I’d like to take a minute to play you an essay, a little intellectual funk, from a Black perspective. Listen for Ray Brown’s struttin’ bass line beneath my words, because if you listen closely, you can hear him struttin’ down Central Avenue, past the ghost of L.A.’s Dunbar Hotel, the Brass Rail, and down the streets and alleyways of Harlem, New York, in a slow and funky blues.
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It was listening to this big-city blues drenched in the language of jazz as a kid, that initially turned the lights on in my head. It was while listening to people like Bird, Miles, Trane, Jackie McLean, Dexter Gordon, and the other denizens of the jazz culture, that it became clear to me that a people who could produce this kind of excellence could do anything. I then began to explore the claim that we hadn’t, and the resulting knowledge - which I'm still accumulating - has served to broaden both my consciousness, and my horizons.
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Today, I even base my writings on Charlie Parker solos. First, I lay-down a foundation, by thinking outside of the box and questioning conventional wisdom. Then I lay-out the chord progressions of my theme, by beginning to tell the people what I think they NEED to hear, instead of trying to become a star by regurgitating what they WANT to hear. I then elaborate, expand, and substantiate in a flourish of thoughts from a Black perspective, which lays out the landscape as I see it, in a slow and funky blues.
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So, yes, I always instill the essence of bebop into my prose, because as I see it, that’s who we are. Our consciousness is the music of our minds, so going through life trying to play Mozart, or a variation thereof, is a gross waste of time. It’s just not us, and we will never achieve our full potential as a people by playing someone else’s tune. We’ve got to stick to a slow and funky Blues, because that's what we know - and that’s who we are.
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Now, about Jackie:
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When Jackie McLean first appeared on the scene he swung it like nobody else; He stood all alone, with that bittersweet tone, owing nobody, only himself. With his furious attack he could take you back to the beauty of Yardbird’s song, but that solemn moan made it all his own, as burning passion flowed lush from his horn. Hearing "Love and Hate" made Jazz my fate, joyous anguish dripped blue from his song. He both smiled and cried and dug deep-down inside, until the innocence of my childhood was gone. . He took me to a place that had no face, I was so young when I heard his sweet call, but he parted the fog and in no time at all, a child of bebop sprung fully enthralled. As I heard this new sound, and embraced the profound, childish eyes now saw as a man; I stood totally perplexed, but I couldn’t step back, from the hunger of my mind to expand. . I saw Charlie and Lester, and a smiling young Dexter, as I peered into Jackie’s sweet horn; it was a place that I knew, though I’d never been to, but a place that I now call my home.
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Buster, let me hear you strut, - Da doom da doom doom da da da doom doom doom . . . Now, take us on outta here, Sarah.
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Eric L. Wattree
wattree.blogspot.com Ewattree@Gmail.com
Citizens Against Reckless Middle-Class Abuse (CARMA)
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Religious bigotry: It's not that I hate everyone who doesn't look, think, and act like me - it's just that God does.
The tendency to believe that people with lighter skin have more value than others is a direct result of the mis-education of the masses. From the time we start school we’re taught that anyone who has ever achieved anything whatsoever, or had a cogent thought that benefitted humanity or contributed to the intellectual journey of mankind was White - Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, etc. Certainly someone had to be thinking in other parts of the world other than White folks, but according to our educational institutions, that wasn’t the case. That fact has contributed greatly to White feelings of superiority, and the acceptance of same by many Black people, and the people of other cultures.
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I stumbled upon that fact by accident, but the reason I know it is true with near certainty, is because when I was a very young child, I was falling victim to the very same mind-set, but fortunately, my father was a jazz fanatic, and he introduced me to jazz and the jazz culture before I was ten years old. As a result, all of my heroes were jazz artists, and I measured the relative value of people by how well the music of their various cultures stood up to the musical intellect and style of Charlie Parker. Since I have yet to find any culture that has, that gave me a strong sense of cultural value and pride.
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That’s why it’s so important to raise our kids with a strong sense of cultural pride. As a direct result of my lifelong attitude in that regard, I’ve never felt the least bit self-conscious about competing with my White counterparts on an eyeball-to-eyeball basis, and I’ve always prevailed. And there’s a very simple reason for that as well - because you are what you think.
