Not generally familiar with theatre and theatrical productions, I must confess, nonetheless, that I saw a wonderful play tonight that made me contemplate both (1) the muckety-muck of the world as it is and has been, or perhaps, the world as a has-been; and, (2) more importantly from a personal perspective and, quite frankly, more strangely, some of the wonderful reasons why I love jazz music. The play, GroundUp Theatre’s interpretation of “A Murder of Crows”, certainly does not explicitly deal with the complexities and mannerisms of the greatest music the world has seen and heard. Indeed, it is not a piece about jazz in any shape or form. But let us contemplate for a moment the questions in particular as they were theatrically-raised by “Murder”: to begin, how does one raise serious issues via the inclusion of humor and subversion and sans the obvious need to proselytize (true art, of course, follows the peculiar why’s and wherefores of its own muse). In addition: how generous, malleable and elastic is the narrative form without itself rupturing into the bottomless abyss of the avant-‘tard, the strange point of no return where meaning is lost and sympathy, empathy and the very idea of relating to others in a humane way is thrown under the bus and then, for good measure, shipwrecked on the murky rocks of narcissism and cynicism? Finally: at what point does the interpretation of performance border the contours of improvisation, even when it is itself grounded by the well-heeled parameters of scripted storyline and thought-out and planned dialogue? The nexus between these two seemingly disparate and contradictory formats? Why, the smiles of satisfaction that consequently follow when one encounters the sounds and sights of surprise, particularly when such surprises are cloaked in humorous absurdity!
“A Murder of Crows” is most certainly eloquently and creatively presented by GroundUp Theatre Company. Poignant and thoughtful in the breadth and scope of its exposition and presentation, but eschewing the obviousness of a sledgehammer while remaining proudly “in your face”, GroundUp’s efforts collectively and director Don Johnson’s overall individual vision do a great job in bringing flowing coherence and logic to a storyline that is itself more “high wire act” than the conventional recipe of plotline and characterization. Indeed, in its own way and on its own terms, “Murder” raises a surreal mirror up to contemporary American society, akin to a modern day Jonathan Swift modestly proposing, so-to-speak.
And how does it subvert form and narrative while, nonetheless, coherently and valiantly telling a worthwhile and needed story? For some strange reason, a specific era Miles comes to mind as a tenuous and provisional analogy. More precisely, this play made me think of Miles Davis’ second great quintet, (the one with Wayne Shorter, Tony Williams, Herbie Hancock and Ron Carter), the mid-sixties outfit that attempted to respond to the avant-garde/ free jazz oracles of that day by retaining form, harmony, rhythm and pulse while abandoning the formulaic straightjackets of the Great American Songbook, and its constituent AABA and 12 bar coattails.
Perhaps this analogy is overstated. Nonetheless, “Murder” remains a wonderful, thought-provoking and creatively executed endeavor. Will it find an audience? I most certainly hope so. But given the times we are living in that the play itself so eloquently critiques, who can really say? On a related subject, what is the proper motivation for someone who is artistically-inclined to tangibly follow through with such inclinations?
The final word on this final subject belongs to the greatest living musician of our time and one of the greatest of all time, Mr. Sonny Rollins, who answered thusly to aspiring jazz musicians attempting to find an audience, if not having the outright audacity to make a living from the elusive qualities of their art. Perhaps his sage advice goes without saying for those who attempt to do art, literature, and theatre worthy of merit and motivated by its own needs and serving its own ends.
“Well, to conclude, what advice or guidance do you have for aspiring young jazz musicians?"
SR: What you have to confront if you’re a young gifted musician is what some people call the “real world.” But your music, which is the real real world, that comes first. The world of making a living, putting bread on the table, you meet a girl and get married, support a family. But music takes a lot of time and dedication. You run up against the so-called “real world,” so that’s a big wall between your aspirations and what you are actually able to accomplish. If you love music and think you have some aptitude, then I would just say, “Do it to the greatest level you can, feel privileged that you have that gift, and as for the rest, who can say?”
