Artistry

Art Pepper's D Section (recorded just after he was released from San Quentin in 1964) shows that at this time in his career Art was strictly business. I love how his solos are never muddy or superfluous and always build in intensity--nothing is extraneous and it all serves the larger purpose of the tune. That's artistry.

Thanks to YouTube once again for another nice clip I'd never noticed until this morning--Happy Holidays.

Art Lange on Anthony Braxton.

William Claxton, RIP

(Jazz) photographer William Claxton has died.

Fake Authenticity

...Hey, Johnny, what are you rebelling against?

...What’ve you got?

—Marlon Brando, The Wild One (1958)

“In a period when the youthful innovations of rock and roll were in the ascendant, it is fascinating to observe the continuing popularity of jazz on both the large and small screens, belying any comfortably linear history of popular music that regards the advent of rock and roll as a decisive historical break, in which jazz is finally and categorically displaced from the category of ‘popular’ at a point in the mid-1950s—a perspective fuelled by movies such as The Blackboard Jungle (1955) which featured Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock” on its soundtrack and, in a telling transitional ‘moment,’ presented the smashing of a teacher’s prized jazz record collection by leather-jacketed punks as the ultimate act of rock and roll rebellion.”
___________

Alan Stanbridge of University of Toronto raises some interesting points in his essay and made me think of the intersection of jazz music and its successor in pop culture ... rock 'n roll.

Stanbridge's provocative spiel had me thinking about English blues singer Amy Winehouse, for some reason, and the fascination we as a society seem to have with rebellion. Does the fascination with blues singer Winehouse’s public descent into addiction represent the unconscious fetishization of an archetypal period in jazz history? The rock ‘n roll youth of the 1950s couldn’t identify with jazz as the more cerebral side of the latter became much more evident. These days the somewhat talented, who also represent anti-authoritarian currents in our society, are raised to absurd levels of notoriety because the sheer inertia of these societal trends is unstoppable. Singers like Winehouse (or in a bygone day musicians like Keith Richards) represent a genuinely dark side of mainstream music—an easily consumed brand of rebellion. Rebellion is easy to understand. Everyone can relate to frustration. Everyone wants acceptance and attention. (After Miles Davis had capitalized on Cool Jazz, he nearly single-handedly invented another new genre, Fusion, after snuggling up to the playing of Jimi Hendrix. On a certain level, Davis craved acceptance, and his move toward a more loose and funky sound, after the tight experiments of the album Bitches Brew, was designed to appeal to the masses, not to critics and intellectuals. Davis craved a little understanding, because he won over the critics years previous and winning over the people marked a challenge for him and his work.) The lure of acceptance by the masses is sometimes too strong to be ignored and otherwise innovative artists become self-imitators as a result. Winehouse doesn't seem to be imitating herself just yet, but she's making a career of mediocrity. Think about Billie Holiday (1915-1959).

Billie Holiday's art wasn't considered esoteric in the time when she was alive, because jazz was extremely visible in the 1940s and 1950s. That's not to say it was socially acceptable.

The spotlight always shines brightest on works that define the next wave of artistic innovation. Works firmly entrenched in a pre-existing and long-standing order, although displaying technical or conceptual virtuosity, often receive far less press than the works that mark the cusp of two genres. Amy Winehouse can sing, but she ain’t no Billie Holiday and she may never be. Unresolved social issues that are in constant need of exploration aren’t being addressed by most contemporary pop artists. Winehouse is “outside” the mainstream because of her lifestyle, so she could delve into particularly difficult subject matter unscathed if she so chooses. Winehouse acts like a derelict, which gets her a lot of attention, but she sells out her own talent by not taking it farther. The content is lacking, because ultimately she’s only interested in herself and her consumption. Compare her work and its “message” to seminal tunes like Strange Fruit as sung by Holiday. After the monumental message of the song’s lyrics (written by Abel Meeropol) hits home for the first time it’s indelible. Artists like Winehouse revel in their addictions, which is sad but telling. The irony is that our consumerist tendencies value an authentic fake nearly as much as the original: at least in the short term.

