Monday, August 31, 2009


This post represents my attempt to sum up Louis Armstrong in a few paragraphs. That can't be done, of course, and the result is so simplistic that any readers who are at all familiar with Armstrong and his genius can safely ignore what follows. I've found, though, that many jazz listeners, and even musicians, don't understand what all the fuss is about - they consider Louis old-fashioned at best.

At some point in my high school band career, I was given the Louis Armstrong Jazz Award for being the best jazz musician in the school. However, that wasn't saying much in the semi-rural school I attended - it's not like there was a lot of competition. But it got me thinking, perhaps for the first time, about the paradox of Louis Armstrong.

When I was a kid (and still today), the most powerful AM radio station in Atlanta was WSB. But while WSB is now a talk radio station featuring unreflective right-wing mouths, it used to be the adult "easy listening" station. And I'll admit that I kind of liked it as a kid, and that I learned a lot from listening to it. They played crap like Lennie Dee and Danny Davis and the Nashville Brass, but they also played Benny Goodman and Dave Brubeck. And they played Louis Armstrong records: "Mack the Knife," "Cabaret," and "Blueberry Hill."

By the time I was playing in my high school's "stage band," as school big bands were usually called in those days, I vaguely knew that Armstrong was supposed to be one of the jazz greats - possibly the jazz great. But I couldn't reconcile that image with the pleasant, genial music I heard by Louis on the radio - that music didn't seem like the work of a genius. Understanding and appreciating Armstrong was a slow process, and was part of the journey of appreciating and enjoying early jazz styles in general.

A little investigation, a little exploration of the records in the local library, and I started to get it. As I explored Louis' early output, I found some stunning music: "West End Blues," with its amazingly complex opening cadenza, "Potato Head Blues," with a solo that dances over a stop-time rhythm, and "Beau Koo Jack," with trumpeting as virtuosic as any ever recorded in jazz.

The late-twenties Okeh records like these, collectively known as the Hot Fives, since most of them featured that band name, are usually considered to be Armstrong's pinnacle. But the best of his slightly later recordings for the Victor label are no less amazing. These records were made with pretty mediocre big bands, and the material is mostly pop songs of the time - good ones like "I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues" and lousy ones like "That's My Home." But the material is immaterial - on both of these sides Louis acheives a soaring eloquence unlike anything else in jazz; his playing on these tunes reminds me more of Beethoven than King Oliver.

The conventional wisdom is the rest of Armstrong's career represented decline and compromise. Certainly his later trumpet playing never again reached the heights of the Hot Fives and best Victors. But later recordings such as "I Double Dare You" feature brilliantly constructed improvisation with a somewhat more subdued, pared-down trumpet style. And even near the end of his career, when his ability to play the trumpet was limited, he could create solos that show his genius. I've always been struck by his playing on the 1968 "Dream a Little Dream of Me" - it's spare, using short phrases and few notes, but each note is carefully chosen and placed for maximum expressive effect. It's one the most moving of Armstrong solos.

By the time he recorded "Dream a Little Dream of Me," Louis had been fronting his constantly touring band, known as the All Stars, for 20 years or so. During this time, he became one of America's foremost entertainers; it was in this role that I first became aware of Armstrong. If it is difficult to understand how the first and greatest genius of jazz could settle for being a mere entertainer, well, that's a distinction which Louis never made for himself. In all stages of his career, he played music which he hoped people would like. Yes, his days of jazz innovation were long behind him by the time he knocked the Beatles out of the number one spot on the pop charts with "Hello Dolly," but he was still trying to create good music, and usually succeeding.

Gary Giddins' book on Armstrong, Satchmo, has chapters titled "The Artist as Entertainer" and "The Entertainer as Artist." This summarizes Louis - he was both, and didn't see a division. If you don't know Armstrong's music, check out the early masterpieces, but don't stop there. Listeners who can open themselves to Louis' music at all stages of his career will find lots of rewards waiting for them.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Real Improvising

I have a longer post waiting in the wings, but I just came across a beautiful Lee Konitz quote:

As soon as I hear myself play a melodic segment that I already know, I take the mouthpiece out. The art of improvising implies, from the first note onward, that the slate is clean. What interests me is the procedure that falls into place without premeditation. The important thing is to flee the task that's assigned to you.

I love that, particularly the paradoxical last sentence. When I read something like this, or when I hear Konitz play, I am filled with admiration. And I'm a little chagrined about my own playing. Konitz and Steve Lacy are two of my heroes, and they both exhibit the same pure esthetic in their playing. They are (or were, in Lacy's case) interested in improvising melody, not in creating excitement, not in working up the audience, and certainly not in running through predictable patterns. Lacy, unlike Konitz, sometimes ventured from melodic improvising into sound exploration, but he even did that his own way - no screaming, no "finger-wiggling," but an exploration of the saxophone's sound capabilities that was just as thoughtful as his melodic playing.

