IDEOLOGY, BURGERS AND BEER: JAZZ

TIMES MAGAZINE
December 2003

When I was first living in New York in 1989, a bunch of us musicians used to
head over to the Corner Bistro in the West Village after the gig around 2:00 AM
for their character-building half-pound burger and draft beer, accompanied to
music from one of the best jazz jukeboxes in Manhattan. I think it was the
drummer Joe Farnsworth who thought up a ridiculous but irresistible kind of
word game that we often played there. The idea was to think of pairs of jazz
musicians throughout history with the same first name or last name, pit them
against each other, and then pick the greater.

Around the table we would go, taking turns as one person would formulate a
pair, and then the rest of us would choose our favorite. Examples would be:
Elvin Jones or Joe Jones? Wynton Kelly or Wynton Marsalis? Paul Chambers or
Paul Gonsalves? (There was one night when this doubled as a drinking game.
The rest of the table had to go bottoms up if someone could think up an
adjacent last-name/first name two-gender pair —Shirley Scott or Scott
Henderson?) As the night wore on and the dollar-drafts kept flowing, the game
usually degenerated into random pairings that spread out into all realms of
culture — Greg Brady or Greg Osby? Lonnie Plexico or Lonnie Anderson? Keith
Jarrett or Keith Moon? Then it became a typical Gen-X affair, and we got a kick
out of yoking the jazz musicians and pop-culture figures together as an end in
itself.

The game had a certain purity precisely because of its inanity. How could you
choose one person over another in an arbitrary pair like that? It was
impossible! Joe was always there to remind us, though, of the simple conditions
of the game: “You have to choose one.” Another rule that was almost always
enforced: After you make your choice, own it with no apologies or explanations.
Likewise, no one else was allowed to comment on your pick any more than a
monosyllabic groan or grunt. It was onto the next person immediately. The
effect was sublimely ridiculous – a rapid-fire barrage of written-in-stone value
judgments against the absurd backdrop of matching first and last names.

The subtext of the game was that making comparative value judgments always
smacks a little of the absurd. “Player X is more important in jazz history than
Player Y,” is a ‘substantive’ statement, following legal and political
commentator Stanley Fish’s gloss on that word. This kind of statement implies
that further debate is redundant and worthless, although, alas, not everyone
will grasp that implication. A real-world analogous statement is, “Every unborn
child should have the right to life.” Fish’s point is that you don’t waste your time
trying to argue against this kind of belief or reach a consensus with the person
voicing it. If you disagree, your best tactic is to put your own view forward just
as unapologetically, and lobby even stronger for its application.
How analogous are political and aesthetic substantive claims? In our game, we
were poking fun at the overblown seriousness that surrounds aesthetic
judgments. We were being contemptuous of the political tone of these ‘who’s
the greatest in the history of jazz’ discussions. Why all the gravity? You’d get
someone proclaiming that Wes was the end-all on guitar, everything after him
was shite, and these new players today were desecrating the legacy of jazz
guitar. It wasn’t so much the statement itself; it was the tone —all the tragic
resignation of a Trotskyite who saw his original dream go up in smoke. I mean,
we’re not talking serious world affairs that will affect humanity here. It’s just
music! Right?

On one particular night, though, we fell into one of those dead-end ‘who’s
better’ discussions. Lapsing into grave, weighty tones, we became the butt of
our own joke. The pair in question was Sonny Rollins/Sonny Stitt. It was a
perfect specimen of the game - apples and oranges, completely useless and
ridiculous to pick one over the other. Regardless, the majority of the group
went with Rollins, but a few chose Stitt. This was one of the few instances
where we broke our no-explanations rule. A long, protracted discussion
followed over just what the criterion for everyone’s choice was. My camp
maintained that Rollins beat out Stitt. Undoubtedly, he’s one of the greatest
improvisers that jazz has ever had. His winning greatness for us, though, was
his double attribute: Not only are his improvisations so inspired, but Rollins’
solos often have a compositional logic that compels you to listen in a different
manner. He pioneered that approach on the classic ‘Blue Seven’ from
‘Saxophone Colosssus’. There’s an organic way in which the motifs generate
themselves out of each other. His opening melody drifts seamlessly into the
solo; it’s all one large idea. Rollins wasn’t just blowing an inspired
improvisation. He was building an edifice, erecting something that would stay
standing through time because of the internal logic holding it together. To
cement our argument in favor of Rollins, we dropped the big ‘P’ word:
Profound.

The other guys maintained that Stitt was the greater because he was just a
player — pure, unadorned great bop. As the discussion went on, it turned out
that the whole ‘compositional’ approach, represented by a host of icons
including Monk himself, lacked greatness for these guys. My camp was
outraged, seething. What the heck did they mean? We had a strange feeling of
disorientation, like on a Twilight Zone episode — were they the same musicians
we had just been gigging with? Who were they, if they couldn’t get with Monk?
Or maybe they were just trying to be provocative.

We quit the name game at that point and got all serious. The binary here was
‘more compositional player’ vs. ‘just a blower’. Example: Monk vs. Bud? Their
answer unflinchingly: “Bud.” Note that the word ‘just’ was not pejorative for
them. On the contrary, to be just a blower, albeit on an inspired level, was what
jazz was all about.
Bird personified that. Those solos on live records like ‘Bird With The Herd’,
when he sat in with the Woody Herman Band, or a record like ‘One Night in
Washington’, are dangerously, menacingly good. ‘Just blowing’ was what made
jazz more punk than any punk rock band could ever be. To be able to blow a
solo like Bird — profound, gripping, full of urgency and beautiful mortality —
but to do so, like him, with the casual ease of someone standing at a bus stop —
well, now that was something that might be called ‘great’.