Using addiction as a marketing tool for music is what Winehouse’s tabloid nonsense really advertises. Whether she’s aware of that is another matter, but the main ingredients missing, despite her solid voice, are grace and compassion. Holiday leapt the crushing hurdles of racism and addiction and achieved the highest levels of musicianship while Winehouse gleefully wallows in a cliché.

Wayne Shorter in a vintage clip laying down some jazz goodness.

It's a little strange to see this Sonny Rollins footage mainly because he's stuck on a variety show attempting to play the crowd pleaser, but rather reluctantly. The other thing that seemed to draw my attention was the difference between Rollins with his crisp delivery and the somewhat slack soloing by Don Cherry, an otherwise brilliant improviser. These two paired offer a glimpse at the subtle chasm that existed between those who became more known as free players and those who relied more on harmonic structure and were more a part of the previous well-established tradition--bebop.

Klactoveesedstene

My friend, the poet Steve Halle, asked me via e-mail the other day about Ornette Coleman’s album “Sound Grammar,” and I remember hearing bits and pieces of it online a while ago. It’s a great album, but I found myself really thinking about it again because of Steve’s comment, so I dug around online a bit and stumbled upon this Slate article that raises an even larger question. I really like this article (sure it’s a little dusty but who cares) because of its embedded links. Putting these two riffs side by side is genius (one of Charlie Parker laying down a long solo in the song “Klactoveesedstene” and Ornette Coleman playing nearly the same but in his unique way). [Here’s an interesting side note found on a Portuguese jazz blog about theories as to what “Klactoveesedstene” might mean.]

Listening to both shows how different Ornette’s sound is, even in 1958. Not being a musician I can’t define it in musical terms, but I’ve always thought that Ornette’s solos seem to spread out instead of building. Ornette uses sound in a really nonlinear way, and not to just fill space in a song. His solos don’t rise to crescendo or logically unfold, they burst forth in rivulets—fits and starts. It’s obvious that the journey itself is the destination. One reason that Ornette doesn’t often play with pianists in his combos could be that the piano, as defined in those rough terms, is limiting to a certain extent. There are spaces between the keys on a piano whereas the saxophone is a much more liquid instrument. Even so, Ornette paired with a player like Thelonious Monk would seem to make sense, but Monk’s playing was also much more angular and structured, though in an offbeat way.

I'd never seen the above photo of Charlie Parker before, so I thought I'd post it.

In other news, Stop Smiling has put out a relatively recent, jazz-theme issue and I've just found out that the headliners at the 2008 Chicago Jazz Festival are Sonny Rollins and Ornette Coleman. Thank you, Chicago!

Yakov Lotovski's The Sound of Jazz translated from Russian by Dimitri Lotovski at Exquisite Corpse has some interesting imagery.





"There is also this huge saxophone.
It sounds like a piece of antique oak furniture that’s being moved.
There is a man attached to it.
Serving."

Much "jazz poetry" doesn't fit the bill. In the sense that Vachel Lindsay, Carl Sandburg, Mina Loy, or Hart Crane could be considered "jazz" poets because they made reference to it in their work, which isn't the same as producing work that enacts the rhythms being described or uses imagery that evokes convincing portrayals of jazz artists and their compositions, we'll have to come up with a more useful definition. Many writers of the Jazz Age (i.e., 1920s) wrote about the decadence or instability of the times but their writing wasn't jazz influenced per se. True poets influenced by jazz take language and make of it something malleable and molten. Poets such as Amiri Baraka in "Ka'Ba"

call across or scream or walk across
defying physics in the stream of their will[.]