Being a musician and raising a family are often two antithetical things. But as far as the music, if you have the aptitude, the talent, and you love it, consider yourself blessed that you have that understanding and love of music in this life. That in itself is a great blessing. But as far as earning a living, there’s not much one can say. We live in a world that’s all about making money and having things—big cars, big homes—and you’re running into a conflict. But if you love music, there’s nothing like it. If you’re gifted and you can play it, I wish you well, and just continue doing it. But don’t expect anything, because in the world in which we live, people who are artists, painters, musicians, writers, we can’t expect anything in this world. The way the world is set up, it’s not for us. But it’s not a negative thing. It’s still a wonderful thing anyway. (emphasis original)
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Joe Zawinul: 1932-2007
The composer, pianist, arranger and all-around musical visionary Joe Zawinul passed away today in his native Vienna from an apparently rare form of skin cancer. Arriving as an immigrant to these shores in 1959, Joe immediately hooked up with Cannonball and Nat Adderley, proceeding to stay with them as pianist, composer and, ultimately, "musical director" for the next eleven years.
Towards the end of this time period, he also collaborated with Miles; whereas tthe brooding trumpeter par excellance and all-around Prince of Darkness served as the face of the "fusion" movement, Joe initially saw his role underneath the musical surface. Indeed, as the composer of the beautiful "in a Silent Way", Joe deserves more credit than he has always failed to recieve for his innovactions (in point of fact, some of the early fusion records are actually quite worthwhile and emminately tuneful: to name just a few: Herbie Hancock's initial "Fat Albert" offerings; Tony Williams seminal group "Lifetime"; John McLaughlin's initial forrays with his Mahavishnu Orchestra, particularly the initial "The Inner Mounting Flame")
Joining up with Wayne Shoter and Miroslav Vitous, Joe formed the fusion outfit "Weather Report", which he and Shoter kept afloat for better or for worse, for the next 15 years. Along the way, personnel came and went, including the mercurial Jaco Pastorious, and, truth be told, Weather Report, along with the genre in which it was contextualized, became more and more commercialized and consequently less and less interesting. Indeed, the increasing lack of quality of "fusion" in general gave rise to "new" musical quantities--to wit, the twin horrors of "instrumental pop" and "smooth jazz".
This history should not in any shape and form take away from the fact that the early fusion records were often quite compelling and adventous affairs. And musicans such as Joe Zawinul should be given due credit for being what they were: pioneers.
I think I'll listen to the entirety of "In a Silent Way" and perhaps some "Mercy Mercy Mercy" tonight. Joe Zawinul deserves nothing less, to be sure, then to be remembered for such invigorativve and innovative music.
Towards the end of this time period, he also collaborated with Miles; whereas tthe brooding trumpeter par excellance and all-around Prince of Darkness served as the face of the "fusion" movement, Joe initially saw his role underneath the musical surface. Indeed, as the composer of the beautiful "in a Silent Way", Joe deserves more credit than he has always failed to recieve for his innovactions (in point of fact, some of the early fusion records are actually quite worthwhile and emminately tuneful: to name just a few: Herbie Hancock's initial "Fat Albert" offerings; Tony Williams seminal group "Lifetime"; John McLaughlin's initial forrays with his Mahavishnu Orchestra, particularly the initial "The Inner Mounting Flame")
Joining up with Wayne Shoter and Miroslav Vitous, Joe formed the fusion outfit "Weather Report", which he and Shoter kept afloat for better or for worse, for the next 15 years. Along the way, personnel came and went, including the mercurial Jaco Pastorious, and, truth be told, Weather Report, along with the genre in which it was contextualized, became more and more commercialized and consequently less and less interesting. Indeed, the increasing lack of quality of "fusion" in general gave rise to "new" musical quantities--to wit, the twin horrors of "instrumental pop" and "smooth jazz".
This history should not in any shape and form take away from the fact that the early fusion records were often quite compelling and adventous affairs. And musicans such as Joe Zawinul should be given due credit for being what they were: pioneers.