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There’s actually no difference between people, but the ones who tend to prevail are those who BELIEVE they are superior. That accounts for why so many White people call me arrogant (at least those who are out of touch) - because I tend not to know “my place.” But the fact is, I know my place very well - on top - not because I was anointed by God to be on top because I'm a Black man - anyone who thinks like that is a fool - but because I work very hard to be the best as an individual. Life is not about WHAT you are, but WHO you are; your character, your knowledge, and your willingness to pursue and nurture both.
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Thus, I never try to prove myself to White folks. I make sure they have to prove themselves to me, and the same goes for everyone else. Don't merely bring me your receipt from Harvard and expect me to accept you as an intellectual: "Congratulations on your accomplishment. Now show me what you got. Can you play 'Parker's Mood' or have a scheme to cure cancer? Okay, well at least play 'Misty' for me."
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Is that arrogant? Maybe, but it works for me.
. A Swingin' Affair
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I
Was told as a child
Blacks had no worth,
Not a nickel’s worth of dimes.
I believed that myth
‘Til Dex rode in
With his ax
In double time.
.
His
Horn was soarin’,
The changes flyin’,
His rhythm right on time;
My heart
Beat with the pleasure
Of new found pride, knowing,
His blood
Flowed through mine.
.
Dex
Took the chords
The keyboard played,
And danced around each note;
Then shuffled ‘em
Like a deck of cards,
And didn’t miss a stroke.
.
B minor 7 with flatted 5th,
A half diminished chord,
He substituted a lick in D,
Then really began to soar.
.
He tipped his hat
To Charlie Parker,
And quoted
Trane with Miles,
.
And then paid his homage to
Thelonious Monk,
In Charlie Rouse's style.
.
He took
A Scrapple From The Apple,
Then went to Billie’s Bounce,
The rhythm section, now on fire,
But he didn’t budge an ounce.
.
He just
Dug right in
To shuffle again,
This time
A Royal Flush,
Then lingered a bit
Behind the beat,
Still smokin’
But in no rush.
.
Then he
Doubled the time
Just like this rhyme,
In fluid 16th notes,
tellin’
Charlie and Lester,"your baby boy, Dexter’s,
On top of the
Bebop you wrote.
.
Wailin’
Like a banshee,
This prince of saxophone,
His ballads dripped of honey,
His Arpeggios were strong.
.
Callin’ on his idles,
Ghost of Pres’
Within in the isles,
Smiling at his protege,
At the peak of this new style.
.
His tenor
Drenched of Blackness,
And all the things we are--
Of pain, and pleasure,
And creative greatness
Until his final bar.
*****************************
Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk at the Open Door Cafe, New York City in The Village, 1953
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Jackie McLean
Who are these cats, where did they come from,
and how did they become so mean?
The beauty of their lives must be sweet as honey,
and what have their oh-so-hip eyes seen?
Their lives must be a perpetual party, just jammin’ and caressing their horns,
and traveling around to exotic places that one day I’ll have gone.
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New York City, a town of glitz and glamor,
where the genius of Bird once spoke;
Full of beautiful women, and progressive brothers,
hanging on to my every note.
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The man is back! But this time around
he’s come back filtered through me,
so we’re hangin' around this time,
because I’m well into my prime
and I’ve made it a point to be free.
.
We’ll avoid that monkey
who poured juice in Bird's horn, this time we’ll hold him at bay,
because noddin ain't blowin'
when the changes are flowin',
so it ain't no noddin' when playin'
my way.
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Bird was the man,
but I had an immediate demand
if he wanted to channel his licks through me;
I loved his sweet notes,
but that jones cut his throat,
so he'll settle for gin and juice
while in me.
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We’ll be jammin' all night, and sheddin' all day,
Sonny Stitt
and of course, we’ll leave a little time for some wooing;
We’ll sleep on Tuesdays between 10 and 2,
and then warm up for yet some more blowin’.
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Yeah, I know,
sleeping on Tuesday between 10 and 2
is a gross waste of our time,
but we can’t disappoint our lustful fans,
so we’ve got to keep my body primed.
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Just me and my horn, chasin’ that lick
that says, "Bird, Indeed, is back!"