Ray Bremser, Jack Kerouac, and Ted Joans wrote poetry with an oral component that sometimes mirrored the syncopated rhythms of jazz. Poets such as Bob Kaufman often wrote lines that verged on the nonsensical in his flights to mimic the sounds he heard in jazz. In the experimental "Crootey Songo" he wrote,

Derrat slegelations, flo goof babereo
Sorash sho dubies, wago, wailo, wailo

Or, as he wrote in "Jazz Chick"

From the alabaster pools of Jazz
Where music cools hot souls.
Eyes more articulately silent
Than Medusa's thousand tongues.
A bridge of eyes, consenting smiles
reveal her presence singing[.]

The Sopranos

I hate to keep tapping into the old-school (wait a minute, no I don’t) but one of the defining moments of my experiences as a jazz listener is the first time I heard a recording of Coltrane playing “My Favorite Things.” Beyond the virtuosity of his treatment of the tune, I was intrigued, too, by the instrument he played. I’d heard recordings of way-out musicians like Yusef Lateef playing oddball instruments like the oboe, shenai, and argol (check out the Impulse! recording Yusef Lateef Live at Pep’s from the 1960s), but hearing Coltrane play the soprano sax on “My Favorite Things” added to its mystique. (to be continued)

Coyote

One of my favorite films is Martin Scorcese’s The Last Waltz. If you’ve never seen this film run don’t walk to your video store or else put it into your Netflix queue. After 16 years of touring, The Band (Rick Danko, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson, Richard Manuel, Robbie Robertson) decided to film a final appearance in 1976 on Thanksgiving Day with friends including Dr. John, Neil Young, Muddy Waters, Eric Clapton, Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, Ringo Starr, Ron Wood, and Joni Mitchell. As one of Scorcese’s finest films, in a career of masterpieces, The Last Waltz is one of the more interesting music documentaries of all time. Others in that list would have to include Thelonious Monk: Straight No Chaser, Don’t Look Back, The Filth and the Fury, Gimme Shelter, Wild Man Blues, Buena Vista Social Club, Jazz on a Summer’s Day, and Monterey Pop. The performances of Dr. John and Joni Mitchell show how jazz music seeped into the rock world and became another ingredient in the gumbo that the music of New Orleans became. Joni Mitchell’s offbeat, and sometimes improvised, singing style and Dr. John’s performance especially are proof of jazz music’s subtle influence. Joni Mitchell isn't a jazz artist per se, but it's interesting to see the way she handles the vocals to her song, Coyote. I've always loved her lyrics, too.

No regrets Coyote
We just come from such different sets of circumstance
I'm up all night in the studios
And you're up early on your ranch
You'll be brushing out a brood mare's tail
While the sun is ascending
And I'll just be getting home with my reel to reel...
There's no comprehending
Just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes
And the lips you can get
And still feel so alone
And still feel related
Like stations in some relay
You're not a hit and run driver, no, no
Racing away
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway

We saw a farmhouse burning down
In the middle of nowhere
In the middle of the night
And we rolled right past that tragedy
Till we turned into some road house lights
Where a local band was playing
Locals were up kicking and shaking on the floor
And the next thing I know
That Coyote's at my door
He pins me in a corner and he won't take "No!"
He drags me out on the dance floor
And we're dancing close and slow
Now he's got a woman at home
He's got another woman down the hall
He seems to want me anyway
Why'd you have to get so drunk
And lead me on that way
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines of the freeway

I looked a Coyote right in the face
On the road to Baljennie near my old home town
He went running thru the whisker wheat
Chasing some prize down
And a hawk was playing with him
Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes
He had those same eyes - just like yours
Under your dark glasses
Privately probing the public rooms
And peeking thru keyholes in numbered doors
Where the players lick their wounds
And take their temporary lovers
And their pills and powders to get them thru this passion play

No regrets, Coyote
I just get off up aways
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway

Coyote's in the coffee shop
He's staring a hole in his scrambled eggs
He picks up my scent on his fingers
While he's watching the waitresses' legs
He's too fat from the Bay of Fundy
From Appaloosas and Eagles and tides
And the air conditioned cubicles
And the carbon ribbon rides
Are spelling it out so clear
Either he's going to have to stand and fight
Or take off out of here
I tried to run away myself
To run away and wrestle with my ego
And with this flame
You put here in this Eskimo
In this hitcher
In this prisoner
Of the fine white lines
Of the white lines on the free, free way

Piero Scaruffi's jazz pages are worth a glance.