I think I'll listen to the entirety of "In a Silent Way" and perhaps some "Mercy Mercy Mercy" tonight. Joe Zawinul deserves nothing less, to be sure, then to be remembered for such invigorativve and innovative music.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Comments From the British Peanut Gallery: Men Are Universal
Some blurbs and shoutouts from various online commentators of the 7th and deciding cricket match in the ODI series between England and India, on the same day England is also playing Israel in an important Euro 2008 qualifier and England is also beginning its defense of the Rugby World Cup championship by playing its innagrial match in the 2007 Rugby Union World Cup against those minnows from across the pond, the USA.
"I've got my TV from the bedroom down to the lounge next to my other TV ready for the footy and rugby ko at 5, laptop at the ready for the cricket. You might think I'm all sorted but after a potentially great day for English sport I want to go out and celebrate with the lads, and ideas how I can get rid of the missus for the evening?"
Named withheld to protect the poor bloke from a pasting from his missus
"Be interesting to see the birth-rate statistics for nine months time should England manage to win the cricket, rugby and football all in one day..."
Andrew, Khartoum
"My wife's gone out for the afternoon and left me at home with our eight-week old daughter with strict instructions to feed her at 5, then bath her at 6. Do I have reasonable grounds for divorce?
Jim, Birmingham
"Given that 90% of British males will be relegated by the missus to the spare room or the sofa tonight, I expect the global population will experience a much need downward trend in nine months time. However the ozone layer may be terminally injured by noxious emissions from both ends of aforementioned British males later on, it's a double-edged ecological conundrum."
Terry, Cardiff
..........
Results?
Joker....Joker....aaand it's a triple for the pot-pie and french fry munchers! Time for them to, ahem, get the beers in.
Cricket: England 188-3 India 187 all out (47.3 overs): England win match by 7 wickets--England win ODI series 4-3.
Association Football: England 3 Israel 0
Rugby Football: England 28 USA 10
"I've got my TV from the bedroom down to the lounge next to my other TV ready for the footy and rugby ko at 5, laptop at the ready for the cricket. You might think I'm all sorted but after a potentially great day for English sport I want to go out and celebrate with the lads, and ideas how I can get rid of the missus for the evening?"
Named withheld to protect the poor bloke from a pasting from his missus
"Be interesting to see the birth-rate statistics for nine months time should England manage to win the cricket, rugby and football all in one day..."
Andrew, Khartoum
"My wife's gone out for the afternoon and left me at home with our eight-week old daughter with strict instructions to feed her at 5, then bath her at 6. Do I have reasonable grounds for divorce?
Jim, Birmingham
"Given that 90% of British males will be relegated by the missus to the spare room or the sofa tonight, I expect the global population will experience a much need downward trend in nine months time. However the ozone layer may be terminally injured by noxious emissions from both ends of aforementioned British males later on, it's a double-edged ecological conundrum."
Terry, Cardiff
..........
Results?
Joker....Joker....aaand it's a triple for the pot-pie and french fry munchers! Time for them to, ahem, get the beers in.
Cricket: England 188-3 India 187 all out (47.3 overs): England win match by 7 wickets--England win ODI series 4-3.
Association Football: England 3 Israel 0
Rugby Football: England 28 USA 10
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Maria Schnieder's New Big Band Record: some Initial Overall Thoughts and Reactions
Maria Schneider seems to do the impossible, at least as the 21st century is concerned--she's continually lead, maintained and recorded several outstanding albums with big band, an actual large scale jazz orchestra. Who knew this was possible in this day and age??
"Sky Blue", her new 2007 offering, seems to be the strongest effort yet: at once lush, impressively scored and voiced, buoyant and substantive, sufficiently satiated with, if not an in-the-pocket Basie-like groove, then at least rythmically perculating in her own way. And, less we forget, enough room for the soloists, which in the spirit of Ellington, Maria seems to base the compositions on the actual merits and strengths of her musicians.
In short, it's her prettiest and most intriguing record to date.
