Wayne Shorter is, for my money, possibly the most underrated genius in any genre of music. To be sure, he certainly received plenty of props within jazz circles and the people who know really know. In his wise, humble way, he always seemed cool with that. He was, from start to finish, one of the coolest customers, which made him that much more precious in a world filled with hucksters sucking on trends and posers faking it ‘til they make it. (You could design a life course just based on his and his partner in crime Herbie Hancock’s personal and professional trajectories, and before even getting to the music, consider their Open Letter to the Next Generation of Artists.)
Not as instantly accessible as his closest compatriots in the all-time canon, John Coltrane and Sonny Rollins (both of whom could, if one cared about such things, be crowned best ever at what they did), Shorter obliges the listener to accept and then embrace him on his terms. For the unfamiliar, much of Wayne’s work is like, say, imported dark chocolate. Or fresh Kona coffee beans. Or a 2014 Brunello di Montalcino (or a 1964 Brunello di Montalcino for that matter). Or whatever type of car people who appreciate cars get excited about. You get the picture. Wayne Shorter is, in other words, the authentic item that aficionados savor, but whom virtually anyone with unpolluted ears can immediately appreciate.
He played on Aja and played on Bitches Brew, two albums that get short-listed when we talk about albums that are beloved and eternal, sure, but also music that changed conceptions of music (a great deal more about Miles & Co.’s Shock Heard ‘Round the World here). He stood tall, even amongst his most talented peers. But his name does not come up quickly enough, or often enough in discussions of the true masters. Perhaps that will change, now that the world he rocked is obliged to properly assess his import.
Aside from his considerable proficiency on the horn(s), he is also among the most distinctive and consistently satisfying composers of the 20th Century. And while Miles Davis, who was without peer in assembling talent, had the vision and deservedly gets the lion’s share of the credit (he was the lion, after all), a good chunk of the material on the sessions made by what is possibly the single most talented and awe-inspiring collection of musicians ever assembled, was written by Shorter (for aficionados, contemplate the playlist you’d make from those albums and see if you concur that Shorter was The Sorcerer working some special magic: “E.S.P.,” “Footprints,” “Prince of Darkness,” “Masqualero,” “Nefertiti,” “Fall,” “Pinocchio,” “Water Babies,” “Paraphernalia,” and “Sanctuary” from the aforementioned Bitches Brew). And here’s where it gets unbelievable: all through the mid-to-late ’60s—at the same time he was working in—if not co-leading—The Quintet—he (as well as Hancock) was dropping epic masterpieces on the Blue Note label (think Maiden Voyage, Speak Like a Child, JuJu, and Speak No Evil, for starters).
Peak Shorter? I’ll humbly refer those interested to the playlist at the end of this tribute, keeping in mind, it’s a modest sampler of the riches this man scattered across our soundscape. An early pinnacle, that at once drew comparisons and separated him from the pack, “Deluge” from JuJu. Just as Trane was about to blast off to stellar regions (that remain, at times, too effulgent for even the most adventurous listener), Shorter split the difference, working with Elvin Jones and McCoy Tyner—the thunder and lightning of the Classic Quartet—and more than withstands the tsunami unleashed. How did the recording studio remain standing, one wonders, decades later, from the safe distance of stereo speakers.
Think about this: Art Blakey and Miles Davis; during his tenure with both men (absolute Alpha Males in jazz, famous as much for the talent they nurtured as the remarkable music they made), Shorter steadily, inevitably established himself as the dominant force, as composer, somehow—in his quiet, curious, Zen way—dominating two band leaders who couldn’t be dominated: an improbable adjustment to the natural order all owing to Shorter’s explosive creativity. Again, in between and during this decade he was also releasing absolute masterpieces, leading his own bands. Understated, eccentric, and utterly original, Shorter was never accorded the fame fellow jazz titans received, and he likely could have cared less.
Clichés be damned: Shorter was on a quest and his music was a spiritual as anyone’s—including Coltrane, Albert Ayler, and Pharoah Sanders; and yes, including Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven—alongside these artistic icons, he took everything that had been done before and perfected it, and then continued pushing the boundaries. Monastic and always willfully eccentric about his craft, there’s no doubt his highest goal was using his talent in service of the extraordinary: I’m not certain any musician has captured ecstasy in sound with the purity and consistency of Shorter, his solos so assured and ebullient they brim with everything positive about existence, becoming heroic in their way. (See Addendum #2 for some examples of the indescribable perfection of Shorter’s playing.)
Ultimately, Wayne Shorter matters for the same reasons art matters. Because he dedicated his life to the service of Beauty, creating works that made the world demonstrably better (How can I prove this? By offering myself up as Exhibit A, and I’d happily bet my life there are thousands, if not millions, who would say the same). Because in this world, where evidence of our intolerance and mendacity is ever on display and amply illustrated via our lust for competition, our reckless pursuit of material toys, and the utter lack of imagination and soul by which we measure our worth in ways that create war, inequity, and disconnection, the very best amongst us spend innumerable hours, alone and with little—if any—encouragement or reward, in pursuit of something only humans can create; things that remediate barriers of language, class, and culture; things that augment a tradition tracing back to illiterate creatures scrawling primitive images on cave walls; things that remind us we’re alive and that we matter—that drawing a single breath in this universe entitles us to solace, healing, and the restorative beauty of stories told. We’re fortunate to have benevolent masters who occasionally appear, helping guide us to a more peaceful and productive path.
Addendum #1:
One of the aspects I’ve enjoyed about my Blackened Blues poetry project is that it enables me to take important, overlooked, and personally meaningful musicians, mostly from the misunderstood and under-celebrated jazz idiom, and assess their legacy through the context of American history. It afford me the chance to interrogate the glorious mysteries of art: why it’s essential; why these people –even if they’re unjustly obscure or lived difficult lives– are worth commemorating; that the gifts they left should humble us, and inspire us. Thus far, in three completed volumes, I have yet to tackle Wayne Shorter, and the answer why is simple: because he’s at once sufficiently complex and so transparent it’s impossible to get a handle on what makes him so ineffable. One simply wants to say: the music — it’s all in there. But how do you get a handle on Wayne Shorter’s sound? You don’t, you can’t, and you don’t want to. You just accept the only thing to do is listen, and be grateful this is all real, and it can be accessed any time you desire.
Addendum #2
This entire performance is a tour-de-force, but special props for Billy Higgins, who manages to make a drum set sound happy. How is that possible?
This tone poem, a respite on an album brimming with intensity, features “mellow Wayne” at his most alluring—and is absolutely irresistible; if you’re just getting on board, welcome to the rest of your life.
This is one of those “what would I give to be in the recording studio when this recording was made?” I’ve thought about it often, and while I reckon I’d give a great deal, I also wonder if witnessing such things would not be unlike Raiders of the Lost Ark when everyone’s face melts when confronted by the terrible presence of the almighty Other. (When Wayne enters the chat at 4:36 your existence is either altered, permanently, forever, or else this type of artistic expression is best reserved for your hopeful next incarnation on this planet.)
This is like The History of the World in ten minutes; it takes us from the Garden to the Book of Revelation, complete with all the forces of Nature, ending, as it must, with a calm fade out to nothing.
Finally, for now, this will remain on the shortest of possible lists that includes songs which, for me, are miracles that wash away the mess and triviality of ego and petty problems; something of the eternal is here, and if something better than this awaits all of us, I’m unequipped to describe or even fathom it. Rest in Power, Wayne.
Enjoy the ride.
