I first heard Eric Dolphy while I was going through my Tony Williams stage. The album was Point of Departure, by Andrew Hill. The first song, “Refuge,” has an entrancingly subtle complexity of harmony. All of the instruments weave around and through each other. Williams is astounding, mostly laying out at the head to keep the melody suspended, and then pushing and pulling the tempo like a mad scientist as Hill takes a piano solo. Hill stays close to the melody line for awhile before breaking free, but then seemingly has nowhere to go until an alto sax screams through the speakers like an F-14 Tomcat and blasts the song back into action.
After the alto sax solo, I just kept hitting rewind for awhile. That was my introduction to Eric Dolphy, quite possibly the greatest musician who ever lived, equally adept at the alto sax, the bass clarinet and the flute.
All of the songs on Point of Departure are brilliantly composed by Hill, but whereas the other musicians seem to struggle to live up to the limitless possibilities provided by the imaginative heads, Williams and Dolphy thrive. During his first solo on the third song, “Spectrum,” Dolphy plays the bass clarinet, bending and twisting the notes as if he’s tying the instrument in knots. Although I first heard it around 1994, Point of Departure was recorded on March 31, 1964, when Dolphy was 35. Almost exactly 3 months later, Dolphy would be dead, leaving us with only 4 years worth of recordings.
The next day after hearing Point of Departure, I went out and bought a Dolphy album, Outward Bound (1960). This album proved very frustrating, as apparently they forgot to plug in the microphone Dolphy was using except for on the ballad where he plays flute, and I’ve never been into ballads. I momentarily forgot about Dolphy in my rush to find out what other amazing musicians were out there (and “out there”) that I’d never heard. Inevitably, I discovered John Coltrane. I believe I was a freshman in college when I bought the 4 CD set of Coltrane’s Complete 1961 Village Vanguard Recordings. I began contentedly listening along to Coltrane’s now familiar Impulse-era style; simultaneously melodic, ferocious, technical and emotional, when all of a sudden this bass clarinetist interjects, playing a completely different style; more blatant, more tortured. Half annoyed, half intrigued by this player, I grab the album booklet and am surprised to be once again confronted by Eric Dolphy.
Dolphy was a huge influence on Coltrane. Like Coltrane, Dolphy’s playing always dripped with a unique personality. Dolphy was an absolute master of his instrument, able to play seemingly any note, at any time, interval and tempo, including those above and below the normal registers of his instrument, with ease or with pain, depending on the mood of the moment. Coltrane redefined the term “technical mastery,” and his prowess is to this day unparalleled, but while Coltrane thrilled us by continually searching and grasping into new territory, Dolphy was already there, calmly performing technical feats while expressing bone-chilling tones with a confidence Coltrane (perhaps thankfully) never had. Also unlike Coltrane, whose work as a sideman with great composers such as Thelonious Monk and Miles Davis often sounded like soulless technical exercises, Dolphy as a sideman could always inject music written by others with his personality and make it work.
In the early 1960’s seemingly every great American composer lived in New York City, with the exception of the AACM crew, who stayed in Chicago. I believe John Cage was still there; George Maciunas’ Fluxus community was being born; Duke Ellington was still there supporting the younger generation; Sun Ra moved there from Chicago in ’61; Charles Mingus, Thelonious Monk, Wayne Shorter, Gil Evans, Andrew Hill, Dizzy Gillespie and countless others were all in New York City. Eric Dolphy, originally from LA, moved to New York City in 1959, and his talent was immediately recognized. It is no coincidence then that Dolphy played with the greatest composers of his era. Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus Mingus (1963) and Mingus at Antibes (1960) both contain Dolphy with Mingus playing some of the greatest music you will ever hear. Dolphy was also part of Ornette Coleman’s world-changing and genre-naming album Free Jazz: A Collective Improvisation (1960), Oliver Nelson’s admittedly overrated classic Blues and the Abstract Truth (1961), George Russell’s opus Ezz-thetics (1961) and Max Roach’s Percussion Bitter Sweet (1961).