In the Gil Evans tradition, she's awlays walked a tight-rope, musically. Schooled in the European classical music raison-d'etre as well as the jazz traditons, her musical choices have veered towards the gently-swaying, pastel colored hues typical of pastorally-inclined music. And yet, possessing suffient weight and substance such that the note choice combinations do not float meagerly, aimlessly, listlessly and, ultimately, ineffectually into the ether, never to be seen or heard from again, like many an ECM record.
Perhaps she is the modern personification of what Gunther Schuller, John Lewis and the rest were getting at when they originated the "Third Stream" all those decades ago....
"Sky Blue", her new 2007 offering, seems to be the strongest effort yet: at once lush, impressively scored and voiced, buoyant and substantive, sufficiently satiated with, if not an in-the-pocket Basie-like groove, then at least rythmically perculating in her own way. And, less we forget, enough room for the soloists, which in the spirit of Ellington, Maria seems to base the compositions on the actual merits and strengths of her musicians.
In short, it's her prettiest and most intriguing record to date.
In the Gil Evans tradition, she's awlays walked a tight-rope, musically. Schooled in the European classical music raison-d'etre as well as the jazz traditons, her musical choices have veered towards the gently-swaying, pastel colored hues typical of pastorally-inclined music. And yet, possessing suffient weight and substance such that the note choice combinations do not float meagerly, aimlessly, listlessly and, ultimately, ineffectually into the ether, never to be seen or heard from again, like many an ECM record.
Perhaps she is the modern personification of what Gunther Schuller, John Lewis and the rest were getting at when they originated the "Third Stream" all those decades ago....
Monday, August 20, 2007
The Holiday Blues: Remembering the Bird
The Holiday Blues: Remembering the Bird
Category: Music
Charlie Parker, had he not been eternally frozen in time as a perpetually young man who looked 30 years his senior, would be 86, if he didnot succumb to his various vices, five plus decades ago. 86. Eight-ee-six!! Imagine the sheer magnitude of music he would have composed, played, and improvised in the last 51 years. Would he have gone in the same "reproduce the already innovated and maintain the traditon so far" dirction as Diz?? Gone Off the deep end, say sayonara forever to the ether and musically hurled himself face first into the cosmos, a la Trane? Cynically discover L.Ron Hubbard's side bet at a sci fi convention and consequently make the "artistic" decisons to subserviently accompany a Fender Rhodes, fuzz guitar, Marshall stacks, and a minimoog, all within the constraints of a basketball stadia, amidst scantily clad groupies eagerly awaiting backstage access?
In all seriousness: could such a "artistic" direction such as the final option be even remotely possible for someone who, despite acquainted with the aforementioned personal tragedies of life, nonetheless was on a first name basis with the essense of the bookended twins of beauty and joy; a musican without and beyond comparison who once said "first you master your instrument; then you master the music; finally, you forget the 1st two steps and just play"--to what extent would he need to modify this equation?? Indeed, he would have to forego the first two steps en masse and at once, forcibly sever and decapicate them piece by piece, limb by limb, and dehardwire them from his soul. Where would that leave him? Then the Bird would not have been the Bird. Rather, he would become directly comparable and easily categorizable, able to readily make do in the vast barren wilderness of commerce, product and commodities.
What indeed wold the Bird make of these days, as 2006 gives way???
Category: Music
Charlie Parker, had he not been eternally frozen in time as a perpetually young man who looked 30 years his senior, would be 86, if he didnot succumb to his various vices, five plus decades ago. 86. Eight-ee-six!! Imagine the sheer magnitude of music he would have composed, played, and improvised in the last 51 years. Would he have gone in the same "reproduce the already innovated and maintain the traditon so far" dirction as Diz?? Gone Off the deep end, say sayonara forever to the ether and musically hurled himself face first into the cosmos, a la Trane? Cynically discover L.Ron Hubbard's side bet at a sci fi convention and consequently make the "artistic" decisons to subserviently accompany a Fender Rhodes, fuzz guitar, Marshall stacks, and a minimoog, all within the constraints of a basketball stadia, amidst scantily clad groupies eagerly awaiting backstage access?
