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Beauty is a Rare Thing: Celebrating International Jazz Day (Revisited)

May 6, 2013 By Leave a Comment

All hope is not lost. At least enough people are still making –and listening to– jazz that we can even attempt to initiate what hopefully becomes an ongoing occasion.

In a piece celebrating one of my heroes, Eric Dolphy, I made an honest attempt to address what jazz music means to me and why I consider it an obligation to share this passion (full piece here):

I know that jazz music has made my life approximately a million times more satisfying and enriching than it would have been had I never been fortunate enough to discover, study and savor it.

During the last 4-5 years, I’ve had (or taken) the opportunity to write in some detail about, to name a relative handful, Freddie Hubbard, Wayne Shorter, McCoy Tyner, John Zorn, Henry Threadgill and Herbie Hancock. This has been important to me, because I feel that in some small way, if I can help other people better appreciate, or discover any (or all) of these artists, I will be sharing something bigger and better than anything I alone am capable of creating.

Before this blog (and PopMatters, where virtually all of my music writing appears), and during the decade or so that stretched from my mid-’20s to mid-’30s, I used to have more of an evangelical vibe. It’s not necessarily that I’m less invested, now, then I was then; quite the contrary. But, if I wasn’t particuarly interested in converting people then (I wasn’t), I’m even less so today. When it comes to art in general and music in particular, entirely too many people are very American in their tastes: they know what they like and they like what they know. And there’s nothing wrong with that, since what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Also, let’s face it, the only thing possibly more annoying than some yahoo proselytizing their religion on your doorstep is some jackass getting in your grill about how evolved or enviable his or her musical tastes happen to be. Life is way too short, for all involved.

I have, in short, done my best to provide context and articulate why some of us continue to worship at this altar of organic American music. Naturally that discussion has included Miles, Mingus, Monk. And of course, Coltrane. With any honest discussion of jazz we can quickly get dragged into an abyss of snobbishness (however unintentional), trivial footnoting and the self-sabotaging desire (however well-intended) to include all the key characters. So for the novice, it’s not necessary to begin at the very beginning. Indeed, it might be advised to get a taste of Coltrane, who is at once accessible and imperative. Here’s my .02:

For those whose definition of genius is either too encompassing or excessively narrow, John Coltrane poses no problems: there isn’t anyone who knows anything about music (in general) and jazz (in particular) who would contest that he is among the most prominent, impressive and influential artists to ever master an instrument. Furthermore, to put Coltrane and his unsurpassed proficiency in its simplest perspective, it might be suggested that no one has ever done anything as well as Coltrane played the saxophone.

Plus, he was an exceptionally gifted composer and bandleader and, by all accounts, he was a generous and gentle human being, as well. All of which is to say, if there is anyone worthy of celebration in our contemporary American Idol Apocalypse, Coltrane should serve as both antidote and inspiration.

Entire piece here. Also, this:

The title of this post comes courtesy of the brilliant Ornette Coleman (speaking of misunderstood geniuses; to call him an iconoclast is like calling Marine Boy a good swimmer). More on him here and a crucial preview of the shape of jazz that came, below:

Jazz is not only fun to listen to (duh), it’s fun to analyze and obsess over. For instance, a short treatise on some of the more sublime sax solos can be found here. A case is made for the best jazz outfit ever assembled, here.

And a loving ode to contemporary jazz (for all the haters who won’t acknowledge it and the uninitiated who are entirely unaware of it). A taste:

What happened next is, again depending on one’s perspective, the languid death march of America’s music or a continuation of an art that seamlessly integrates virtually every noise and culture from around the globe. A certain, and predictable, cadre of critics submerged their heads in the sand and bitched about better days. The awake and aware folks who make and receive these offerings celebrate an ever-evolving music that resists boundaries and is capable of communication transcending language and explanation. At its best it is an ideal synergy of expression and integrity.

Anyone who knows anything understands that some of the best jazz music ever was created in the ’70s (no, really) and a great deal of amazing music was made in the ’80s (seriously). But in the ’90s and into the ’00s we’ve seen jazz music consistently –and successfully– embrace other forms of music (rock, rap, electronica, etc.) and end up somewhere that remains jazz, yet something else altogether. There are myriad examples, of course, but this small sampler of five selections might be illustrative, and enlightening. The uninitiated may be surprised, even astonished, at how alive and accessible this “other” music really is.

