This photo which was made by an LAPD crime scene photographer today in 1953 seems to show a murder victim, but the subject actually committed suicide. We guess that’s self-murder, but whatever, it’s an amazingly chaotic result. While it’s from the LAPD archvies, it was included in James Ellroy’s 2015 photo retrospective LAPD ’53. We have a copy and it’s worth a look for fans of the macabre. There isn’t much information on the photos—mostly they say merely “dead body” or “crime scene.” Ellroy instead discusses his own literary output, opines about film noir, shares anecdotes and musings about various Hollywood figures, recounts episodes from his youth, and occasionally lets himself be pulled down dark time warps he describes as “magical memory.” A typical example is his imaginary story of being at L.A.’s Club Alabam.
Charlie “Yardbird” Parker is bleating, blatting, honking and hiccuping “A Night in Tunisia.” Reefer smoke hangs humid. The music is decadently discordant. It’s the sock-it-to-me sonics of interminable chord changes off a recognizable main theme. It’s music for cultured cognoscenti that Bill Parker [LAPD Chief at the time] cannot acknowledge.
It takes brains and patience to groove the gist of this shit. It’s the musical equivalent of the chaos Bill Parker deplores. Five-year-old Ellroy is there, watching the Bird take flight. Everybody’s chain-smoking unfiltered Camels. The place is one big corroded iron lung. I’ve got a spike in my arm, I’m orbiting on Big “H,” I knew I’d write the text for this book one day, so I’ve got my voyeur’s cap on.
Interesting, no? Ellroy’s writing these days resides permanently on a razor’s edge, as he ties together crime, politics, and alpha male ultraviolence. He seem to us the perfect transgressive guide for LAPD ’53‘s tour through disaster and death for two reasons. First, he isn’t just an observer—he was a one-man terror show in his own right, engaging in petty crime through his youth, joining the American Nazi Party in high school, and generally leaving chaos in his wake. He waves this period away as a cry for attention. His fame and teflon persona have facilitated this dismissal, and that’s the second reason he’s a good choice for the book: other people pay dearly for indiscretions far less severe, like the universe has played a terrible joke on them. Ellroy’s fiction has always explored such cosmic inexplicability. He makes LAPD ’53 an experience.