In all seriousness: could such a "artistic" direction such as the final option be even remotely possible for someone who, despite acquainted with the aforementioned personal tragedies of life, nonetheless was on a first name basis with the essense of the bookended twins of beauty and joy; a musican without and beyond comparison who once said "first you master your instrument; then you master the music; finally, you forget the 1st two steps and just play"--to what extent would he need to modify this equation?? Indeed, he would have to forego the first two steps en masse and at once, forcibly sever and decapicate them piece by piece, limb by limb, and dehardwire them from his soul. Where would that leave him? Then the Bird would not have been the Bird. Rather, he would become directly comparable and easily categorizable, able to readily make do in the vast barren wilderness of commerce, product and commodities.
What indeed wold the Bird make of these days, as 2006 gives way???
Remembering: Forever Trane
John Coltrane, the gentle, reserved, rarified and dignified, soul with the fiery angry tone. The emminance and grace, the power and the glory. Sounds, sheets and all, gutteral, bluesy, flowing, mystified, some played at beyond breakneck speed but yet still coherent and compelling. And how can we think of Trane without Elvin??? The Sound encouters its Fury, completing the whole, so to speak.
Trane could play every which way, fast and loose. And majestically and regally. Note, for example, "Naima" and "Alabama". In stark contrast, "Chasin the Trane", which pleads, wails, screams, sears simmers, gesticulates, full of fire and brimstone. And "Out of This World", a renditon worthy of the very cosmos, themselves!!! "You're clear out of this world, when I'm looking at you..." No smokey Chris Connor iteration, this, me thinks. Neither the Mulligan Concert Band's sinewy, polyphonic stew, either. No, Trane's "Out of this World" is indeed just that.
I was thinking thusly the other day: what if "Blue Trane" was not an anomaly?? What if Trane had indeed signed with Blue Note and not Prestige? At first glance: we would, of course, be robbed of the Prestige sides, and what a terrible loss that! But, in the alternative: Trane plying his trade for the best label in the business, with Messers. Wolf and Lion, two of the few Record Company Big Wigs who actually treated their musicians as actual human beings? Trane working with Horace Silver, Hank Mobley, Lou Donaldson, Billy Higgins, Lee Morgan?? Not just in blowing session after blowing session?
What a wonderment of riches we have from someone who died so young!!! The Prestiges, the Atlantics, the Impulses. And the beauty, fire in the belly, flowing consequently therefrom.
Unfortunately, I find myself having less and less use for the post "Ascension" period. But what a strange, apolyptic momment, though, "Live in Seattle '66" generated ten years ago, the CD blaring in my car during an all-night road trip through the heart of Nebraska in the midst of a driving, thunderous rain storm!
Where would Trane have ventured if his health had not fatally failed him?? Where could one go after stepping one foot into the abyss, mind still on fire, alight with imagination and the sense of experimentation??
Trane could play every which way, fast and loose. And majestically and regally. Note, for example, "Naima" and "Alabama". In stark contrast, "Chasin the Trane", which pleads, wails, screams, sears simmers, gesticulates, full of fire and brimstone. And "Out of This World", a renditon worthy of the very cosmos, themselves!!! "You're clear out of this world, when I'm looking at you..." No smokey Chris Connor iteration, this, me thinks. Neither the Mulligan Concert Band's sinewy, polyphonic stew, either. No, Trane's "Out of this World" is indeed just that.
I was thinking thusly the other day: what if "Blue Trane" was not an anomaly?? What if Trane had indeed signed with Blue Note and not Prestige? At first glance: we would, of course, be robbed of the Prestige sides, and what a terrible loss that! But, in the alternative: Trane plying his trade for the best label in the business, with Messers. Wolf and Lion, two of the few Record Company Big Wigs who actually treated their musicians as actual human beings? Trane working with Horace Silver, Hank Mobley, Lou Donaldson, Billy Higgins, Lee Morgan?? Not just in blowing session after blowing session?
What a wonderment of riches we have from someone who died so young!!! The Prestiges, the Atlantics, the Impulses. And the beauty, fire in the belly, flowing consequently therefrom.
