ECHOS OF AN ERA: JACKIE MCLEAN

Beneath the Spin*Eric L. Wattree

EXCELLENCE IS THE KEY TO BLACK EQUALITY

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JACKIE McLEAN: A STORY THAT NEEDS TO BE TOLD

On March 31, 2006 the great Jackie McLean quietly slipped into the annals of American history. Born on May 17, 1932, Jackie was destined to become one of the greatest innovators on the alto saxophone, and in jazz, that the world has ever known. He was a direct musical descendant of the illustrious Charles “Yardbird” Parker, Bebopper-in-chief. In fact, Bird was there to witness his young protégé’s first recording date with yet another jazz giant, Miles Dewey Davis. Jackie, at the tender age of 19, was quite nervous during that session, but Bird took the time to give him the same advice that he’d given Miles in his youth, “Just calm down and do what you do.” Well, just like Miles before him, Jackie did calm down, and a new era in jazz had begun.
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History will someday look back upon all these men with at least as much reverence as we now look upon Beethoven, Mozart and the like. But while these men stand as towering monuments to the creative genius within our culture, the death of Jackie McLean passed without so much as a whimper within the Black community. There was no urgency in the Black community to hand down the legacy of this great musician to our now culturally deprived younger generation. But fortunately, jazz is also a part of American culture, so ironically, it was primarily the White community that both recognized and noted the significance of Jackie’s death. So allow me to take a moment to swallow my pride and say . . . Thank God for the White man!
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Failure to acknowledge the best in ourselves is a serious problem within the Black community, and I attribute it directly to our failure to assess the impact of integration on Black culture. During the civil rights movement we became so caught up with trying to fit into the larger society that we lost ourselves in the process. And while we were busy running away from our identity, White scholars were furiously setting up Ph.D. Programs at universities all over the world studying every facet of the very cultural geniuses that we began to ignore. We’ve become so intent on chasing the frivolous, that we’re oblivious to everything of real value within our culture.
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There’s an old saying that rings particularly true in our current condition--“Be careful what you ask for, because you just might get it.” Well, We’ve got it. There was a time when we had our values in tact, solid communities, and knew who we were as a people, but we had one glaring weakness--we yearned to live large like White folks.
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True, we didn’t have much, but what we did have was rich in culture. Now many of us have achieved the dream of living large, but at what cost—our values have been destroyed, we have no sense of community, and we’re now getting over by imitating the world’s imitation of who we use to be. At the same time, White kids, and kids of other nationalities are sitting in universities and music conservatories around the world learning more about the music of Bird, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Jackie McLean, and Black culture in general, than most Black people will ever know.
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Now, this is not an indictment against the White man, after all, it’s not his fault that we don’t have the insight to recognize and pass down our own cultural legacy--in fact, we owe him a debt of gratitude, because it now falls on him to preserve for posterity that which is best in us. The fact is, we’re fortunate he’s around, but it’s a damn shame that we have to rely on someone else to do what we should be doing for ourselves, while we pursue the frivolous, and declare calling the mothers of our salvation "bitches" and "hoes" a new form of art.
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Yes, many of us now have more and are living better than we’ve ever lived before, but again, at what price? Ask yourself, where are the Charlie Parkers, Miles Davis’, and Marvin Gays of today? Where is the next Aretha, Al Green, or Dexter Gordon? The fact is, they no longer exist, because we no longer exist—at least, as we once were. We’ve lost that urge to say, I’m going to study these scales, chords, and progressions, and demonstrate to the world that I can be one of the greatest musicians who ever lived. Now, instead of seeking excellence, we settle for the dollar, and instead of making records that will speak to eternity, we're scratchin’ them and saying “yo, yo, yo.”
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We no longer have the time to learn, because “we’ve got to keep it real”— which is to say, ignorant. And we no longer seek to express the essence of who we are as a people, because we no longer know who we are as a people. At the rate and direction that we're going, before long Black people are going to have the unique distinction of being the only culture in the history of mankind who are incapable of performing the very art that we created.  If we want to hear true jazz we're going to have to leave the community and go have others play it for us.

As a direct result of this horrible situation, we no longer have heroes, or a story to tell. But here’s a story about when we did have heroes, and how the excellence of one such hero managed to capture the imagination of an impressionable Black child. So let that child now take a moment to layout that story before you.

WHEN JACKIE'S BAG BECAME MY OWN

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.

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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. 

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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.

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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.
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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.

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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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Eric L. Wattree

Http://wattree.blogspot.com

Ewattree@Gmail.com

BLACK WRITERS, INTELLECTUALS, AND INDEPENDENT THINKERS
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Religion: It's not that I hate everyone who doesn't look, think, and act like me - it's just that God does. 

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NEVER A CHILD

Beneath the Spin * Eric L. Wattree

NEVER A CHILD

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When I sat as a child, untested by trial, 
isolated and alone in my room,
my mother was concerned that I never yearned
for what a child was expected to pursue.
No toys or noise, or shootin' marbles with the boys,
laughter or playing for me.
It was always sitting and staring out at life,
and preparing for what I knew it would be.

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I could see life coming, don't ask me how, 

but something told me that life was no game.

When we sang songs in school 

that made kids happy as a rule,

all I could here was Miles as he Brood.

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Miles, Trane, Jackie, and Bird,

that's all I ever heard.

Observing oppression and indignity while 
my people 'Danced In The Street,'

rendered the joys of Motown absurd.

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Never free to enjoy the delusions of childhood,

from infancy, to the concerns of man. 

It was all a part of the Black experience -

Nevertheless,

I'd love to live it over again.

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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.
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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.
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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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So who did I turn to, when nobody needed me?
I reached within, nourished my mind,
and let destiny free me. 
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THE MUSIC YOU LISTEN TO BOTH MOLDS AND REFLECTS YOUR MENTALITY

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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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.

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MILES
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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.
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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.
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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.

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Toward the end 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 a generation of musicians who came along behind him, and who didn’t have a vision of their own, built an entire musical movement based on what Miles created to accommodate his old age and disability - we call it "Fusion."
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AMERICA IS TURNING IT'S BACK ON SOME OF THE MOST BRILLIANT PEOPLE, 
AND THE MOST SIGNIFICANT ART FORM THAT IT HAS EVER PRODUCED -
THROUGH GREED, RACISM, AND IGNORANCE.

Eric L. Wattree 

wattree.blogspot.com

Ewattree@Gmail.com

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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.

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