One could (and should) say more about artists such as Lester Bowie, Jamie Saft, Marco Benevento, The Bad Plus, Critters Buggin, Garage a Trois and Mostly Other People Do The Killing, all of whom have incorporated our (increasingly) info-overload existence into their sound. Slack-jawed and stale-souled haters may demur at even calling this Jazz, or course. And of course the last laugh is on them because most of these musicians would care less than a little what you call it. They understand that the shape of jazz that came is always turning into what we’ll be listening to tomorrow.

The entire thing, with some very tasty audio samples, here.

For now, this (which does more to convey the ecstasy of improvisation and community, not to mention solidarity and soul, than a billion blog posts ever could):

In the end, jazz is always about now and the wonderful possibilities of tomorrow, but it also achieves what the best music of any genre does, and brings us back, always, to the beginning.

To be continued…

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Beauty is a Rare Thing: Celebrating International Jazz Day (Revisited)

January 7, 2013 By Leave a Comment

All hope is not lost. At least enough people are still making –and listening to– jazz that we can even attempt to initiate what hopefully becomes an ongoing occasion.

In a piece celebrating one of my heroes, Eric Dolphy, I made an honest attempt to address what jazz music means to me and why I consider it an obligation to share this passion (full piece here):

I know that jazz music has made my life approximately a million times more satisfying and enriching than it would have been had I never been fortunate enough to discover, study and savor it.

During the last 4-5 years, I’ve had (or taken) the opportunity to write in some detail about, to name a relative handful, Freddie Hubbard, Wayne Shorter, McCoy Tyner, John Zorn, Henry Threadgill and Herbie Hancock. This has been important to me, because I feel that in some small way, if I can help other people better appreciate, or discover any (or all) of these artists, I will be sharing something bigger and better than anything I alone am capable of creating.

Before this blog (and PopMatters, where virtually all of my music writing appears), and during the decade or so that stretched from my mid-’20s to mid-’30s, I used to have more of an evangelical vibe. It’s not necessarily that I’m less invested, now, then I was then; quite the contrary. But, if I wasn’t particuarly interested in converting people then (I wasn’t), I’m even less so today. When it comes to art in general and music in particular, entirely too many people are very American in their tastes: they know what they like and they like what they know. And there’s nothing wrong with that, since what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Also, let’s face it, the only thing possibly more annoying than some yahoo proselytizing their religion on your doorstep is some jackass getting in your grill about how evolved or enviable his or her musical tastes happen to be. Life is way too short, for all involved.

I have, in short, done my best to provide context and articulate why some of us continue to worship at this altar of organic American music. Naturally that discussion has included Miles, Mingus, Monk. And of course, Coltrane. With any honest discussion of jazz we can quickly get dragged into an abyss of snobbishness (however unintentional), trivial footnoting and the self-sabotaging desire (however well-intended) to include all the key characters. So for the novice, it’s not necessary to begin at the very beginning. Indeed, it might be advised to get a taste of Coltrane, who is at once accessible and imperative. Here’s my .02:

For those whose definition of genius is either too encompassing or excessively narrow, John Coltrane poses no problems: there isn’t anyone who knows anything about music (in general) and jazz (in particular) who would contest that he is among the most prominent, impressive and influential artists to ever master an instrument. Furthermore, to put Coltrane and his unsurpassed proficiency in its simplest perspective, it might be suggested that no one has ever done anything as well as Coltrane played the saxophone.

Plus, he was an exceptionally gifted composer and bandleader and, by all accounts, he was a generous and gentle human being, as well. All of which is to say, if there is anyone worthy of celebration in our contemporary American Idol Apocalypse, Coltrane should serve as both antidote and inspiration.

Entire piece here. Also, this:

The title of this post comes courtesy of the brilliant Ornette Coleman (speaking of misunderstood geniuses; to call him an iconoclast is like calling Marine Boy a good swimmer). More on him here and a crucial preview of the shape of jazz that came, below:

Jazz is not only fun to listen to (duh), it’s fun to analyze and obsess over. For instance, a short treatise on some of the more sublime sax solos can be found here. A case is made for the best jazz outfit ever assembled, here.