Unfortunately, I find myself having less and less use for the post "Ascension" period. But what a strange, apolyptic momment, though, "Live in Seattle '66" generated ten years ago, the CD blaring in my car during an all-night road trip through the heart of Nebraska in the midst of a driving, thunderous rain storm!
Where would Trane have ventured if his health had not fatally failed him?? Where could one go after stepping one foot into the abyss, mind still on fire, alight with imagination and the sense of experimentation??
Jazz: Remembering Whitney Balliett (1926-2007)
Remembering Whitney Balliett (1926-2007)
Category: Music
An item in the news (buried way outside of the print
edition, somewhere on the margins of the online page,
requiring multiple clicks into four or five subpages,
i.e., completely irrelevant to 99.9999999998% of the
population) gave me meaningful pause for thought this
weekend. And, upon mediating on these thoughts, I've
worked out the following, hopefully, consequential
words on an important journalist and writer (well, at
least to those scant 0.00000000002% or so of us) who
is no more:
Whitney Balliett, the long time jazz and music writer
for the New Yorker magazine, died last week from
cancer in the city he was born, lived and gave his
lifelong fidelity to, and which, of course, provided a
proper name to his aforementioned journal. Over four
of his eight decades in which breath found his person,
this sin qua non of life in general also, in passing,
encountered Mr. Balliett regularly scribing away as a
music critic, albeit, I think, a humble and,
comparatively speaking, unpretentious one, in the
same manner and spirit as Nat Hentoff, who continues
to soldier on in a number of publications, principally
at the Village Voice. In that respect, he was one
member of a generally contemptible lot (i.e., those
who manage to evade rain delays by taking shelter
under the large "art/culture critic" tent) who was
actually worthy of respect. As he once wrote, ""Music
is transparent and bodiless and evanescent". What
could be simpler than that?? And, of course, springing
forth from such a simple and essential foundation are
the more profound concepts of beauty and sensuality,
two twin pillars of much of great art. Yet, as
always, bets remained hedged, as words are very
difficult, ineffectual, and rather clumsily fitted and
possibly misaligned when utilized to convey fully and
in a meaningful way the manifold and substantive
feelings associated with such rarified formal
qualities.
His collected New Yorker articles, attempting to untie
this quirky and seemingly irreconcilable Gordian knot
and given new life in a hardbound incarnation, have
been lying on my bedroom window sill for a couple of
months now; and I've been slowly been taking in his
various vignettes of a time when Giants Roamed the
Earth. I've particularly enjoyed his annual reports
back from Newport, the once great, legendary music
festival that, at one time, even provided Duke
Ellington's popularity a second wind that fateful,
breezy day in the summer of '56, fueled by nothing
else than Paul Gonsalves' magically taken and
improvised 28 choruses, aptly assisted by Sam
Woodyard's uncompromising and relentless swing onstage
behind the drum kit and fellow drummer Joe Jones
laying down the pulse and remaining faithfully "in the
pocket" in spirit off stage via the limited and meager
resources of a rolled up "Christian Science Monitor";
and amidst the delirious thousands in the audience,
a solitary audient: the bleach blond faux paux
Marilyn Monroe looking but to this day identity
unknown except to her family and friends (and possibly
departed--we are, as always, on the clock, and this
summer will encompass the 50th anniversary of this
event) dancing uncontrollably for all to see and take
note, giving shape and form to her (still years away
to be given the formal name by an otherwise useless,
contrived hack from Pittsburgh) "15 Minutes".
Being an honest writer, it was not difficult to sense
a bit of cynicism in Mr. Balliett's prose from Newport
at the end of the festival's creative life cycle, when
those rather difficult, intangible qualities such as
"art", "beauty" and "sensuality" proved to be far too
elusive to remain sustainable and, over time, feeling
the sand underneath their feet, gave way and found
themselves eclipsed. In their places followed the all
too familiar everyday $ignposts, the three-way
intersection of Commerce, Product, and Acid Rock.