As a leader, Dolphy thankfully recorded a lot of albums between 1960 and 1964, although many of them are out of print. His best known is the mind-numbingly good Out To Lunch (1964), but my favorites are both live performances: The Illinois Concert (1963) and Live! At The Five Spot Vols. 1-2 (1961). I feel a very personal connection to the latter because it was through listening to it that I first truly understood the concept of group dynamics. Everyone supports everyone else in such a profound way- not by playing timidly or humbly but by playing confidently and respectfully. Everyone is playing at the top of their game without trying to imitate, compete with or outplay any of the others. How rare it is when the main motivation of a group of musicians is not to play better than the others in the group. Unfortunately the trumpet player of the group, Booker Little, Jr., died of kidney failure at age 23 shortly after the Five Spot sessions.
Eric Dolphy went on a European tour with Charles Mingus in early 1964, and when Mingus returned to America, Dolphy stayed behind. Apparently, Dolphy forgot to tell anybody in Europe he was diabetic, and when he fell into a diabetic coma on June 28, 1964, doctors assumed he had overdosed on heroin (after all, he was a jazz musician with needles) and shut him in a room to recover. He never came out of the coma and died the next day. At the time of his death, Dolphy had scheduled an album with an up-and-coming tenor sax player and Cecil Taylor alum named Albert Ayler, who would prove to be another genius and would also hugely influence Coltrane. We are left to ponder the possibilities….
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Powell's
Truth be told, Portland is a pretty lame town. I don’t mean this in a bad way- I consider myself a pretty lame person. Portland’s lameness can be immediately demonstrated by asking any native Portlander what to do there. Eight out of ten times, the first thing out of their mouth will be “Have you been to Powell’s?”
Powell’s is a big book store. Actually, it’s a Portland chain, and there are a ton of them strewn all over town. I almost dare not mention that Powell’s originated in Chicago, lest some Portlander reads that fact and kills himself over the lie he’s been living. But THE Powell’s is on Burnside. Actually, the entrance is on Couch, which is stupidly pronounced Cooch. There’s nowhere to park near the store. They have a parking garage but it is always full.
I have no idea why anybody thinks Powell’s is a good tourist destination. Powell’s specializes in selling new and used easy-to-find still-in-print books. It is not like one of those used book stores on Telegraph in Berkeley, where you can spend hours happily stumbling across intriguing out-of-print titles you’d never heard of but wish you had time to read. Instead, you spend hours miserably stumbling over people trying to find the exit. Perhaps the fascinating lure of the store is that it was apparently designed by Daedalus, the architect most famous for creating the labyrinth that held the Minotaur in Greek mythology. Also, if you’re one of those people who likes going to carnivals but doesn’t ride the rides, Powell’s might be right up your alley.
In order to find a book, first you have to find a computer. In order to find a computer, you must randomly squeeze through narrow aisles past hundreds of people intentionally pretending to not notice they are in your way until you come across a line of people. Make sure it’s not the line for selling used books, the checkout counter or coffee shop. And not the long line: that is the line for the bathroom.
Before I continue, let me just pause to point out one fact about Powell’s. It contains 68,000 square feet of floor space and ONE BATHROOM. I am not kidding.
Okay, so you must stand in line for several minutes until a computer becomes available. Incidentally, computers are usually found near “information” booths, which are either empty or contain some cocky frat jock with a computer of his own in which he does the exact same thing you would do if you could just use the damn computer yourself, only slower and including superfluous questions about the book you are looking for. So just get to an empty computer, type in the book or subject you want. If you’re lucky, you won’t get a “Please Try Again” request or 255 listings to sift through but a correct title with a color and number under it. Write these down: you will not be able to remember them by the time you find what they correlate with in the store.
Every room is inexplicably assigned a color. I have no idea what these colors mean or how they relate to anything. I only know that to find a colored room, you must once again randomly squeeze through aisles, hoping to come across doorways and stairs, until you find the color you are looking for. Once you’re in the correct colored room, you must find the correct aisle number. Every aisle is numbered, but these numbers are not sequentially ordered or always easy to see. If you decide you want to purchase a book, then you’ll have to find the line to the checkout counter and be herded through it like bovine. Good luck!
An important word of caution: NEVER go into Powell’s with anybody you ever want to see again if you do not both have your cell phones on you. Never mind the fact that the person next to you is using their cell phone to loudly read every title to whoever’s on the other end. If you want to prevent spending the rest of your life in jail for what any fair court would deem “justifiable homicide,” leave all weapons at home.