And a loving ode to contemporary jazz (for all the haters who won’t acknowledge it and the uninitiated who are entirely unaware of it). A taste:

What happened next is, again depending on one’s perspective, the languid death march of America’s music or a continuation of an art that seamlessly integrates virtually every noise and culture from around the globe. A certain, and predictable, cadre of critics submerged their heads in the sand and bitched about better days. The awake and aware folks who make and receive these offerings celebrate an ever-evolving music that resists boundaries and is capable of communication transcending language and explanation. At its best it is an ideal synergy of expression and integrity.

Anyone who knows anything understands that some of the best jazz music ever was created in the ’70s (no, really) and a great deal of amazing music was made in the ’80s (seriously). But in the ’90s and into the ’00s we’ve seen jazz music consistently –and successfully– embrace other forms of music (rock, rap, electronica, etc.) and end up somewhere that remains jazz, yet something else altogether. There are myriad examples, of course, but this small sampler of five selections might be illustrative, and enlightening. The uninitiated may be surprised, even astonished, at how alive and accessible this “other” music really is.

One could (and should) say more about artists such as Lester Bowie, Jamie Saft, Marco Benevento, The Bad Plus, Critters Buggin, Garage a Trois and Mostly Other People Do The Killing, all of whom have incorporated our (increasingly) info-overload existence into their sound. Slack-jawed and stale-souled haters may demur at even calling this Jazz, or course. And of course the last laugh is on them because most of these musicians would care less than a little what you call it. They understand that the shape of jazz that came is always turning into what we’ll be listening to tomorrow.

The entire thing, with some very tasty audio samples, here.

For now, this (which does more to convey the ecstasy of improvisation and community, not to mention solidarity and soul, than a billion blog posts ever could):

In the end, jazz is always about now and the wonderful possibilities of tomorrow, but it also achieves what the best music of any genre does, and brings us back, always, to the beginning.

To be continued…

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Beauty is a Rare Thing: Celebrating International Jazz Day

April 30, 2012 By 1 Comment

All hope is not lost. At least enough people are still making –and listening to– jazz that we can even attempt to initiate what hopefully becomes an ongoing occasion.

In a piece celebrating one of my heroes, Eric Dolphy, I made an honest attempt to address what jazz music means to me and why I consider it an obligation to share this passion (full piece here):

I know that jazz music has made my life approximately a million times more satisfying and enriching than it would have been had I never been fortunate enough to discover, study and savor it.

During the last 4-5 years, I’ve had (or taken) the opportunity to write in some detail about, to name a relative handful, Freddie Hubbard, Wayne Shorter, McCoy Tyner, John Zorn, Henry Threadgill and Herbie Hancock. This has been important to me, because I feel that in some small way, if I can help other people better appreciate, or discover any (or all) of these artists, I will be sharing something bigger and better than anything I alone am capable of creating.

Before this blog (and PopMatters, where virtually all of my music writing appears), and during the decade or so that stretched from my mid-’20s to mid-’30s, I used to have more of an evangelical vibe. It’s not necessarily that I’m less invested, now, then I was then; quite the contrary. But, if I wasn’t particuarly interested in converting people then (I wasn’t), I’m even less so today. When it comes to art in general and music in particular, entirely too many people are very American in their tastes: they know what they like and they like what they know. And there’s nothing wrong with that, since what they don’t know won’t hurt them. Also, let’s face it, the only thing possibly more annoying than some yahoo proselytizing their religion on your doorstep is some jackass getting in your grill about how evolved or enviable his or her musical tastes happen to be. Life is way too short, for all involved.

I have, in short, done my best to provide context and articulate why some of us continue to worship at this altar of organic American music. Naturally that discussion has included Miles, Mingus, Monk. And of course, Coltrane. With any honest discussion of jazz we can quickly get dragged into an abyss of snobbishness (however unintentional), trivial footnoting and the self-sabotaging desire (however well-intended) to include all the key characters. So for the novice, it’s not necessary to begin at the very beginning. Indeed, it might be advised to get a taste of Coltrane, who is at once accessible and imperative. Here’s my .02:

For those whose definition of genius is either too encompassing or excessively narrow, John Coltrane poses no problems: there isn’t anyone who knows anything about music (in general) and jazz (in particular) who would contest that he is among the most prominent, impressive and influential artists to ever master an instrument. Furthermore, to put Coltrane and his unsurpassed proficiency in its simplest perspective, it might be suggested that no one has ever done anything as well as Coltrane played the saxophone.