That ease couldn’t be hindered by compositional elements, because

‘composition’, was, in their line of argument, anathema to jazz. It was
everything that Bird was escaping from; it was what made his music so free and
joyous. A Bird head like ‘Anthropology’ was something that came more out of
his improvisations. It was pasted together almost as an afterthought from the
most inspired bits of his solos.

Building too much compositional logic into your solo was a flaw for the Stitt
camp — an affectation that got in the way of the flow. It implied
pretentiousness and an overly apparent intellectualism that wore thin and
didn’t stand the test of repeated listening. Bop was Mecca for the Stitt camp,
and Bird was the prophet. Their favorites followed in his footsteps through the
hard-bop era: noble, unaffected players who were usually more obscure, like
Tina Brooks, Ernie Henry or Bill Hardman.

Monk’s improvisations were informed by his compositions; Bird’s compositions

were informed by his improvisations. In that assessment, they couldn’t be more
opposite, and lumping Monk in willy-nilly with a ‘be-bop revolution’ is
misleading to a point. He has a very different kind of genius than Bird – more a
composer’s genius. One might put him in a lineage that includes Duke Ellington.

That would also be limiting, though. Monk, like Sonny Rollins, was also an
incredible improviser who soloed with that same ‘waiting at the bus stop’
nonchalant greatness as Bird. His solo on ‘I Mean You’ may refer to the melody
of the song, take it apart, and reconstruct it. But that was within the context of
an improvisation, one that had the same killer casual profundity of Bird. Monk
was certainly not getting caught in the net of his own compositional logic; he
was just being a genius.

These guys were stubborn, though, and wouldn’t back down; neither would we.
We finally sulkily ‘agreed to disagree’. A distinctly ideological strain had
infected the discussion, killing our buzz.

In politics, ideology is dangerous – from 20th Century examples down to the

present ‘Washington Consensus’. Ideology pastes what appears to be a thought-
out argument onto a substantive claim that is more animalistic than logical in
nature: “Because of facts A, B, and C, we should all band together in a tribe and
demonize those other people.” Ideology uses logic selectively, in a sneaky,
backhanded manner. Its aim is that we actually suspend our sense of logic and,
with it, our moral radar. Then we’ll be in mute complicity with what’s to come.
Musical ideology is similar in that it asks us to suspend our aesthetic judgments
and acquiesce to its claims. It collects facts and interprets them broadly in the
same manner: “You cannot dig this music as much as that music because…”
Why do we often identify practitioners of jazz ideology as conservative? It’s
because of the parental, Old Testament ring to their utterances. Those
utterances are analogous to the quasi-religious words of the Bush
administration, spoken to us as if we are children who still believe in Santa
Claus. Because of the specious, ideological tone, though, we cannot trust this
parent and do not look up to it. We don’t like being told what to enjoy musically
anymore than we like being told what constitutes being patriotic.

There’s another kind of musical ideology, though, that’s more self-imposed and
private. I can identify it in myself, although it’s hidden under a veneer of it’s-all-
goodism. I think many of us carry around some kind of ideology about jazz to
varying degrees, because its marginalized status in American music stokes our
partisan fury that much more. (See: Ken Burns documentary.) This kind of
ideology bothers me because it’s intractable. It hasn’t been imposed on me by
some outside authority; it’s my own personal dogma. Is it perhaps steering my
whole aesthetic sense covertly, calling the shots from behind a curtain in the
shadows of my Id?

For instance: Is my lack of enjoyment of most of what’s called pop music these
days simply because it sucks, or is it because I’m unwittingly locked in the grips
of a musical elitist ideology? Maybe I’m missing something vital; maybe I’ve
become the proverbial old fart! Where does the ideological baggage stop and
the real pleasure begin? Is there a hard line between the two, or are they all
mixed up in each other? Perhaps they’re not entirely severable.

I have music that I love, and ideology is a weapon that I might use to defend and
argue my love, which is tempting but absurd. After all, how do you defend a gut
level emotion? What’s more, why would you? Kierkegaard writes wisely, “To
defend something is to disparage it.” It’s the mantra of the high road. If you love
something, you should be all quiet and spiritual about it, not needing to justify
it, right? Wrong! How could we survive without the bitchy, bickering fun of
polemics?

Maybe we get defensive over our various musical loves because they define
who we are. Love is exclusionary. You can’t love everything, all the time. That
goes for a critic or layman, and also for musicians. When you build your identity
as a player, you do so in part by excluding a bunch of other identities, at least
temporarily. That process of exclusion is determined by the gut, not the
intellect. It’s tied up in the murky morass of subjectivity – early musical and
non-musical experiences, innate personality traits, etc…
We laid that process of exclusion bare as we played the name-game. The
arbitrary humor of the game was a salve, a way of keeping our own self-irony
lest we lapse into ideology like we did that one night. At the end of the day, we
all dug Sonny Stitt and Sonny Rollins both. It was a name pair that just shouldn’t
have been uttered in the first place.

Whatever the case, I’ve discovered something great about listening to music
and playing it. You may necessarily exclude great chunks of music in the
process of building up your aesthetic. You can always surprise yourself later on,
though, when music that you weren’t initially ready for reveals itself to you in
all its beauty.

If only our government would surprise itself and us in the same way. At its
present course, it is opting for the exclusionary course, guarding its belief with
a desperate, violent love, full of folly. It is truly disparaging the thing it defends.

© Brad Mehldau, September, 2003

© Jazz Times, Inc. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.