Powell’s is a big book store. Actually, it’s a Portland chain, and there are a ton of them strewn all over town. I almost dare not mention that Powell’s originated in Chicago, lest some Portlander reads that fact and kills himself over the lie he’s been living. But THE Powell’s is on Burnside. Actually, the entrance is on Couch, which is stupidly pronounced Cooch. There’s nowhere to park near the store. They have a parking garage but it is always full.
I have no idea why anybody thinks Powell’s is a good tourist destination. Powell’s specializes in selling new and used easy-to-find still-in-print books. It is not like one of those used book stores on Telegraph in Berkeley, where you can spend hours happily stumbling across intriguing out-of-print titles you’d never heard of but wish you had time to read. Instead, you spend hours miserably stumbling over people trying to find the exit. Perhaps the fascinating lure of the store is that it was apparently designed by Daedalus, the architect most famous for creating the labyrinth that held the Minotaur in Greek mythology. Also, if you’re one of those people who likes going to carnivals but doesn’t ride the rides, Powell’s might be right up your alley.
In order to find a book, first you have to find a computer. In order to find a computer, you must randomly squeeze through narrow aisles past hundreds of people intentionally pretending to not notice they are in your way until you come across a line of people. Make sure it’s not the line for selling used books, the checkout counter or coffee shop. And not the long line: that is the line for the bathroom.
Before I continue, let me just pause to point out one fact about Powell’s. It contains 68,000 square feet of floor space and ONE BATHROOM. I am not kidding.
Okay, so you must stand in line for several minutes until a computer becomes available. Incidentally, computers are usually found near “information” booths, which are either empty or contain some cocky frat jock with a computer of his own in which he does the exact same thing you would do if you could just use the damn computer yourself, only slower and including superfluous questions about the book you are looking for. So just get to an empty computer, type in the book or subject you want. If you’re lucky, you won’t get a “Please Try Again” request or 255 listings to sift through but a correct title with a color and number under it. Write these down: you will not be able to remember them by the time you find what they correlate with in the store.
Every room is inexplicably assigned a color. I have no idea what these colors mean or how they relate to anything. I only know that to find a colored room, you must once again randomly squeeze through aisles, hoping to come across doorways and stairs, until you find the color you are looking for. Once you’re in the correct colored room, you must find the correct aisle number. Every aisle is numbered, but these numbers are not sequentially ordered or always easy to see. If you decide you want to purchase a book, then you’ll have to find the line to the checkout counter and be herded through it like bovine. Good luck!
An important word of caution: NEVER go into Powell’s with anybody you ever want to see again if you do not both have your cell phones on you. Never mind the fact that the person next to you is using their cell phone to loudly read every title to whoever’s on the other end. If you want to prevent spending the rest of your life in jail for what any fair court would deem “justifiable homicide,” leave all weapons at home.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Camping Journal
Many years ago, my friend Risa got a camping journal in which you were supposed to record the details of your camping trips. It had lines for what the campsite was like, what food you ate, etc. Risa took the idea one step further, and when we (along with groups of Iowans and occasional un-Iowan friends now living on the west coast) used to get together once a year for our “Great Iowan Campout,” we would use the journal to write down every clever, witty or (especially) perverted thing that was said. The journal got passed around so over time everyone ended up contributing whatever they heard and deemed suitable for the journal. Read back later, the fact that our hastily recorded ramblings made little sense made them only funnier. My personal favorite lines are the ones that were perfectly innocent originally but sound really perverse read back out of context.
Naturally I stole the idea. A couple weeks ago, a group of us (6 Iowans, 2 “others”) spent the weekend in a cabin on the Oregon coast. Here’s what happened according to the journal:
It can be over…
Jenga!
He’s like the white guy Eminem…
Gopher Gruel, Urine Luck
Do you know why I fucked up that breakfast so badly? Because you’re a fuckup.
There’s a lot of shit going on in Guatemala right now…oh wait, you’re not talking about that are you?
It tastes like…what was that flavor I just had? Chunk of rainbow! Franzia! It’s a bagel that tastes like box wine.
Set your asses free
I thought she was cute but apparently I had my shit glasses on.
It’s very suspicious when someone walks into a bathroom and says “It smells good in here.”
She was wearing potpourri underwear.