Plus, he was an exceptionally gifted composer and bandleader and, by all accounts, he was a generous and gentle human being, as well. All of which is to say, if there is anyone worthy of celebration in our contemporary American Idol Apocalypse, Coltrane should serve as both antidote and inspiration.

Entire piece here. Also, this:

The title of this post comes courtesy of the brilliant Ornette Coleman (speaking of misunderstood geniuses; to call him an iconoclast is like calling Marine Boy a good swimmer). More on him here and a crucial preview of the shape of jazz that came, below:

Jazz is not only fun to listen to (duh), it’s fun to analyze and obsess over. For instance, a short treatise on some of the more sublime sax solos can be found here. A case is made for the best jazz outfit ever assembled, here.

And a loving ode to contemporary jazz (for all the haters who won’t acknowledge it and the uninitiated who are entirely unaware of it). A taste:

What happened next is, again depending on one’s perspective, the languid death march of America’s music or a continuation of an art that seamlessly integrates virtually every noise and culture from around the globe. A certain, and predictable, cadre of critics submerged their heads in the sand and bitched about better days. The awake and aware folks who make and receive these offerings celebrate an ever-evolving music that resists boundaries and is capable of communication transcending language and explanation. At its best it is an ideal synergy of expression and integrity.

Anyone who knows anything understands that some of the best jazz music ever was created in the ’70s (no, really) and a great deal of amazing music was made in the ’80s (seriously). But in the ’90s and into the ’00s we’ve seen jazz music consistently –and successfully– embrace other forms of music (rock, rap, electronica, etc.) and end up somewhere that remains jazz, yet something else altogether. There are myriad examples, of course, but this small sampler of five selections might be illustrative, and enlightening. The uninitiated may be surprised, even astonished, at how alive and accessible this “other” music really is.

One could (and should) say more about artists such as Lester Bowie, Jamie Saft, Marco Benevento, The Bad Plus, Critters Buggin, Garage a Trois and Mostly Other People Do The Killing, all of whom have incorporated our (increasingly) info-overload existence into their sound. Slack-jawed and stale-souled haters may demur at even calling this Jazz, or course. And of course the last laugh is on them because most of these musicians would care less than a little what you call it. They understand that the shape of jazz that came is always turning into what we’ll be listening to tomorrow.

The entire thing, with some very tasty audio samples, here.

For now, this (which does more to convey the ecstasy of improvisation and community, not to mention solidarity and soul, than a billion blog posts ever could):

In the end, jazz is always about now and the wonderful possibilities of tomorrow, but it also achieves what the best music of any genre does, and brings us back, always, to the beginning.

To be continued…

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Strictly Business (Class): The Dreaded Day Trip*

January 19, 2012 By Leave a Comment

A.M.: Departure

Early, at the airport.

Look around: some of the pretty people, many of the mediocre, and the rest of us, all sizes and shapes: men trying to look like the human mannequins who sold them their suits, women with bodies stolen from a Robert Crumb cartoon.

I can’t help overhearing the woman across from me who has not discovered her indoor voice, agitated and unabashed, wire growing out of her ear to prove she is not, in fact, arguing with herself. To tell the truth, she is yelling—there is simply no way around it.

And look at this joker, walking in purposeless circles, mouth in constant motion above the ice cream cone he’s carrying in the hand not holding his carry-on. Not everything I just described is accurate, I realize, as I see how he’s sizing up the innocent bystanders: his circles are serving a purpose after all—he is seeking out the amateurs. I myself am more or less an amateur, but I’m not as much of an amateur as he hopes I am. Direct eye contact is out of the question, yet I’m practically daring him to say something just so I can ignore him. After all, if 9/11 gave us anything, it ensured that all the actually dangerous people now avoid airports. But then, there’s no reason to invite annoyance. Just because he can’t hurt me doesn’t mean he can’t kill me with kindness.

Some of the people in airports are leaving town to escape their problems; some are heading toward their problems; and the rest are either unaware or unwilling to accept that they are the problem. These are the otherwise inscrutable citizens who shout into cell phones even as they bump and grind down the unfriendly aisle.

