Fans pick 100 books like Uncommon Measure

Dyer is a gorgeous writer, and this book, which takes its title from a hauntingly beautiful 1947 song, is one of the most musical pieces of prose I’ve ever read. This paragraph captures both his voice and penetrating musical insights: 

“If [Thelonius] Monk had built a bridge he’d have taken away the bits that are considered essential until all that was left were the decorative parts–but somehow he would have made the ornamentation absorb the strength of the supporting spars so it was like everything was built around what wasn’t there. It shouldn’t have held together, but it did, and the excitement came from the way that it looked like it might collapse at any moment, just as Monk’s music always sounded like it might get wrapped up in itself.”

This is the most fun you’ll ever have reading about music history, guaranteed. Gioia focuses on outsiders, renegades, and people at the margins of society who launched musical innovations that were later adopted – and legitimized – by leaders of mainstream culture.

“So don’t be surprised,” he warns early on, “if a woman’s erotic love song gets turned into a scriptural utterance by a king. That’s how the history of music unfolds, especially for anything innovative or transgressive.”

I especially appreciated how, in examining music’s 4,000-year history, Gioia never fails to highlight contributions by women, which sets his book apart. 

This book enticed me with the audacity of its premise: a quasi-mystical connection between classical music and the feral nature of wolves.

Renowned pianist Hélène Grimaud grew up a rambunctious child in southern France who found meaning in the melodies of long-dead composers. Years later, on a dark Florida night, she has a chance encounter with a wolf. Lupine mythologies permeate her story, and psyche.

No longer content to admire wolves from a distance, she later founds a wolf conservation centre in upstate New York. While this book may not be a literary tour-de-force, I was enthralled by the theme of “rewilding” music.

Like most readers, I like my science sandwiched between stories.

Tim Falconer delivers a winsome tale of a writer diagnosed with “amusia"—the clinical term for “tone deafness”—who nevertheless longs to sing. Bashful yet determined, he delves into the science of auditory deficits and musicality on a quest to uncover why he can’t sing in tune, and whether anything can be done about it.

I couldn’t help but cheer him on as he endures remedial singing lessons and a nail-biting buildup to a public performance. Will he pull it off? And is there hope for other bad singers out there? I loved how Falconer used himself as Exhibit A to prove that even extreme tone deficits needn’t keep us from the joys of making music. 

In the words of Joni Mitchell, you “don’t know what you got till it’s gone.” Only a person who has gone deaf partway through life knows what it means to live with and without sound. And music.

In this evocative book, British journalist Bella Bathurst chronicles her profound loss of hearing starting at age 27—and twelve years later, its dramatic return. The health reporter in me gave a thumbs-up to her skillful exploration of the lesser-known science of hearing.

She introduces expert lip readers, soldiers who accept deafness as an occupational hazard, and the copper “ear trumpets” used by Beethoven as his greatest joy ebbed. When Bathurst regains her hearing, I was awed by her description of hearing music anew: “It was a thousand volts of birdsong.”

Baroque in prose and unabashedly erudite, this scholarly memoir by a Pulitzer Prize-winning arts critic may not be for everyone.

But I adored his uncanny descriptions of musical interpretation (such as Glenn Gould’s “flinty” recording of Bach) along with Kennicott’s prickly asides—“I hate the word ‘healing.’” Following the death of his beloved yet cantankerous mother, Kennicott channels his grief into learning to play Bach’s masterwork, the Goldberg Variations.

For a lapsed pianist in midlife, it’s a Herculean task. Unanswerable questions absorb him along the way: What does it mean to know a piece of music? What does it mean to know another human being? Throughout his musings and often comical childhood memories, Kennicott’s devotion to his Baroque master shines clear: “If Bach’s Goldberg Variations are not great, then nothing is.”

Practically every page of this book has something fascinating to say about music, and Denk has an appealing, charming, often funny voice that one doesn’t often encounter in books about classical music.

As an amateur pianist I learned more about technique from Denk than I ever expected from a memoir, from how to use my thumb “as a transit system” to rolling chords at different speeds as if I were “unrolling a carpet.”

He teaches us how to listen more acutely to the messages in music, whether it’s Bach, Mendelssohn, Mozart, Chopin, or Philip Glass, and page by page, he shines a new light on the music we think we know and how an artist approaches it.

The only work of fiction on my list is by an author who, perhaps more than any other contemporary novelist, seems to be composing music even as he’s writing fiction. A theme that keeps coming back in this book is this: “Music doesn’t mean things. It is things,” and in this story about an inventive – and persecuted – composer, Powers imbues practically every page with musicality. One example is on the note of G-sharp:

“For every pitch that ever reaches your ear, countless more hide out inside it. The things he can never tell her, the music he never wrote: it’s all rolled up, high up there, in the unhearable frequencies.”

This story also includes a dog, Fidelio, which makes it all the more essential on my list.

Vincent is a social anthropologist who spent a number of years in Finland completing a truly fascinating piece of fieldwork: he studied the people involved in planning the spent nuclear waste depository at Onkala.

This is a huge undertaking and responsibility, requiring its architects to project their minds tens of thousands of years into the future. Through his fieldwork, Vincent drew out various broader lessons for how to think longer-term.

What’s striking about Onkala is that the people involved in the planning are simply normal Finnish people tasked with an extraordinary job. To me that shows that deep time can be accessible to everyone, and indeed this is a theme that Vincent explores himself: seeking out long-term time in everyday experience can be cathartic, he argues.

For anyone who has been shattered by a terrible loss and could not imagine a road to recovery, this intimate, poetic, and philosophically astute exploration of bereavement, of the mental ravages brought on by the loss of a child, will be a bracing and transformative reading experience.

This short and brilliant book has forever changed how I understand what it means to grieve and to master one’s suffering—it makes you feel less alone.