But this time around we’re doing it my way,
and not stumblin’ upon stage while we're smacked.
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I thought
my dreams of Bird and Dexter Gordon
would only age like vintaged wine,
because it was based on the culture
of a vibrant people that would
last through the end of time.
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But now I awake to the poetic verse
of vulgar nursery Rhymes,
backed by the scratching of Miles Ahead
in something like 4/4 time.
Taking the time to learn music
is now considered by many
a gross waste of their time,
so if you want to take note of what
Thelonious once wrote
you have to go on the White side town.
Dexter Gordon
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So it's sad to say, but we’re well on our way
to making a mark unique to this land,
by becoming the only culture
unable to perform - What We Created -
in the entire sojourn of man.
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Thus, I batted my eyes only to find
that I’ve awaken to another time;What was once so sweet
is now a nightmare to me,
and my sweet dream has past its sweet prime . . .?
.
I don’t think so . . .
.
So I limped on over to my old dusty case
and carefully withdrew my ax;
Bird
Like an aging gunfighter,
you never forget, when something you love
is attacked.
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Having mastered other things, unlike at 16,
a little wisdom informs what I see.
I wasted my time chasing Dexter and Bird
instead of chasing the man I could be.
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I’ll never be Bird or Dexter Gordon,
that is now plain to see;
So the time has now come to see who I am,
because neither of them could be me.
Reflections on the Stanley Crouch, Mtume Debateon Modern Jazz
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I recently watched the debate between columnist Stanley Crouch and percussionist James Mtume on the evolution of modern jazz with great interest. Crouch, the steadfast jazz purist, essentially took the position that much of what’s passing for jazz today is actually a corruption of the art form, while Mtume took the position that Crouch was simply out of touch with the new face of jazz.
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In my opinion, Stanley Crouch was right, and James Mtume was simply remaining consistent with what his musical philosophy seems to advocate - playing to the audience and giving applause priority over substance. But Crouch made the mistake of not framing the issue in a way that would allow him to sieze the bottom line. It’s not about the new versus the old; what the discussion is actually about is quality versus lesser quality, and that can be measured.
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First, just because something is new doesn’t mean that it’s better. The problem with a lot of electronic music is electronics is being used to camouflage a lack of technical competence. There’s so much noise and electronic distortion going on that it gives the musicians the "freedom" to play bad notes, be less than melodic, and play musical nonsense. Where, on the other hand, acoustic music is intimate. It’s purely about the musician and his technical ability. Period. If Bud Powell played a bad note, or played the wrong chord progression, it would stick out like a soar thumb. But if he was playing electronic music there’s so much chaos and distortion going on that nobody would notice.
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Mtume was also talking about "technical exhaustion." He said that after a given time, in a given context, everything has been played that can be played in a given form of music. That’s also nonsense - in fact, the ability to do something new with the rhythm and chord progressions of "Stella by Starlight" is exactly what we mean by art.
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Wattree's Chord Chart
There are only ten basic numbers known to mankind - 0 to 9. Yet we can take those ten numbers and combine them in an inexhaustible number of ways. On the other hand, there are TWELVE notes in music, and just like with numbers, you can build an infinite number of scales, chords, and rhythmic constructions with those twelve notes. So Mtume’s claim that you can "exhaust" the possibilities of what can be played on a saxophone is total and demonstrable nonsense.
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The fact is, Miles started having problems with his chops so he went into retirement. But he loved music so much that he wanted to get back into the game, so being the genius that he was, he simply INVENTED a form of music that he could play. Then we had a generation of musicians who came along behind him, who didn’t have a vision of their own, that built an entire musical movement based on what Miles created to accommodate his old age and disability.
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And finally, Mtume justified this "new music" by saying that it inspired young people who weren’t previously into jazz. But the fact is, art is NEVER suppose to lower itself to accommodate the tastes of the lowest common denominator of the people. Art is suppose to raise the consciousness of the people up to it. That’s why it’s called art.