As I warily edge my way forward, trying not to touch or eyeball anyone, I am certain the capricious airline gods have assigned me a middle seat between the ice cream man and the woman whose main problem seems to be herself.

 

No one should be happy to be on an airplane at 7 AM. No one should be happy to be awake at 7 AM. Unfortunately for me, it appears that the only two people happy to be awake, in the air, and alive at 7 AM are on this same flight. Sitting directly in front of me. Speaking. Loudly.

What could anyone possibly have to say, to someone else, on a plane, at 7 AM?

Like virtually all of us, they are required by work to be here. Unlike virtually all of us, they are inexplicably tickled about it. And there is only one conceivable excuse for being delighted to be on a business trip at 7 AM: money. To be fair, they don’t seem to be talking about money—yet—they are talking about love. Then again, if they are actually enjoying this ritual, love is just a metaphor for money.

And then, before smug self-approval allows me (for once) to shut my eyes in peace, there is the maddening intrusion of alternate explanations. Perhaps this exultant young man in front of me is in the unfathomable thrall of fate. Perhaps, against all possibility, and in accordance with the inviolable intricacies of Cliché, this fortunate fellow has met the stranger meant to be his soul mate.

And then: perhaps if I did not always sit here, moping and miserable, I would meet my soul mate one of these mornings, enabling me, finally, to make some sense out of these strictly-business excursions. After all, isn’t this how it always happens?

(Dad, how did you meet Mom?

You’d never believe it, but we met on a plane!)

Why shouldn’t that be me?

It could.

And yet. It’s not likely. After all, any time I’m on a plane at 7 AM, the smart coin is on the certainty that I’ll once again opt to remain silent, in my shell, eyes ironed shut, wishing I was anywhere else in the world.

 

Up in the air, alive, the sun shows off all it can see, up here where to be or not to be gets decided every second. I look around at befuddled businessmen, suppressing panic attacks because they can’t use their cell phones. The woman next to me, hunched over her laptop, keeps snatching suspicious glances in my general direction. I am, of course, reading what’s on her screen, but what does she expect? The stewardess stares me down sweetly, daring me to accept a cup of coffee that was most likely brewed last week, reheated this morning, and has spent the last several hours roiling around in its airtight cask, asphyxiating on its own fumes. Politely, I decline.

 

Just as I’m drifting off into a cantankerous catnap, the pilot interrupts the silence to announce that air traffic control has not given us the go-ahead for landing, whatever that means. Even up here you can’t catch a break, even the unfriendly skies are backed up, impeding forward progress, inviting exasperation. Even up here the clouds won’t part until the big money has cleared customs and changed hands.

 

In the air less than an hour, there is collective anxiety amongst the people who can’t plug something in. The second tires hit the tarmac it quickly becomes a contest to see who can turn on their phone first. How did people exist in the world before cell phones? Before e-mail for that matter? Before computers? I lived in that world. Recently. And I have no idea.

Touchdown. Everyone leaps to their feet, elbowing each other for the honor of not getting off the plane first. I pretend to be patient and enjoy making the woman next to me, who obviously can hardly stand not having her portable computer opened and available, wait her turn. After a few near rumbles, shouting matches and rugby scrums in the aisle, I stoically join the clustered masses on the concourse, reluctant but ready to throw myself on the mercy of the big apple that will chew me up and spit me out before I even know what hit me.

 

Welcome to the machine, the man moving past me does not say. I’m in too much of a hurry to stop (like always, like anyone else), but there is something so familiar about him that I’m compelled, despite everything I’ve learned, to pause and look behind me: he is still there, off to the side, shabbily clad, immediately recognizable by his contrast to everyone around him; he wants to approach one of these businessmen, but all of them are walking too fast, too deliberately, too purposefully.

Automatically, the doors move aside and frigid air earnestly greets everyone headed its way. It takes about five seconds (as always) to feel the cold and then the money dread: if it weren’t for the money, it wouldn’t take much—in a strange city, lost, alone. Cold. Broke. That’s how shit like starvation and sleeping on grates gets started. Quiet in the corners, huddled under bridges, working the frenzied crowd for a friendly face, hoping for the handout that never comes.