It’s gonna be the best grumper later.
Carl’s making a pretty pile right now.
That one had a little extra JengaLubeâ on it.
Can I touch your yarn?
I love how you feel like you can breathe fire.
Andrew has a big wooden tower between his legs
Hos go home!
I’d definitely blow my head off.
Today I’m going to snap.
I think he just blew a wad of jizz through his horn.
Everything was fine until Carl entered the kitchen and dropped his sausage in the pan.
Those birds don’t like boxed wine.
Look at this little dickey thing you have coming out.
Have you guys ever been to Lake Iowa? This looks just like Lake Iowa.
Andrew’s for rent. I don’t think you guys can afford me.
I will fashion a rope of your hair…your back hair.
It’s Patrick…with flippers and a beer.
Oh it’s Ken Kesey in bird form…or, that’s not Ken Kesey, it’s a bird.
My hand is cleaner than Andrew’s weiner
My left breast has been hanging out for half the day.
Who isn’t cute playing the mandolin? Manson?
She had her shit goggles on a lot.
You wouldn’t know it now but she was super hot back then.
You look beautiful tonight…these are very special moments…I wish you were wearing lingerie…If I were a lonely cowboy….(Carl to Andrew)
I’m expressing myself right now.
How many nipples does a soybean have?
He’s a tick magnet. Yeah, ticks dig me, man!
Lactating men are bad.
Her specialty is imitating the sound of broken glass- MBWEEE!!!
I smell citrus. Did you shit?
I’m gonna cry my blues away (Robert Johnson)
Completely my favorite. Much better. Sucky.
Stop me if you’ve heard this before- What the fuck is wrong with this starfish?
I didn’t pass out! Was I snoring?
Bruccuchaa, toochi. da poodieaman; techacheet o-muchie-arriba! Brubiega-ha ma chu ta.
I lost my tongue on a tetherball pole.
The eternal dusk of gerbils in Carl’s anus
It’s a man nipple- It’s a mipple.
Just yank it out there
Everybody else is getting blueberry I’m getting dinglebery
Ann “Makes the sun want to stay in bed” Steffen
He has a very girly thing going on
If it was fake it would be…bigger
Sandy touched your work
Look- I have a hole in my crotch. Well that’s going in the book! I have a knot in mine.
He just made a bicycle out of chewing gum, a rubber band and a tampon.
Who does it to Enya? Who what to Enya?
This is like Ray Charles playing Jenga
Sweet hair tattoo!
I’m a lucky girl. Why, because your husband has huge pancakes?
Are you sitting down? No, I’m just going to pass some gas.
Might have been a uniball
When he told you how his dick got crooked it was like ahh!
That’s not the showerhead screaming right now. That’s Jeremy. It’s like a dental drill in there.
I smell what you’re stepping in.
She was hoping for a Sandy Sandwich
Tornado Jenga. Avant-garde Jenga. Jenga-style Kung Fu. Thanks comma jerkoff. White belt Jenga.
Use the magnifying glass much? Only in the shower.
The Way of the Jenga.
Imagine two young men out in the middle of summer
Jake’s playing Jenga with notecards.
When what you’re throwing is bigger than the target there’s a problem.
Are you putting my pen in your toes?
I’ve got some sweet Jenga moves. It’s pretty much my favorite game.
You’re hairy- I like it.
What is Carl doing right now? Getting squished by two hot chicks.
That went on for about 30 seconds too long.
It’s amazing that spider can hold on with such strong winds! He just talks! Did you see the spider though?
One word sums it up. I think I just peed my pants a little bit. Your lap is super absorbent. Sitting on your lap is like wearing a diaper.
Jesus is pretty much my favorite baby.
You look like a late, fat Elvis. I meant your weiner! It’s a pen!
You just made me fart! Would you rather I gave you a tweety twister? Tweety twister? I just made that up, but I was going for a titty twister and you pushed my hand lower.
You’re getting bigger- in some respects.
My penis is more like a vagina on a stick
You’re poop. Oh yeah, well you’re an asshole and that’s where poop comes from.
The conversation’s going south in a hurry.
I hope Jeremy’s still alive. Me too. I don’t really care.
Someone just needs to push him off the cliff and we’ll all be happier.
Now he’s dancing? Is that what you call that?