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But the fact is, there’s a very simple way of resolving this debate over the relative merit of this so-called "new thing" over what I'll simply call conventional progressive jazz. Much like with good parenting, you can measure quality by what quality produces. So we can easily measure the relative quality of the two eras by measuring the quality of what the two respective eras have produced. Where is today’s equivalent of Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk, Bud Powell, Miles Davis, Dexter Gordon, or Jackie McLean? And where are today’s jazz standards, like 'So What,' 'Round Midnite,' 'Moody’s Mood for love,' 'Impressions' or 'A Night in Tunisias?' I’ll tell you where - they don't exist.
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The great jazz standards of the past are no longer being produced because the towering jazz giants who produced them have become all but a thing of the past. I can’t think of one person of the stature of Dexter Gordon, John Coltrane, or Jackie McLean that’s been produced in over thirty years, and there’s a good reason for that - the quality of the music that’s been produced over the past thirty years is not conducive to producing people of that stature and creative ability. That in itself should close the case on this debate.
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But now let’s look at how young some of the old-school giants of jazz were when they reached their musical maturity. Charlie Christian, the father of the modern jazz guitar - died at 25. Charlie parker - died at 34. Clifford Brown - died at 25. Booker Littler - died at 23. Paul Chambers - died at 33. Fats Navarro - died at 26. So John Coltrane and Eric Dolphy were relatively old men when they died - John Coltrane died at 41, and Eric Dolphy at 36. So many of the giants of the past made their mark on the world and moved on long before many of today’s musicians have even gotten all of their scales together. And there’s a reason for that - because in the past young musicians were held to a much higher standard and exposed to a far superior quality of music and musicianship.
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The Jazz Crusaders as young up-and-comers
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The musicians of the Bebop and Hard Bop eras understood from the outset that they weren’t going to get rich playing the music that they loved, so they sought to validate themselves through excellence, while many of today’s musicians are in a hurry to learn their chromatic scale so they can run out and achieve wealth and fame - they figure they can learn to play in Gb Maj while they're on the road. Then they get out and play distorted chord progressions, add a thunderous beat and loud electronic distortion to camouflage their limitations, and label it as "The New Thang." Thereafter, they slap one another on the back as brilliant, and dismiss those of us who recognize it as noise as being "out of touch."
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So the bottom line is, many of the so-called musical "revolutionaries" never took the time to learn what jazz is really about. Jazz is more than just another form of music, and it's not just fun-n-games. Jazz is also a way of life. There’s a political component to it - a way of thinking that reflects a unique way of viewing reality. So jazz purists are not simply upset over a modified beat and the introduction of electronics, they're also upset over the caving in to mediocrity and the abandonment of the political principles and qualities that jazz represents.
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After all, one of the greatest contributions that jazz has made to the black community is informing the world that we're not the frivolous and thoughtless people in which we'd previously been portrayed. The harmonic complexity of bebop served to bring the dazzling intellectual capacity of black people to the world stage. So naturally, jazz purist are both reluctant and hostile to going back to the people-pleasin' days of what is essentially a musical form of Steppin'-Fetchism.
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Jazz has traditionally been the cultural anthem of social revolutionaries - both Black and White - who are willing to fight the good fight. Thus, jazz purists resent the mongrelization and surrender of those principles in lieu of "Can we all just get along?" To them, that represents the selling of our principles. That's why the word "commercialism" is looked upon with such disdain by those of us who have come to be known as jazz purists. We're not merely fighting to defend our right to be snobs, we're fighting to defend excellence from sliding down the slippery slope of corporate profit and mediocrity; we're fighting for a way of life, and we're fighting a political battle against the dumbing down of America as a whole. Our fight is an essential part of our jazz tradition. It's expected of us, because that's what jazz is all about - pushing the envelop, and never caving in to convention.
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So you can’t just put a funky beat behind noise and call it jazz, because once you go frivolous, the spirit of jazz has been abandoned. While jazz does kick up it's heels on occasion, it's a very serious form of music that’s designed to appeal to the mind, not just the ass. For that reason, a logical and organized structure is essential to its character. Without that, and it’s arrogantly distinctive swagger, it's not jazz - Period.
. SO THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THEN AND NOW? LOOK AT THE EXPRESSIONS ON THE FACES OF THE OLD-SCHOOLERS BELOW. THEY SAW THEMSELVES AS ARTISTS, NOT COURT JESTERS.