 

There is only way to get through mornings like this: drink heavily. Right now the coffee and orange juice are kicking in, caffeine battling c-vitamins, engaged in a Dostoyevskian struggle for my soul. Or, at least, my nervous system. A million little meetings imploded into one agenda, it becomes an endurance test to see who will blink first and ask for a bathroom break, or delegate more action items for the unfortunate underlings lucky enough not to be here. Mostly I try to maintain eye contact with the most important people and stifle the incessant anxiety that someone might ask my opinion or a question I actually know how to answer. Not unimpressed, I watch possible futures unfolding from the projector, purgatory via PowerPoint.

 

P.M.: Arrival

 

These day trips ask a lot of you, almost so much that you find yourself fondly reminiscing about the good old days you never knew, the days when horse-drawn carriages signified cutting edge business travel, days when people might have fantasized about a few hundred miles in less than an hour, not anticipating planes that make your mind feel microwaved.

Outside. Of course the line for taxis is indefensible. One look at this mess and it seems safe to wager that it will take longer to get a cab than it just took to fly a few hundred miles. On the bright side, the cab and its driver are both clean and smell inoffensive, even nice, even (dare I say it?) sexy. And yes, it’s an odious—smelling—stereotype, but until we cease to be surprised by a painless experience in a pleasant-scented cab, we’ll continue to appreciate them as the exception and not the rule.

I don’t wear the seat belt in cabs—cabs never crash; besides, why attract attention? Why give potential tragedy the time of day?

Moving fast—too fast for any circumstance other than getting me where I needed to be, and I wasn’t even in a hurry—each person he passes and each grunt of approval I offer signify the following, mutually understood assurance: every car in the rear view is another ten cents tacked on to the twenty percent tip he’s already got working. We each appreciate the rules: if I was in the car beside us—if I was anywhere on earth except his backseat—we’d be mortal enemies, but as it stands, we are on the same team, this is our war and we’ll endure much and suffer stoically and make it to the promised land, one man together.

True, some cab drivers don’t want to talk; (some don’t speak your language, some may not even speak) but some want to talk, some want to talk very much indeed, and will initiate the action and then wait, like de-fanged cobras, ready to pounce, aggressive yet harmless, at any opportunity. In fact, with some folks you get the vibe that they are so starved for conversation, solidarity, or just that elusive human touch, that they would not only waive your fare, but pay you if you’d let them pull over and shoot the shit; or even better, slide into some bar and order a round of anything on the rocks, or best, take you to their modest but clean and adequate abode, where their plain but polite wife would whip up some of the best home-cooking you could never pronounce or even describe other than to say it was as impossible as the entire incident. In sum, it’s unlikely.

And yet, they are out there all the same, waiting.

 

Am I sleeping? No, but I can see a building that I’ve never noticed before, waving to me from the side of the road. It wants me to notice, as if I’m not going to notice. Office buildings, especially ten-story monstrosities, do not just pop up overnight, do they? Even in this town, where anything is possible, this couldn’t be happening. But there it was: people, who had presumably been up and at ‘em since before the sun came up, streaming in from the three story parking garage, putting in their time before they’ll enjoy a well-earned rest: dinner, maybe a cocktail or two and several hours of somnambulant sit-coms before the nightly newscasters lulled them to sleep.

Sleep. Somehow while I’d been asleep, the dirty work of industry had struck again. Overnight, it seemed, a miracle of the modern age had occurred: clandestine plans had been approved, blueprints implemented, construction commenced. Trees had been felled, brick and mortar meticulously amassed, offers had been made, salaries negotiated, moving vans hired, new houses occupied, paychecks deposited, kids sent to imprudently priced daycare, new dentists and family doctors consulted, second children conceived, extramarital affairs instigated, divorce papers served, summer softball leagues formed, cutbacks announced, departments laid off, stock options doled out and quickly cashed, inestimable hours and dollars spent on alcohol, cigarettes, dangerous as well as non-addictive drugs, pornography—always the pornography—and unused health club memberships.

Industry and big money are all about initiative; they don’t sleep until the job is done. And the job, of course, is never done.