Up, up- a little to the right- now turn it- oh yeah oh yeah my cracker! I got so excited….
My penis is really, really small. I know…that’s too bad….
They’re talking to the birds now. They really were talking to the birds!
I found out today that I’m a pelican trapped inside a man’s body.
I gave up trying to figure out what they’re talking about. It’s just kept making less and less sense.
Vagina Bowl 2007- I don’t think I played in that one.
I can’t believe you’re not annoyed by yourself…It’s okay, I’m used to it.
As I recall, Rachel has been nothing but a nuisance.
I had to get jumped in the afternoon. I felt pretty stupid.
That Janine she’s a chatterbox.
Carl’s a humper.
I can be anything I want to be, and I want to be a pelican.
What’s that in the road, a seat cushion? It’s Carl!
If they’re gonna be neutral they should be the Swiss.
We totally got slaughtered by the Milk Chocolates last night.
What’s with the “Watch For Children” sign? What are you supposed to do if you see one? Is there a Child Watching Station?
Naturally I stole the idea. A couple weeks ago, a group of us (6 Iowans, 2 “others”) spent the weekend in a cabin on the Oregon coast. Here’s what happened according to the journal:
It can be over…
Jenga!
He’s like the white guy Eminem…
Gopher Gruel, Urine Luck
Do you know why I fucked up that breakfast so badly? Because you’re a fuckup.
There’s a lot of shit going on in Guatemala right now…oh wait, you’re not talking about that are you?
It tastes like…what was that flavor I just had? Chunk of rainbow! Franzia! It’s a bagel that tastes like box wine.
Set your asses free
I thought she was cute but apparently I had my shit glasses on.
It’s very suspicious when someone walks into a bathroom and says “It smells good in here.”
She was wearing potpourri underwear.
It’s gonna be the best grumper later.
Carl’s making a pretty pile right now.
That one had a little extra JengaLubeâ on it.
Can I touch your yarn?
I love how you feel like you can breathe fire.
Andrew has a big wooden tower between his legs
Hos go home!
I’d definitely blow my head off.
Today I’m going to snap.
I think he just blew a wad of jizz through his horn.
Everything was fine until Carl entered the kitchen and dropped his sausage in the pan.
Those birds don’t like boxed wine.
Look at this little dickey thing you have coming out.
Have you guys ever been to Lake Iowa? This looks just like Lake Iowa.
Andrew’s for rent. I don’t think you guys can afford me.
I will fashion a rope of your hair…your back hair.
It’s Patrick…with flippers and a beer.
Oh it’s Ken Kesey in bird form…or, that’s not Ken Kesey, it’s a bird.
My hand is cleaner than Andrew’s weiner
My left breast has been hanging out for half the day.
Who isn’t cute playing the mandolin? Manson?
She had her shit goggles on a lot.
You wouldn’t know it now but she was super hot back then.
You look beautiful tonight…these are very special moments…I wish you were wearing lingerie…If I were a lonely cowboy….(Carl to Andrew)
I’m expressing myself right now.
How many nipples does a soybean have?
He’s a tick magnet. Yeah, ticks dig me, man!
Lactating men are bad.
Her specialty is imitating the sound of broken glass- MBWEEE!!!
I smell citrus. Did you shit?
I’m gonna cry my blues away (Robert Johnson)
Completely my favorite. Much better. Sucky.
Stop me if you’ve heard this before- What the fuck is wrong with this starfish?
I didn’t pass out! Was I snoring?
Bruccuchaa, toochi. da poodieaman; techacheet o-muchie-arriba! Brubiega-ha ma chu ta.
I lost my tongue on a tetherball pole.
The eternal dusk of gerbils in Carl’s anus
It’s a man nipple- It’s a mipple.
Just yank it out there
Everybody else is getting blueberry I’m getting dinglebery
Ann “Makes the sun want to stay in bed” Steffen
He has a very girly thing going on
If it was fake it would be…bigger
Sandy touched your work
Look- I have a hole in my crotch. Well that’s going in the book! I have a knot in mine.
He just made a bicycle out of chewing gum, a rubber band and a tampon.
Who does it to Enya? Who what to Enya?
This is like Ray Charles playing Jenga
Sweet hair tattoo!