ESP

I had to listen to some early Miles Davis this morning. By 1957 when Miles Davis started working with Gil Evans on an album called Miles Ahead for Columbia Records, he’d already had an amazing career working with some of the best artists in the business including Charlie Parker and Lester Young—the two men most responsible for shaping modern jazz and taking it places that Louis Armstrong never envisioned. The Miles Ahead sessions included an army of talent with Johnny Carisi, Bernie Glow, Taft Jordan, Louis Mucci, Ernie Royal, Miles Davis, Joe Bennett, Jimmy Cleveland, Frank Rehak, Tom Mitchell, Jim Buffington, Tony Miranda, Willie Ruff, Bill Barber, Edwin Caine, Sid Cooper, Romeo Penque, Danny Bank, Lee Konitz, Paul Chambers, Art Taylor, and of course Evans as arranger and conductor. All of this is old news, but I still like to think of this moment in the history of the music because Davis was set to embark on an excursion as important as the discovery of flight.

The Miles in the Sky sessions though are some of my favorites with Wayne Shorter (ts) Herbie Hancock (p), George Benson (el-g -3), Ron Carter (b), and Tony Williams (d) recorded at Columbia Studios in New York in 1968. I like this line-up even better than the John Coltrane mix, because Miles seems to be at his reflective best. It may be that Coltrane put him on the edge and Shorter, Hancock, Carter, and Williams allowed Miles to dig deeper into introspection because there isn’t the sense there that Davis may be overshadowed by the talent in his own band, which seemed to be the case when John Coltrane stepped up to the mic.

When I think of the Miles Davis records, tapes, and Cds I’ve owned over the years, like Kind of Blue, Bitches Brew, On the Corner, Birth of the Cool, ESP, Workin’, Sorcerer, Nefertiti, Miles in the Sky, In a Silent Way and others I’m still in awe of his output and ability to break with tradition and redefine the zeitgeist—-owning it entirely, and then throwing it back at the world and inventing new genres with such laconic gestures.

Later in his career Miles still cut groundbreaking tunes with the likes of Keith Jarrett, Herbie Hancock, John McLaughlin, and Chick Corea but it started to become obvious that R&B and rock music had cast a spell on Davis that affected his entire conception of the music. He became much more interested in jamming and much less interested in breaking new ground on a technical level. This later music sold records but didn’t satisfy many of the critics, who rightly saw that some of Davis’s new soupy concoctions were barely jazz. For whatever reason, Davis never really grasped the burgeoning free jazz phenomenon and dove straight into funk, which ironically downplayed his abilities and left a bad taste in the mouths of many listeners that lingers even still. Davis also became such a cultural icon and scenester that this aspect of his personality obscured some of his earlier musical achievements. When taken in its entirety though, it’s easy to see that the Miles Davis discography is an amazing EKG of the Twentieth Century.

Also, an interesting read: Charlie Haden on Mingus, Miles, and what jazz means.

Open Country

After Ornette Coleman played one of his first big gigs in New York, bop drummer Max Roach met him after the performance and punched him in the face. At least that’s how the story goes. Coleman made huge strides in jazz but with a price. Those with a long view of the history of jazz might notice that this story is somewhat similar to the anecdote involving Louis Armstrong and Dizzy Gillespie. Once when asked about the new music, bop, as it was just entering the public consciousness, Armstrong quipped that he didn’t have a lot of interest in “Chinese music.”