Cooked on the surface but still raw inside, it’s all in a daze work as the cab carries me down the home stretch through disorienting yet familiar streets. Survival suburban-style; a metropolis in transition, trying its best to live up to the image it was designed to imitate—sprung from the minds of forward-thinking people who are trying to recreate the past. On the corner high school punks stand beside a phone booth, making no calls; a quick right turn and I’m feeling the money dread as we cruise past several blocks of four car families. Being outside the city is safer, particularly if you prefer the sound of crickets to cop sirens. Eventually, I am deposited in the middle ground of this middlebrow town, and for lack of any other options, I am relieved.

And yet. This is supposed to happen later, with wife and kids and a basement to be banished to after hours. I’ll deal with that later. I think.

My front door is the one mystery to which I have the key, but for some reason I still feel as though I’m sneaking up on a stranger every time I return from a trip; I’m not sure who I expect to see, who might be hiding from me, who possibly could have found the way into my modest refuge from friends and memories.

With Pavlovian precision, I make my way to the medicine cabinet and pour myself a bracing plug of bourbon. It’s more than I need or deserve, I think, but I don’t want the bottle to suspect I was unfaithful in another town, waiting for my return flight for instance, in a cramped and crappy airport bar. If this were a movie (I think, mostly in the past, but even today), I would grab my crystal decanter, filled with obviously expensive spirits, and administer that potion the old-fashioned way, needing no ice cubes, especially since I would never get around to drinking it, as it’s only a prop, a cliché. No one reaches for that tumbler these days (except in movies); the question is: did they ever? Even in the ‘50’s? Or has it always been part of the script?

*Excerpted from a work-in-progress entitled Please Talk About Me When I’m Gone

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Jason Moran (and Monk)

August 16, 2010 By Leave a Comment

Over at PopMatters Will Layman has a great piece on pianist Jason Moran. Highly recommended.

It also includes a wonderful video where Moran talks about his relationship with the music (and inescapable aesthetic influence) of Thelonious Monk. I could listen to that for a lot longer than the few minutes caught on tape (but that’s how I roll); I could definitely listen/watch Moran and his band tackle Thelonious for many blissful hours. For now, this will have to suffice.

Props to Layman for calling well-warranted attention to this amazing (and young!) master, and props to Moran for being himself.

Bonus footage of “Thelonious”:

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Thelonious Monk: Plays Duke Ellington

October 5, 2007 By 3 Comments

Thelonious. The name, like the man, is unique, exceptional. We are, thankfully, at a point where the first name will suffice, and it is generally understood that Thelonious Sphere Monk is one of the singular, and important, artists in all jazz, as well as one of the authentic geniuses America can proudly claim as a native son. It wasn’t always thus. Although commonly acknowledged as one of the founding fathers—along with Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach and Miles Davis—of bebop, Monk was the quintessential “musician’s musician”, mostly respected, if not entirely understood, by colleagues. Even so, the prevailing judgment—promulgated by many less than perspicacious critics of the time—was that he was too eccentric and his compositions too difficult. Moreover, an inability to easily describe his music diminished the prospect of any type of commercial breakthrough. When, in 1954, he signed on with the upstart label, Riverside Records, his contract with the well-established Prestige label was bought out for $108.27.
This reissue, then, of Thelonious Monk Plays Duke Ellington is significant on a variety of levels. For starters, it is an outstanding album, and tends to exist as an overlooked gem in the Monk discography, sandwiched as it is between his earlier “genius of modern music” stage and the mid ‘50s through mid ‘60s, when he made his most enduring work. It is also important for what it signified, in 1955, to have Monk cover Ellington—already a legend with a capital L—(though he certainly had some major statements of his own yet to make). On the surface, Ellington and Monk could not be more dissimilar; in terms of personality, style, and what might unimaginatively, if accurately, be called “universal appeal”. Of course, understanding that the things Monk did, on his own terms, now attract comparisons with Ellington—at least in terms of influence and signature tunes routinely performed as standards—speaks volumes. Lastly, this release is a most welcome tribute to its producer, Orrin Keepnews, and the new series of reissues fittingly called the “Keepnews Collection”. If these remasters help even a few folks learn who Keepnews is and what he has meant to the music, all the better. For those not in the know, now hear this: Orrin Keepnews is one of the most important producers of the last century, and his innumerable achievements should be appreciatively venerated.


