation of players who burned fast and lived between sets, nodding off while the world clapped.

This is the real jazz age—not the cleaned-up version. This is Bird strung out backstage. This is a trumpet wrapped in pawn tickets. This is cold sweats between takes and dope sacks hidden in the bell of the horn. And through it all: the music, the goddamned music, pouring out of shattered bodies with a clarity no clean soul could fake.

Sonny “Lip” Calhoun didn’t lead bands or cut iconic albums. He played behind the men who did—and watched most of them die. With a voice that's bitter, bruised, and darkly funny, he documents what it was like to survive that era from the shadows: scoring dope on lunch breaks, detoxing in club basements, and burying the last man you trusted on tour.

Chasing the Eight Bar Rest is both elegy and indictment, full of ugly truths and reluctant grace. It’s not about redemption. It’s about memory, and what gets left when the music stops.

If you want a glossy narrative, look elsewhere. But if you want the truth about jazz—how it sounded, how it felt, and what it cost the men who played it—this is the book you've been chasing.