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MILES .
We knew him as Miles, the Black Prince of style,
his nature fit jazz to a tee.
Laid back and cool,
a low threshold for fools,
he set the tone
of what a jazzman should be.
*
Short on words, and unperturbed, about
what the people thought;
frozen in time, drenched in the sublime,
of the passion his sweet horn had wrought.
*
Solemn to the bone, distant and torn,
even Trane could scarcely get in;
I can still hear the tone of that genius who mourned,
that precious note that he couldn't
quite bend.
*
The old-schoolers had a word for many of the people we're applauding as geniuses today - students. But the problem is, they can't seem to get beyond that point.
There are two things in this world that allow me to remain sane–writing and music. I’d be in absolute agony if I ever had to choose one over the other, because they are one–one is an extension of the other. Each in its own way allow me to express a part of my being. There are some concepts that I can only express in words, in which case, I sit down and begin to write; but there are other things that spring from a place so deep within my soul--the pain of loss, deception, or of being disappointed by a friend or loved one, for example--that it can only be expressed through raw emotion, which means my horn--it's cathartic. So I’d be completely remiss if I didn’t mention such an important part of my life in the context of this written interview.
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The saxophone keeps me connected to my roots, and who I am fundamentally, so it contributes to my writing in that way as well. Sometimes when I get on my high horse and begin to speak the superficial language of the Washington pundits or the mainstream media, I simply have to glance at my horn to remember why I started writing in the first place–to present the views of those who are too often overlooked. In fact, it reminds me that I’m much more of a translator than I am a writer. I seek to translate the emotional truths that Bird, Miles,Trane, and others set forth in their harmonic and melodic constructions into readable prose. As I mentioned above, that’s not always possible, but my horn keeps me in touch with my mission, and it reminds me to remain focused on doing the best I can in that respect.
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My father put that horn in my hands when I was a kid. While he had many flaws (one of my first memories in life was of the police coming to my house in the middle of the night, shooting my dog, and dragging him off to the penitentiary), but at his core, he was a good man, a loving father, and a jazz fanatic. For him, the Sun only rose in the morning so it could keep Charlie Parker's reeds warm. So he wasn’t able to give me much, but what he did give me turned out to be one of the most potent and enduring forces in my life.
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I’ll never forget the day he gave me that horn. It was on a Sunday morning. He opened the case, and there it was, smiling at me for the very first time, with its pearly-white keypads and glistening gold body gleaming in the sunlight against the deep blue felt lining of its case. Even now, I can remember my excitement as the newness of it’s smell filled my young nostrils.
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But to my surprise, he also brought Jimmy home with him - for what, I didn’t know. Jimmy was the neighborhood’s quintessential dope fiend and general substance abuser. Thus, to my even greater surprise, it turned out that he had brought Jimmy home to teach me to play the saxophone. I was very doubtful that Jimmy could teach anyone to do anything but shoot dope, toss back a pint or two and nod, but I wasn’t worried about that at the time - I just couldn’t wait for him to put that horn together.
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It seemed like it took him forever to extract the pad-saver and adjust the reed on the mouthpiece. Then they finally put the strap around my neck. Jimmy showed me where to place my fingers, and then I blew my first official note on the saxophone, and I got one of the most horrifically agonizing sounds out of that horn that ANYONE has ever heard. It made my mother jump up out of bed and run into the living room yelling, "What is going on in here!"
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I became immediately frustrated, because I just couldn’t figure out how something that was so beautiful could produce such a horrible sound. Then my father said, "Wait a minute, son. Jimmy, show him how this thing is supposed to sound."
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Jimmy, as I mentioned before, was not only a dope fiend, but over the years he had degenerated into an extremely unkempt drunk as well. He had become the kind of person who was completely dismissed by even the most down-on-their-luck adults, and the kids used to like to play practical jokes on him when we found him nodded-out somewhere in the neighborhood. And I'm now ashamed to say that I was one of the most prolific and abusive of the bunch. But when Jimmy put that horn into his mouth and began to play "Round Midnight," he became a different person. Now he was in his element - Jimmy was in command. All of the disappointments and humiliations in life slipped under his fingers and out the bell of that horn as some of the most beautiful licks that I’d ever heard before or since.