In the expanded liner notes, Keepnews recalls the circumstances under which Monk—largely considered damaged goods, or at best a risky wildcard for any record label—came to Riverside, a relationship that produced subsequent masterpieces such as Brilliant Corners, Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane, Monk’s Music, and 5 By Monk By 5 (arguably Keepnews’ finest hour). His strategy was to have Monk dedicate an entire album to Ellington, not so much to sanitize Monk’s vision, but to ingeniously allow it to fully flower in the context of already classic recordings. Keepnews was one of the first to grasp not only how important Monk was, but how crucial he could (and should) be in the advancement of jazz music: he understood, displaying a judicious acumen that served him well thereafter, that with the appropriate primer, a wider audience would inexorably learn to love Thelonious.
In a move that managed to be both safe and inspired, veteran sidemen Oscar Pettiford and Kenny Clarke were recruited to handle bass and drum duties, respectively. Both of these men, like Monk, were veterans of the nascent bebop scene, their names associated with many seminal early bop recordings. Appropriately, all three have sufficient familiarity with the songs chosen, and with one another, to impart an effortless solidarity of purpose upon these proceedings. The end result contains exactly what one might expect: an abundance of riches packaged as an enticing sampler of Ellingtonia interpreted by a genuine iconoclast.

It only takes the first, familiar notes of the opening selection to make one thing abundantly clear: Monk playing Ellington makes perfect sense. The very calculated placement of “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)” at the forefront of this set is both a statement and an affirmation: this will be a celebratory affair, and it’s going to swing. Clarke employs laid back brushwork to satisfying effect, while Pettiford establishes a stone solid, swinging (yes, that word again) foundation, freeing Monk to dance circles around the theme. A faithful, if slightly safe rendition of “Sophisticated Lady” follows, which puts to rest any lingering doubts (unfathomable as it is to consider that there ever were any) that Monk, the “irreverent” outsider, had fully absorbed the tradition well before he began incorporating his own innovations. “I Got It Bad (And That Ain’t Good)” almost implores the presence of a saxophone or trumpet to accentuate the plaintive mood; but then Pettiford accelerates the pace with his irrepressible groove, and once more Monk reconstructs the Duke with his own peerless logic.
“Black and Tan Fantasy” is—or becomes—a composition Monk had to cover, and while it retains Ellington’s elegant imprint, we hear more of that Cheshire Cat who had already spent a decade confounding the imperceptive critics: in under four minutes, it’s possible to experience what is at once so enthralling yet indescribable about Monk’s technique. The tune never ventures anywhere near chaos or affectation; indeed it is simple to nod along without missing a beat. And yet, if one listens again, a bit more closely, the piano is (ever so subtly, ever so slyly) making sounds quite unlike anything before or since: Monk plays it straight, yet stops, circles back, fills in every appropriate space with old school stride that recalls Luckey Roberts, then, on a dime, shifts into syncopated flourishes that incorporate bebop—and beyond. Dissonant, angular, twisting, coruscating: those who attempt to describe Monk’s playing tend to use the same words time and again, partly because it’s inevitable, mostly because they are accurate. Monk, after a while, begins to remind you of a wily raconteur, retelling a funny story that you’ve never heard before.
More of the same follows, with “Mood Indigo” and the exuberant “I Let A Song Go Out Of My Heart”. Perhaps the most effective, and emotional selection is “Solitude”, which features Monk, appropriately, alone at the piano. Here his unparalleled use of space and silence is exhibited to stunning effect; like any true genius, it sounds almost easy the way he does it, and exactly no one has come close to replicating his style in the fifty-something years since this recording. As the man himself once observed, he used the same notes—just differently. Finally, a righteous romp of “Caravan” closes the set on an exultant note: Clarke lends his most perceptible support, and Pettiford remains unflappably cool in the pocket. Mission accomplished; Monk not only delivers an unadulterated homage to Ellington, he somehow manages to make the master sound even more ahead of his time than he already was.
Implausible, yet easy to believe that only a year later, Monk dropped Brilliant Corners, the title track alone so intricate and demanding that it frustrated the very capable cast of characters assembled to tackle it (notably Sonny Rollins, who was no stranger to the woodshed). A year after that an up and coming saxophonist named John Coltrane joined his group. Nothing was ever the same—for him, or for us—after that.

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