There’s a history of controversial jazz autobiographies that would have to include Mezz Mezzrow’s ‘Really The Blues’, Charles Mingus’s ‘Beneath The Underdog’, Sidney Bechet’s ‘Treat It Gentle’, Billie Holiday’s ‘Lady Sings The Blues’, Dizzy Gillespie’s ‘Dizzy’ and Art Pepper’s ‘Straight Life’.

It may be somewhat of a surprise to report that the apparently mild-mannered, urbane Mehldau – modern master jazz pianist and probably best known for his majestic Radiohead and Beatles covers – joins that list with ‘Formation’, charting his musical and personal rites of passage from the mid-’70s to late 1990s.

The general fan may have heard Mehldau make vague references to his previous junkie life – here we get the full story, and it’s both revelatory and somewhat disturbing. Also, unlike some of the books listed above, ‘Formation’ is certainly not ghostwritten, hardly a surprise when one considers some of the extensive liner essays Mehldau has penned, particularly alongside 2000’s Places.

Growing up in mid-‘70s New Hampshire, Mehldau’s young life is all very Judy Blume, soundtracked by Billy Joel, Beethoven, Fleetwood Mac, the Eagles, Steve Miller and Supertramp, with the twin undercurrents of organised religion and the Cold War.

At the turn of the new decade, piano lessons become increasingly important and he becomes a major prog fan, Pink Floyd and Rush becoming key touchstones, though he also relates the loneliness in his own life to the music of Miles, Billie Holiday and Brahms.

A move to Hartford, Connecticut, precipitates the first major instances of bullying, outlined in shocking detail, a theme that will echo throughout his time in formal education. It’s hardly surprising that alcohol and drug use become regular companions during his late-teenage life, as do doubts about his sexuality.

In the age of Reagan, Stallone and Schwarzenegger, Mehldau becomes a true ‘outsider artist’, finding solace in the works of Thomas Mann, the Beats, German philosophers and Bob Dylan. Meanwhile high school hastens the flowering of his jazz piano talent.

From there, it’s a short ride to Mehldau’s relocation to New York in the late 1980s, and his jazz piano initiation at great lost venues such as Augie’s and the Village Gate. It’s hard to think of another book which better explores that fabled NYC jazz scene of the late 1980s to mid 1990s, nor one that better explores the thought processes and doubts of a nascent jazz pianist.

There are touching tributes to his piano teachers and also contemporary ivory-ticklers such as Larry Goldings, Bill Charlap and Kevin Hays. The book closes with lengthy accounts of his time playing with Joshua Redman, David Sanchez and Pat Metheny, undertaken in the shadow of heroin addiction, though the book ends with hope and a sense of rebirth.

Though always engaging, Mehldau’s writing style is wildly unpredictable – sometimes intimate and conversational, sometimes dry and analytical, often shockingly fly, with scant consideration for political correctness. But his intelligence flies off the page, hardly a surprise to anyone who’s heard him weave magic at the piano.

He’s honest about his own faults as well as the faults of others, and there’s no getting away from it – he paints a mostly harsh, violent picture of America in the 1980s, certainly no country for old men or those of a sensitive disposition. ‘Formation’ is also graced with the author’s own sizeable photo collection.

A fine if sometimes shocking addition to the pantheon of great jazz autobiographies, we eagerly await part two of ‘Formation’. Meanwhile Brad’s playing career goes from strength to strength – I’m looking forward to the Wigmore Hall solo gig in September.