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Even as a kid I could see the confidence, the focus, and knowledge reflected in his eyes. I could see the young Jimmy. I could see all of his hopes and dreams that seems to have gone astray. And to this day, I have never heard ANYBODY play "Round Midnight" with such passion and ease of facility, and I’ve heard it played by some of the greatest saxophone players who has ever lived, but not one of them has been able to touch me in the spot that Jimmy reached that Sunday morning of my youth. And this was playing cold, on a brand new saxophone, and he probably hadn’t touched a horn in years - and not to mention he was loaded (one of the last times I ever saw him in that condition, by the way).
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When Jimmy was done, my father told me, in his typically graphic and offhand way, "Now, I want you to hang on to this horn like it’s your momma’s tiddy, and you’ll never be broke or alone." Then he looked over at Jimmy and added, "unless you start shootin’ that shit." I followed my father’s advice, and his words have turned out to be prophetic. But actually, after watching the transformation in Jimmy when he picked up that horn, my father didn’t have to say another word.
.
So even as I respond to this interview, and speak of my love for the written word, a lifelong friend sits in its stand with that same beautiful smile that first greeted me as a child. The beauty of its song is a constant reminder that the written word is only one part of my life. Unlike a corporeal being, its only reason for existence is to carry out the blessing of a long departed father upon his son. But much like a sensuously flawless and indulgent woman, it waits patiently, still gleaming in the sunlight with its glistening keys and curvaceous body, as though longing for my loving and passionate embrace.
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So thank you, Jimmy, for pulling your life together long enough to give me one. This one's for you, my man:
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A SWINGIN’ AFFAIR
I was told as a child Blacks had no worth, Not a nickel’s worth of dimes. I believed that myth ‘Til Dex rode in With his ax In double time.
His horn was soarin’, The changes flyin’, His rhythm right on time; My heart Beat with the pleasure Of new found pride, Knowing, His blood Flowed through mine.
Dex Took the chords The keyboard played, And danced around each note; Then shuffled ‘em Like a deck of cards, And didn’t miss a stroke.
B minor 7 with flatted 5th, a half diminished chord, He substituted a lick in D, Then really began to soar.
He tipped his hat To Charlie Parker, and quoted Trane with Miles, Then paid his homage to Thelonious Monk, In Charlie Rouse’s style.
He took a Scrapple From The Apple, Then went to Billie’s Bounce, The rhythm section, now on fire, But he didn’t budge an ounce.
He just dug right in to shuffle again, This time A Royal Flush, Then lingered a bit Behind the beat, Still smokin’ But in no rush.
Then he doubled the time just like this rhyme, in fluid 16th notes, tellin’ Charlie and Lester, “your baby boy, Dexter’s, on top of the bebop you wrote.”
Wailin’ like a banshee, this prince of saxophone, His ballads dripped of honey, His Arpeggios were strong.
Callin’ on his idles, Ghost of Pres’ within in the isles, smiling at his protege, At the peak of this new style.
His tenor Drenched of Blackness, And all the things we are– Of pain, and pleasure, And creative greatness Until his final bar.
Strive To Become Your Own Hero... Then Let No One Remove Your Cape.
BIO
Eric L. Wattree is a writer, poet, and musician, born in Los Angeles. He’s been a columnist for The Los Angeles Sentinel, Black Star News, The Atlanta Post, and is a member of the Sigma Delta Chi Society of Professional Journalists (http://www.spj.org/). He’s also the author of "A Message From the Hood."
Some of the greatest minds I’ve ever known held court while sitting on empty milk crates in the parking lots of ghetto liquor stores, while some of the weakest minds I’ve ever known roamed the halls of academia in pursuit of credentials over knowledge.
Am I a hater, you ask? You're damn right I'm a hater. I hate injustice. I hate hypocrisy. I also hate demagoguery, apathy, and the stupidity that allows it to exist. Hater? Absolutely. I'm a big time hater. I hate what I see happening to this country, and I hate watching the development of a culture that embraces ignorance with a stupid sense of pride. So yes, I am indeed a hater, but not only that - I'm a hater with a very low threshold for bullshit, so step off.
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