Alas, Newport was never the same, and entered its
corporate, "jazz in name only phase", where "cool
jazz" was nominally played under the auspices of the
"Kool Jazz Festival", with all applicable signage no
doubt sublimely physically approximating a green
colored pack of cigarettes.
In this respect, I'm a fish out of water: of course,
the best road is always forward and lying off in the
distance, ready to reveal its contours and twists and
turns upon closer inspection to those who seek its
winding pathways. And yet, I think to myself on many
an occasion: what would it have been like to have been
alive and able to walk the walk on 52nd street all
those decades ago, scampering down Uptown and
sashaying up Downtown, when the great ones were
sporting confident, cocky looks, fedoras were neatly
aligned, sharp, classy suits were on the order of the
day; and all the while, artists were playing an
earthy, grounded music that began to take shape and
form(and continues to do so in small, out-of-the-way,
relatively unknown corners today, well away from the
main stage and light years and many stellar
constellations removed from the bright lights and red
carpets of MTV awards, bling and general concepts of ,
ahem, "show business") respectfully, slowly but
surely, individually yet collectively, instinctually
but nonetheless consciously and with purpose , and;
ultimately, in the course of its development, it
aspires to evade the gravitational impulses of
everyday life, and, in the wake of conventionality,
take flight and soar. Its ambition: why, the very
heavens themselves, no doubt.
In downplaying the role of people like him in that
peculiar Groucho Marx sort of way ("I would never want
to be a member of a club that would have me as a
member" the Marxist one took note), Mr. Balliet
simultaneously served to extend the grandeur of the
music he helped to humbly publicize and ultimately
serve: "It's a compliment to jazz that nine-tenths of
the voluminous writing about it is bad, for the best
forms often attract the most unbalanced admiration. At
the same time, it is remarkable that so fragile a
music has withstood such truckloads of enthusiasm.
Jazz, after all, is a highly personal, lightweight
form — like poetry, it is an art of surprise — that,
shaken down, amounts to the blues, some unique vocal
and instrumental sounds, and the limited, elusive
genius of improvisation." Of course, upon reading
this eloquent line of thinking, I should perhaps, if I
were more prudent, revise my crappy, ill-advised
"Icarus-inspsired" hyperbole in the prior paragraph.
Ah, what the hell: imperfections are, like everything
else, part of the learning process.
Category: Music
An item in the news (buried way outside of the print
edition, somewhere on the margins of the online page,
requiring multiple clicks into four or five subpages,
i.e., completely irrelevant to 99.9999999998% of the
population) gave me meaningful pause for thought this
weekend. And, upon mediating on these thoughts, I've
worked out the following, hopefully, consequential
words on an important journalist and writer (well, at
least to those scant 0.00000000002% or so of us) who
is no more:
Whitney Balliett, the long time jazz and music writer
for the New Yorker magazine, died last week from
cancer in the city he was born, lived and gave his
lifelong fidelity to, and which, of course, provided a
proper name to his aforementioned journal. Over four
of his eight decades in which breath found his person,
this sin qua non of life in general also, in passing,
encountered Mr. Balliett regularly scribing away as a
music critic, albeit, I think, a humble and,
comparatively speaking, unpretentious one, in the
same manner and spirit as Nat Hentoff, who continues
to soldier on in a number of publications, principally
at the Village Voice. In that respect, he was one
member of a generally contemptible lot (i.e., those
who manage to evade rain delays by taking shelter
under the large "art/culture critic" tent) who was
actually worthy of respect. As he once wrote, ""Music
is transparent and bodiless and evanescent". What
could be simpler than that?? And, of course, springing
forth from such a simple and essential foundation are
the more profound concepts of beauty and sensuality,
two twin pillars of much of great art. Yet, as
always, bets remained hedged, as words are very
difficult, ineffectual, and rather clumsily fitted and
possibly misaligned when utilized to convey fully and
in a meaningful way the manifold and substantive
feelings associated with such rarified formal
qualities.
