Jazz is an Alembic That Converts
Suffering Into Art
Like much of the rest of the country, I have been riveted
to my TV for the better part of January watching Ken Burns' Jazz. I know I'm not
alone because everywhere I've gone people have been talking about it.
Certain types of jazz-lover seem to hold the series in
contempt. "It's not comprehensive enough," they wail. "Where's the free
jazz movement? Where's fusion? Why is everybody kowtowing to Wynton Marsalis and his
middle-of-the-road world view?" There's some truth to all of these complaints -- just
as there is to quibbles over the series' over-emphasis on the "great man"
explanation of the art-form.
But -- and this is a huge but, one that justifies a
wealth of sins, in my opinion -- I have found each episode fascinating, even when I've
been talking back to the screen the whole time. The fact is, Ken Burns had to choose some
position in order to tell any kind of story. Wynton Marsalis, as director of the
Lincoln Center's jazz programming, is probably the most visible and unassailable (from the
"culchur" perspective) spokesperson for the form today. He's also passionate,
which makes for good video, and articulate. That last point may actually work against him
-- for instance, his glib assertion in the first episode that he was imitating Buddy
Bolden's style is over the line; we have no record of what the famous trumpeter sounded
like, so Marsalis can only guess. In that same episode, however, Marsalis generated a
truly memorable moment for the series: For once, he was at a loss for words.
The issue was one so central to the development of jazz
that every history of the form has to confront it at some point. So do the form's
fans. The issue, of course, is race.
That first episode did a brilliant job of laying out the
cultural forces that created the unique New Orleans milieu that forged the music. After
discussing the impact of Buddy Bolden, Jazz stated that Victor offered him a
recording contract and that he hesitated, fearful that other musicians would then be able
to study -- and imitate -- his sound. So Victor offered a recording session to a white
band, Nick LaRocca's Original Dixieland Jazz Band -- a rhythmically stiff group with no
true sense of improvisation. That disc, "Livery Stable Blues," was a huge hit
and the band toured widely, recorded extensively, and set off a dance craze that never
flagged -- at least, until bebop came along. When black bands did get recording
contracts, and their records became widely distributed, it became obvious that the ODJB
was not playing the real thing. LaRocca, however, insisted he invented the new sound --
and worse, he insisted that its distinctive rhythms were also his and owed nothing to
black culture or musicians.
That's when Mr. Marsalis was rendered speechless. He
started a sentence with the word "Race . . . ," and it was followed by the
longest silence I've ever heard on a television show. The camera never strayed from his
face, and one could see a flock of emotions coursing across it. Race, even though
it’s the issue of the last century, was just too much to even contemplate.
He did complete the sentence, but he played it safe and
beat a retreat. But it's an issue that all of us jazz fans have to confront eventually.
Much of what is greatest about jazz is the direct result of the misery -- and usually,
culturally approved universally inflicted misery -- of an entire race of people.
Yes, it's inspiring that great art can come out of such pain, but as a white American, I
have to acknowledge some degree of responsibility for that oppression, even if I wasn't
born when it occurred. I don't get a pass simply because I'm perceptive enough to
appreciate jazz.
Forget "Strange Fruit;" I can't imagine there's a
thinking person alive who doesn't squirm just a little bit at the song's vivid imagery and
Billie Holiday's painfully beautiful singing. Listen to any Billie Holiday record
and what you hear is a soul that's taken slight after slight and, somehow, converted those
indignities into a shield. The sheer optimism of that maneuver is enough to bring tears to
your eyes -- despite everything she'd experienced that told her that her own society
rejected her at every turn, Billie Holiday made art out of her suffering.
And so did Charlie Parker, Duke Ellington, Johnny Hodges,
and Ben Webster -- and any number of others. Look at Miles Davis, who has been all but
canonized these days. He was a nice middle-class chap, son of a dentist, even. He spent
time in Paris and got used to being treated like a human being, which led to his downfall.
He returned to the States and, in the face of rejection and American society's wholesale
dismissal of black men, was on drugs within a year. Weak, some bluenoses might sniff, but
while Miles was many things, weak was never among them.