Not many players in jazz have maintained such a pure approach to improvising. There have been numerous published studies of Charlie Parker's music showing how he combined his favorite licks and devices in different ways time and time again. Parker, of course, was a genius, and his solos were so brilliantly constructed that his use of set material didn't weaken his incredible music. But we've all heard lesser players who keep coming back to the same licks. And Johnny Hodges was one of the most amazing saxophonists in the history of jazz, but he often used the same set solos every night for many tunes.

I certainly don't come close to the melodic purity of Konitz or Lacy. With the 4th Ward Afro-Klezmer Orchestra, I only get a few solos per night, and I often plan the opening phrase of a solo before I start to play. And I do resort to devices that I know will "work" - building my solo gradually to a high point, then tapering off fairly quickly, for example.

There are lots of ways to improvise, and few of us have the musical and personal strength to improvise the way Konitz does. But I've found that the closer I keep his example (as well as Lacy's), the stronger my own music is. I'll make sure to keep them close.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Happening Now

I write so much about Ancient Musik that I wanted to post something about somebody/something Happening Now in jazz that excites me. Composer/drummer John Hollenbeck's first CD as leader was issued less than ten years ago, in 2001, and his music is some of the most amazing and touching to be found in jazz today.

I was totally unfamiliar with Hollenbeck until early 2005, when RoboCromp, my duo ensemble with Rob Rushin, opened for Hollenbeck's Claudia Quintet at Eyedrum in Atlanta. As Rob and I arrived to set up, tune up, and warm up, it became obvious that Hollenbeck had not known that there was going to be an opening act and was pretty annoyed by that development. This, in turn, annoyed me, and I think that my playing that evening was informed by a certain amount of anger. But my negative feelings disappeared as soon as the Claudias started playing.

The Claudia Quintet has an unusual instrumentation: Chris Speed on clarinet and tenor sax, vibist Matt Moran, Ted Reichman on accordion, and bassist Drew Gress, in addition to Hollenbeck. Hollenbeck's music for the Claudia Quintet is highly structured; there's plenty of improvisation, but the "solos" are part of the composed web - they add to the impact of the compositions rather than stand out as virtuoso statements for their own sake. The pieces build over time and are often built from unusual musical materials and from even more unusual external inspirations. "...can you get through this life with a good heart?," from I, Claudia, was inspired (as Hollenbeck explained at the Eyedrum show) by composer Morton Feldman and songwriter Joni Mitchell. The slow-moving pointillism of the opening few minutes gives way to warm, but unusual harmonies and heart-breaking melodic fragments over a pop-ish groove. "Drewslate," from Semi-Formal, was written so that four members of the ensemble would have some difficult music to rehearse when the bassist was late to rehearsal; the bass part is simpler than the tricky parts for the other instruments.

I love an improvised piece by Hollenbeck that I thought I would hate. "No Images," the title track from his debut album, is played on his late grandmother's autoharp with a portable electric fan. Sounds like a really bad idea, but the small fan blades against the strings produce a complex soundscape, full of unexpected subharmonics.

I'm not in a position to write definitively about Hollenbeck's work because, until 24 hours ago, I somehow had not been aware that he has issued several CDs of material by his Large Ensemble big band. I'm not sure how I came to be so far behind the curve on that group, but you can be sure that I'll be checking them out. In the meantime, I think I'll put on the Claudia Quintet again.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

More About Flannery O'Connor

During my recent visit to Andalusia, I learned that Flannery O'Connor's bedroom, where she did her writing, has been left pretty much untouched after her death. Her desk and typewriter were moved to the Flannery O'Connor Room of Georgia College and replicas brought to her room at Andalusia, but everything else is as she left it. So on my visit, I was fascinated to see a record player and a stack of records in one corner of the room. What kind of music did Flannery O'Connor like? I was not allowed behind the velvet rope into the room, but when I got home, I pulled out my copy of The Habit of Being, a collection of O'Connor's letters, to see what I could find out.

During the last year of her life, Fannery was given a record player by a group of Atlanta nuns. Shortly after this, Thomas Stritch, a fellow Catholic writer, sent O'Connor a stack of records. I was amused to read her thoughts on music:

I have the original Tin Ear, that is to say, the First and Prime Tin Ear. So I like music that is guaranteed good because I have no way of finding out for myself. Old stuff like Haydn that there is positively no doubt about. On my own I wouldn't know it from Music to Clean Up By.

And later:

...I don't have any preference yet though I think I like the kind that is straight up and down better than what slides around, if you know what I mean.


We are broke out with records now as Thomas sent me a box full out of his basement. All I can say about it is that all classical music sounds alike to me and all the rest of it sounds like the Beatles.

And if you've never read anything by Flannery O'Connor and don't know where to start, the best of her short stories are funny, shocking, and revelatory. Among the best are "A Good Man is Hard to Find," "The Life You Save May Be Your Own," and "Good Country People." Perhaps my very favorite is "Revelation," in which Mrs. Ruby Turpin, a shallow and self-satisfied Southern Christian, receives a message from God, delivered in an unusual way. At the end of the story she has a revelation about her place in the universe. It's deep and very funny.