The album to me that defines the innovation made by Coleman more than many others is the Blue Note album “The Ornette Coleman Trio Live at the Golden Circle Stockholm” recorded the nights of December 3rd and 4th 1965 in the Gyllene Cirkeln club in Stockholm, Sweden. Moreso than albums like “Free Jazz” where Coleman “competes” with the sounds of so many other improvisers, with “Golden Circle” he’s really out on a limb almost entirely on his own. The experiment, as a trio, is sink or swim when the stakes are raised. Coleman’s Dizzy—Don Cherry—who often served as a creative foil for Coleman (although Cherry on pocket trumpet was a million-dollar improviser in his own right), is noticeably absent in this live session. Especially on the tune “Faces and Places” the listener is confronted with the sound of Coleman’s horn and the sound of a single cymbal keeping frenetic time and nothing else. Coleman shines through in this song and the intensity rises until he reaches a creative high water mark, then the storm passes and after restating the opening the song levels out and ends. That song single handedly illustrates more than many other avant numbers exactly why free jazz is so unlike the styles that preceded it. Simplicity and a certain minimalism allow the listener to focus on how Coleman still swings as he detonates the entire jazz pantheon with a shrug. Coleman, it should be mentioned, never stated that he held any animosity toward those who kept playing more trad jazz even throughout the 1960s, when so many innovators were taking over.

Some would immediately claim that Coleman does without harmonic structure (he mostly does without even the modal structures that the post-bop players found as their liberating force) because he simply couldn’t master the nuances of such music, so was forced to move into atonal territory. Somehow that argument is similar to an observer implying that Picasso didn’t paint like Rembrandt because he was unable to. Coleman and the more trad players are merely speaking two separate languages—equally valid. Coleman’s discoveries don’t necessarily refute the groundwork laid by Lester Young. Without the support of harmonic structure, the “Faces and Places” amazes by sheer rhythmic brilliance and force of will. Although Coleman does indulge in a chorus or two, beyond that it’s a no man’s land of wide-open country. This probably proved frightening to some listeners when they first heard it. More than just playing with the net down, Coleman plays world-class tennis with no net—and in zero gravity.


Have a look at this list of 100 Best Jazz Drummers. I'm a fan of lists like this. Is Chico Hamilton even there? That's not right. I think Ed Blackwell should definitely be in the top ten, too.

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

The music of the Beatles has been covered ad nauseam but the version of “Happiness Is a Warm Gun” played here by guitarist Marc Ribot is really worth a listen. Ribot somehow makes the listener forget that he or she is hearing a Beatles classic because of all the harmonic rivulets he discovers inside each phrase of the original.

Also, try to catch the new Albert Ayler film if you can. If the goal of being a musician is originality, Ayler did that better than most. Ayler’s music is symphonic noise and an acquired taste, sure. But you’ll never hear anything else like it.

Prez

Eric Dolphy was so outside he had a cot set up out there and probably a magazine rack, too. I’m listening to Eric Dolphy and Booker Little’s “Ode to Charlie Parker” and meditating on the line of tradition that exists with jazz music. In the other arts, appropriation is not always made with reverence or respect for those who came before.

One of the admirable qualities of jazz music and musicians is that homage is usually paid where it’s due, whether in the middle of a solo as a musical aside, via song titles, or else in its most malleable form—its spirit. Most jazz music is a continuation. My meaning doesn’t extend to mimicry, however. Copping someone else’s style in jazz is the cardinal sin. Musical asides in the midst of a solo can serve to acknowledge many things. Respect would be the first reason for a soloist to break into a few recognizable bars of someone else’s tune, but soloists also name-check other musicians in the middle of a solo for comic effect or as an inside joke. Sometimes a few bars of someone else’s solo inserted in a strategic way also provides a counterpoint to the ingenuity and skill being demonstrated. When a soloist like Dolphy was on the stand, however, he would rarely make an acknowledgment to another player within a song. He was far too original to spend even a moment walking in another man’s shoes.

Most callouts made by jazz soloists are the realm of the bluesy crowd-pleaser, though. Avant-gardists would find it outré. The free-flights of Dolphy, Ornette Coleman, John Coltrane, and Marion Brown wouldn’t have been possible without the likes of Lester Young and Coleman Hawkins.