So what's the answer? I don't know -- one of the things I
like about jazz is that it reinvents itself constantly. I know there's still
institutionalized racism in the US, but the new generation of jazz musicians really does
seem color-blind.
I try to be, too. We're all against racism -- I'd
like to say I've never heard anyone defend it, but I'm from the South and that's just not
true. I've heard defenses of it all my life. "They like their own kind" -- a
polite version of one popular saw -- is an argument that kept white neighborhoods white
and black neighborhoods poor throughout the country. You can probably think of hundreds of
reasonable-sounding "explanations" that are, in reality, simply mealy-mouthed
excuses for wholesale prejudice. And let's not forget that ethnic jokes are an
ever-flourishing form of bigotry and oppression.
But music can be a powerful force for change. When I was in
high school, I had band class with a couple of kids that came from a part of town noted
for its virulent racism -- and they seemed all too willing to accept their fathers' views
on the inferiority of non-whites, which frequently led to tense exchanges between them and
black band members. The thing was, they were both totally besotted with soul music. Their
heroes were James Brown, Maceo Parker, Junior Walker and King Curtis. One day the two were
mouthing-off to James, a black sax player, when one of them used the n word. James
laughed -- he'd known too many ignorant racists to waste any heat on those two clowns.
"Let me ask you something I've always wanted to know," he said to Gary, a
drummer who had painstakingly inscribed "Famous Flames" on his book bag.
"Is James Brown a nigger?"
Gary stood there in shock, and after a long pause, he said,
"No, he isn't."
"Neither am I," said James.
If this were fiction, I'd report that Gary changed from
that day on. I was just impressed that he actually thought about the question and was
honest enough to say no. Maybe he did change -- I lost track of him. Maybe he overcame his
upbringing. And maybe I can overcome mine.
That's my answer to jazz's challenge. Maybe it's not
much -- it's surely not enough. But I hope it counts for something.
Paying something back
I received an e-mail from producer Joe Harley last Sunday.
He forwarded a letter from Charles Lloyd and Dorothy Darr on behalf of jazz drummer Billy
Higgins. Higgins, one of the most recorded jazz figures ever (over 700 albums to his
credit), is ill. Five years ago, he had a liver transplant and the new liver is now
failing. He needs another transplant. He's hasn't been able to work, and has been in and
out of the hospital since last October. That, of course, has made him unable to earn a
living. After a final examination scheduled for February 5th, he may be found eligible for
the transplant waiting list.
Lloyd and Darr have set up a fund, which they will
administer, to help with Higgins' medical and practical expenses. I'll be sending a small
donation, and I urge you to do so too.
Higgins was on the first Ornette Coleman album I bought. I
picked up Something Else, not because I had any idea what it was, but because I
recognized Coleman's name from Frank Zappa's list of people who had influenced him
(printed inside the gatefold sleeve for Freak Out!). Higgins' lithe, swinging
drumming was about the only thing on the record that made any sense to me at first. It
took repeated listenings to decipher what Coleman was doing -- it was a totally new
language. But I eventually internalized it and went looking for more. Albums like Free
Jazz -- another record with superb Billy Higgins drumming -- were more intoxicating
than a case of Chateau Paulliac.
For that, and for countless other recordings over the
years, I owe Billy Higgins a debt I can never truly repay. I'm not rich, but I can
certainly do without a few new CDs or a hardcover book if that money can help a man who
has brought me so much joy over the years.
You could say that the government ought to pay for it --
or, which is the same thing differently stated, that we ought to have a healthcare system
in place where everyone received the help they needed. I'd agree with you. But we don't
have such a system.
So, if you consider $15 for a CD -- or $25 for an SACD -- a
high price, take a minute to think about a man who's truly paying a high price for his
decades of touring the country, forced to ply his art in bars and dives. That probably
won't make you feel any better -- but sending a check might.
...Wes Phillips
wes@onhifi.com
Send all donations (made out to Billy Higgins) to:
Forest Farm Music + Art
PO Box 5816
Santa Barbara, CA 93150
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