His collected New Yorker articles, attempting to untie
this quirky and seemingly irreconcilable Gordian knot
and given new life in a hardbound incarnation, have
been lying on my bedroom window sill for a couple of
months now; and I've been slowly been taking in his
various vignettes of a time when Giants Roamed the
Earth. I've particularly enjoyed his annual reports
back from Newport, the once great, legendary music
festival that, at one time, even provided Duke
Ellington's popularity a second wind that fateful,
breezy day in the summer of '56, fueled by nothing
else than Paul Gonsalves' magically taken and
improvised 28 choruses, aptly assisted by Sam
Woodyard's uncompromising and relentless swing onstage
behind the drum kit and fellow drummer Joe Jones
laying down the pulse and remaining faithfully "in the
pocket" in spirit off stage via the limited and meager
resources of a rolled up "Christian Science Monitor";
and amidst the delirious thousands in the audience,
a solitary audient: the bleach blond faux paux
Marilyn Monroe looking but to this day identity
unknown except to her family and friends (and possibly
departed--we are, as always, on the clock, and this
summer will encompass the 50th anniversary of this
event) dancing uncontrollably for all to see and take
note, giving shape and form to her (still years away
to be given the formal name by an otherwise useless,
contrived hack from Pittsburgh) "15 Minutes".
Being an honest writer, it was not difficult to sense
a bit of cynicism in Mr. Balliett's prose from Newport
at the end of the festival's creative life cycle, when
those rather difficult, intangible qualities such as
"art", "beauty" and "sensuality" proved to be far too
elusive to remain sustainable and, over time, feeling
the sand underneath their feet, gave way and found
themselves eclipsed. In their places followed the all
too familiar everyday $ignposts, the three-way
intersection of Commerce, Product, and Acid Rock.
Alas, Newport was never the same, and entered its
corporate, "jazz in name only phase", where "cool
jazz" was nominally played under the auspices of the
"Kool Jazz Festival", with all applicable signage no
doubt sublimely physically approximating a green
colored pack of cigarettes.
In this respect, I'm a fish out of water: of course,
the best road is always forward and lying off in the
distance, ready to reveal its contours and twists and
turns upon closer inspection to those who seek its
winding pathways. And yet, I think to myself on many
an occasion: what would it have been like to have been
alive and able to walk the walk on 52nd street all
those decades ago, scampering down Uptown and
sashaying up Downtown, when the great ones were
sporting confident, cocky looks, fedoras were neatly
aligned, sharp, classy suits were on the order of the
day; and all the while, artists were playing an
earthy, grounded music that began to take shape and
form(and continues to do so in small, out-of-the-way,
relatively unknown corners today, well away from the
main stage and light years and many stellar
constellations removed from the bright lights and red
carpets of MTV awards, bling and general concepts of ,
ahem, "show business") respectfully, slowly but
surely, individually yet collectively, instinctually
but nonetheless consciously and with purpose , and;
ultimately, in the course of its development, it
aspires to evade the gravitational impulses of
everyday life, and, in the wake of conventionality,
take flight and soar. Its ambition: why, the very
heavens themselves, no doubt.
In downplaying the role of people like him in that
peculiar Groucho Marx sort of way ("I would never want
to be a member of a club that would have me as a
member" the Marxist one took note), Mr. Balliet
simultaneously served to extend the grandeur of the
music he helped to humbly publicize and ultimately
serve: "It's a compliment to jazz that nine-tenths of
the voluminous writing about it is bad, for the best
forms often attract the most unbalanced admiration. At
the same time, it is remarkable that so fragile a
music has withstood such truckloads of enthusiasm.
Jazz, after all, is a highly personal, lightweight
form — like poetry, it is an art of surprise — that,
shaken down, amounts to the blues, some unique vocal
and instrumental sounds, and the limited, elusive
genius of improvisation." Of course, upon reading
this eloquent line of thinking, I should perhaps, if I
were more prudent, revise my crappy, ill-advised
"Icarus-inspsired" hyperbole in the prior paragraph.
Ah, what the hell: imperfections are, like everything
else, part of the learning process.
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