Insolent Noise? I Think Not

I wrote about a week ago that I have ideas about art percolating in the foggy confines of my mind. And when I wrote that, I was specifically referring to painted images for public consumption and man's interpretation of them. Most of those ideas are still ruminating waiting for the proper release.

But for the past few days, my thoughts have expanded to include "les belles artes", the backbone of a refined civilization, the skeleton that forms defining cultures. And I write that with only a thinly veiled hint of sarcasm.

Let me be the first to say that I am not a patron of the arts. Sure, I can enjoy theatre, the ballet, or an art exhibit if it is something basic, easily understandable, and relatively inexpensive. But I can just as easily skip the showing of Picasso to watch Larry, Moe, and Curly gnuck, gnuck, gnuck themselves to death. And while I do look at The Starry Night and see The Almighty's universe, don't look for me to go ga-ga over a crucifix in a jar of urine anytime soon.

So perhaps in anticipation of those musings, I've been listening to quite a bit of jazz lately. There's a panacean quality to jazz that awakens me from within when I'm feeling sullen, or settles me when I'm feeling hyperactive, or brings clarity when my mind is frazzled.

Jazz is rather ubiquitous (but in a good way) and is largely without defined parameters. It can just as easily describe Paul Whiteman and the Cliquot Club Eskimos as it does Thelonious Monk and Miles Davis. So for purposes of this blog only, I'll try to confine myself to the mainstream and differentiate jazz from ragtime, swing, and all the various fusions that have emerged in the last several decades.

So, while I have no illusions about providing a definitive history of jazz or a comprehensive analysis of its metronomical cadences, I can describe what jazz means to me and why it'll always be my favorite musical form.

For all its generality, it is the purest form of music I know. Sure, jazz has its derivatives that sometimes don't resemble its progenitor, but the prodigal music usually finds its way back home. While its roots may be found in West African music, its birth occurred in the good ol' USA; some have even described it as the classical music of the West.

But what I find the most interesting aspect about jazz is the regional differences that comprise this art form. And I think its perpetual regeneration is what keeps this art form alive.

When most people think of jazz, two images come to mind.

A Harlem speakeasy, cigarette smoke wisping, perky flappers flash a lot of leg while they dance the Charleston or the Lindy, and swanky men (always donning a pinky ring) with tilted fedoras who thumb their noses at the Volstead Act and drown themselves in bathtub gin. The music is bouncy, radiant, and full of mirth. The young and hip crowd dances until the hide-away bar is raided by the coppers and patrons are left to find another place to drink and dance.

Next - a smoky New Orleans hall, middle-aged and overall-wearing men drink boilermakers and moonshine from canning jars. The smoke comes from homegrown and self-rolled tobacco. The jazz band plays a slower, more methodic music, and has a hint of the blues. The same band that plays on the stage is the same group of men that led a funeral procession to Cemetery Number One to bury somebody's family member. Two types of music filled the streets that day - the mournful jazz heard when a loved one is buried and another that celebrates the lives of the ones we love.

And those two images are what keeps the electric curcuits of jazz open. Both forms have superficial differences but work toward a common theme; to bring out a college basketball analogy, think Jerry Tarkanian's Run-And-Gun and Dean Smith's Four Corners offense.

Yesterday, I read a review of a book entitled "Is Jazz Dead: Or Has It Moved To a New Address?". The author, Stuart Nicholson, is a fan of jazz; he has authored biographies of Duke Ellington, Billie Holiday, and Ella Fitzgerald. I'll give Mr. Nicholson the benefit of the doubt and presume that the book laments what is happening to this art form. He is only asking a question, feeling for a pulse, not making a statement or calling a time of death.

Coincidentally, I've been listening to Wynton Marsalis' "The Majesty of the Blues" the past few days. Released in 1988, it was among the first jazz albums I bought. There is an excellent trilogy of songs that takes up the same subject matter as Nicholson's book, which is essentially: Can Jazz survive as a viable art form as it faces newer youth-oriented music, particularly in an international forum?

After all, the oldest jazz recordings are quickly approaching the century mark. These recordings come from an era when jazz was know as "jass" music, supposedly named for the jasmine perfume of the prostitutes that patroned the dance halls looking for new business.

One hundred years may seem like an eternity compared to today's Top Pop 40. But keep in mind, classical music and opera have been around since medieval times; even the most recognizable classical music was written before our Constitution. Most kids know something about Beethoven and Mozart while most adults can't tell you much about King Oliver or Jelly Roll Morton. Many would say that on that basis alone, jazz is dead.

Marsalis called these conclusions premature autopies. "Premature Autopsies", in fact, is the subtitle of his second part of the triad. This musical sermon rails against those who say jazz has no place in today's marketplace, that jazz has not defiled itself in order to become musical bubble-gum. Jazz is noble because it is not common; but neither is it elitist.

In fact, jazz is the most democratic and meritocratic form of music I know. It is art that must be searched for but can be found by all those who seek it; it is art that sells itself solely on talent, not image. It is poetry in a marketplace largely comprised of prose.

Jazz is also jealous; it demands kinetic energy and abhors idleness. Its message is subtle; it does not require your attention for it to exist. But once it has properly captured your attention, it will hold you in its arms forever.

And because of that, I will listen to jazz until the day I die. That, and it always makes my feet tap and my soul resurrect itself.