I’m a lucky girl. Why, because your husband has huge pancakes?
Are you sitting down? No, I’m just going to pass some gas.
Might have been a uniball
When he told you how his dick got crooked it was like ahh!
That’s not the showerhead screaming right now. That’s Jeremy. It’s like a dental drill in there.
I smell what you’re stepping in.
She was hoping for a Sandy Sandwich
Tornado Jenga. Avant-garde Jenga. Jenga-style Kung Fu. Thanks comma jerkoff. White belt Jenga.
Use the magnifying glass much? Only in the shower.
The Way of the Jenga.
Imagine two young men out in the middle of summer
Jake’s playing Jenga with notecards.
When what you’re throwing is bigger than the target there’s a problem.
Are you putting my pen in your toes?
I’ve got some sweet Jenga moves. It’s pretty much my favorite game.
You’re hairy- I like it.
What is Carl doing right now? Getting squished by two hot chicks.
That went on for about 30 seconds too long.
It’s amazing that spider can hold on with such strong winds! He just talks! Did you see the spider though?
One word sums it up. I think I just peed my pants a little bit. Your lap is super absorbent. Sitting on your lap is like wearing a diaper.
Jesus is pretty much my favorite baby.
You look like a late, fat Elvis. I meant your weiner! It’s a pen!
You just made me fart! Would you rather I gave you a tweety twister? Tweety twister? I just made that up, but I was going for a titty twister and you pushed my hand lower.
You’re getting bigger- in some respects.
My penis is more like a vagina on a stick
You’re poop. Oh yeah, well you’re an asshole and that’s where poop comes from.
The conversation’s going south in a hurry.
I hope Jeremy’s still alive. Me too. I don’t really care.
Someone just needs to push him off the cliff and we’ll all be happier.
Now he’s dancing? Is that what you call that?
Up, up- a little to the right- now turn it- oh yeah oh yeah my cracker! I got so excited….
My penis is really, really small. I know…that’s too bad….
They’re talking to the birds now. They really were talking to the birds!
I found out today that I’m a pelican trapped inside a man’s body.
I gave up trying to figure out what they’re talking about. It’s just kept making less and less sense.
Vagina Bowl 2007- I don’t think I played in that one.
I can’t believe you’re not annoyed by yourself…It’s okay, I’m used to it.
As I recall, Rachel has been nothing but a nuisance.
I had to get jumped in the afternoon. I felt pretty stupid.
That Janine she’s a chatterbox.
Carl’s a humper.
I can be anything I want to be, and I want to be a pelican.
What’s that in the road, a seat cushion? It’s Carl!
If they’re gonna be neutral they should be the Swiss.
We totally got slaughtered by the Milk Chocolates last night.
What’s with the “Watch For Children” sign? What are you supposed to do if you see one? Is there a Child Watching Station?
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Ken Burns
When I took American History in high school, we watched Ken Burns’ Civil War documentary. I liked it for three reasons: (1) Since he wasn’t lecturing while it was on, Mr. Taylor was less likely to suddenly ask you a question because he could see you weren’t paying attention, (2) I have always been very interested in the Civil War and (3) it had lots of cool photographs (I think it’s funny that every Civil War picture is attributed to Matthew Brady), even if it did keep showing the same ones over and over again.
When many years later in 2001, Ken Burns came out with a documentary called Jazz, I was very excited. Jazz was my “thing.” I worked at a recording studio at the time, and my co-workers, who were largely unfamiliar with the style but intrigued by my “strange” tastes in music, all made it a point to watch the miniseries. Imagine my profound disappointment when the documentary turned out to be revisionist history propaganda legitimizing only commercial pop as relevant jazz and all but entirely dismissing the socially conscious, revolutionary music that I held so dearly.
Wynton Marsalis seems the major consultant for Ken Burns’ Jazz. Consulting Wynton Marsalis on jazz is like consulting Drew Barrymore on television acting. I hold him largely responsible for the trite bullshit you hear at contemporary jazz clubs, on jazz radio and at Barnes and Noble. I’m going to try to hold back the disdain I have for this man in this blog, but I hope he suffocates from his head being shoved so far up his own pompous ass.
I like Louis Armstrong as much as the next guy. His work with King Oliver was revolutionary, and his Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings absolutely essential. But after the twenties, he spent most of his career singing the blues and pop show tunes for a white audience, albeit with a singular voice. The song he is best known for, “What a Wonderful World,” is either highly satirical or highly embarrassing, but poignantly demonstrates that he was what we now call a “sellout.” Why, then, does the documentary spend at least 50% of the ten episodes obsessed with Louis Armstrong?
The first time I heard a Charlie “Bird” Parker recording, in 1993, it was by far the most “out there” thing I had ever heard. It took me several listens before I realized that he was playing a song with a melody and not just moving his fingers as fast as he could and blowing. His jagged rhythms, blazing melodic lines and ingenious use of harmony created be-bop, but for all of its uncompromising complexity, Parker’s compositions are entirely catchy, and I find myself humming them all the time.
Charlie Parker was a revolutionary and a genius who expressed the innermost expressions of himself and his race. But instead of playing the great bebop tunes penned by arguably the greatest musician of all time, Ken Burns completely misrepresented Bird by focusing on him covering ballads. My jaw dropped in disbelief as I watched them kill my hero on PBS. When, the next day, the owner of the recording studio (my boss) remarked that it was interesting that Bird was considered revolutionary at the time, but that his playing was tame and mellow by today’s standards, my heart almost broke.
I dejectedly watched the next couple episodes, curious to see how they would destroy my other heroes, most of whom came into their own in the late fifties and early sixties. The answer was clear- they’d do it by hardly mentioning them, discrediting them and by not playing their best work. Episode nine, the second to last episode, ended at the end of the fifties, leaving my favorite era of jazz, the sixties, untouched. I didn’t watch episode ten.
When many years later in 2001, Ken Burns came out with a documentary called Jazz, I was very excited. Jazz was my “thing.” I worked at a recording studio at the time, and my co-workers, who were largely unfamiliar with the style but intrigued by my “strange” tastes in music, all made it a point to watch the miniseries. Imagine my profound disappointment when the documentary turned out to be revisionist history propaganda legitimizing only commercial pop as relevant jazz and all but entirely dismissing the socially conscious, revolutionary music that I held so dearly.
Wynton Marsalis seems the major consultant for Ken Burns’ Jazz. Consulting Wynton Marsalis on jazz is like consulting Drew Barrymore on television acting. I hold him largely responsible for the trite bullshit you hear at contemporary jazz clubs, on jazz radio and at Barnes and Noble. I’m going to try to hold back the disdain I have for this man in this blog, but I hope he suffocates from his head being shoved so far up his own pompous ass.
I like Louis Armstrong as much as the next guy. His work with King Oliver was revolutionary, and his Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings absolutely essential. But after the twenties, he spent most of his career singing the blues and pop show tunes for a white audience, albeit with a singular voice. The song he is best known for, “What a Wonderful World,” is either highly satirical or highly embarrassing, but poignantly demonstrates that he was what we now call a “sellout.” Why, then, does the documentary spend at least 50% of the ten episodes obsessed with Louis Armstrong?
The first time I heard a Charlie “Bird” Parker recording, in 1993, it was by far the most “out there” thing I had ever heard. It took me several listens before I realized that he was playing a song with a melody and not just moving his fingers as fast as he could and blowing. His jagged rhythms, blazing melodic lines and ingenious use of harmony created be-bop, but for all of its uncompromising complexity, Parker’s compositions are entirely catchy, and I find myself humming them all the time.
Charlie Parker was a revolutionary and a genius who expressed the innermost expressions of himself and his race. But instead of playing the great bebop tunes penned by arguably the greatest musician of all time, Ken Burns completely misrepresented Bird by focusing on him covering ballads. My jaw dropped in disbelief as I watched them kill my hero on PBS. When, the next day, the owner of the recording studio (my boss) remarked that it was interesting that Bird was considered revolutionary at the time, but that his playing was tame and mellow by today’s standards, my heart almost broke.
I dejectedly watched the next couple episodes, curious to see how they would destroy my other heroes, most of whom came into their own in the late fifties and early sixties. The answer was clear- they’d do it by hardly mentioning them, discrediting them and by not playing their best work. Episode nine, the second to last episode, ended at the end of the fifties, leaving my favorite era of jazz, the sixties, untouched. I didn’t watch episode ten.
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