Why (you think) music can't help you: you're not doing it the old fashioned way

Some musicians see their art form as a force for good in the world. It can make you a better person, soothe, make rational, etc. Music has, in this sense, an ethical effect: it is a guide and incitement to right conduct. Pharaoh Sanders and Cornelius Cardew think so, or thought so.

To those who respond to this saying, "come on: music is attractive, but it's wishful thinking to suppose that it directly makes people better," musicologist Edward Lippman would say in turn that they are living in the wrong century. We're too acclimatized to abstract, specialized musical performance. In effect, we progressive moderns may, just may, have lost something--which we don't even know we've lost.

We need to get back to ancient Greek philosophy of music.

"Inherent in the nature of ancient music," Lippman writes," was its existence in the context of a specific social or ritual occasion, the presence of words as an intrinsic part of the music, and the prevalence, finally, of participation over listening. When these features are taken into account, the ethical and emotional force of music, together with the defned character of this force, is not difficult to understand." A History of Western Musical Aesthetics (Lincoln, NB: University of Nebraska Press, 1992), 15.

An apologia, and further appreciation, for a notable trumpet player

Here’s my argument in response to this view of a canonical jazz artist. It calls Miles Davis' artistry into question on the basis of ostensibly poor command of his instrument.

Miles Davis, if ever anyone did, understood the rich creative possibilities of performing jazz. He put trumpet in the service of that ideal. To wit:

* Davis was strongly concerned with the lyricism, endless expressive possibilities, and beautiful singularities produced by creating music in real time. Perhaps moreso than other noted figures, he got bored with anything formulaic. (See the interview where Sonny Rollins identifies with Miles on this.)

* He thought you needed to be well prepared, in terms of musicianship, but then challenged to react in the moment. Hence, for example, his habit of rejecting in performance what had been rehearsed earlier.

* He engineered situations where this would happen for his superb groups, of whatever kind.

* And he likewise forced himself to do so on trumpet, as much as he challenged others. A klinker or two? That’s “part of it.” If you listen that way, you’ll hear the beauty of accident, like with John Cage’s music. Though his trumpet playing is much more than just happy accidents.

What was the musical result of this artistic profile? Let’s try actually listening to Miles Davis, sticking strictly to his trumpet playing.

* Davis had incredible “chops” in the macho, conventional sense, when he chose to. Listen to him playing in a hard bop vein on “Move” with Lockjaw Davis and Big Nick Nicholas in ‘52. He could do that. Listen to his lead playing on “Two Bass Hit,” the head and ending shout chorus, from Newport Live in ’58 with Cannonball and Trane. Perfectly clear, accurate and just “on” in a very high register. But he chose to go a different way . . .

* Davis had a sense of time like (almost) no one else. That doesn’t mean just “keeping good time.” It means saying something with time, pulse, rhythm. Listen to really any solo of his. Listen only for the way he places his notes, not the notes themselves. Listen to the way he plays the Harmon mute, which enhanced the percussive attack and expressive timbral “spread” of his instrument. Listen, for example, to his solos on various live versions of “Bye Bye Blackbird” with Coltrane in the late 50s. Listen to his “response” to Gil Evans’ orchestra’s “calls” on “Summertime” from Porgy and Bess. Simple, but perfectly conceived, developed—and executed as a marvel of what the trumpet, or horn, can do.

* Known for economy of notes, it’s because he wanted to invent songs while playing. I'm not talking about delivering pat songs in wholesale form, like a transcribed folk song. I'm thinking more along the lines of Pres’ habit of referring to others’ solos, even their whole style, as “their songs.” Songlike, melodic (and thus not too complicated, at least outwardly). Like phrases, statements thought over and revised, even repented. Like Billie Holiday—generating songlike possibilities in mediating on the meaning of each song. His approach to the trumpet, his phrasing and choice of notes, is perfect, given this aim. Listen to . . . any 50s ballad, how about “It Never Entered My Mind,” from “Workin?”

* Think he sounded rambling or repetitive in his solos with the Shorter/Hancock band, for instance? Yes, he had his “clichés” by that time. But listen again to his beat, his fire on trumpet. And listen to how closely he listens. To what Williams and Carter, and sometimes Hancock were doing behind him. It’s called group improvisation.

If someone is interested I’ll provide discographic information and guide them to the exact tracks. I write all this knowing less about his work after about 1972, but I believe it would apply, however different the musical content was by then. 

Modality and Freedom

What does it mean to embrace modality in improvisation, as opposed to tonality or atonality?

Modality is a fertile subject in jazz history. It was consciously and explicitly embraced by Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and many contemporaries. They used it to find new frameworks for improvising when they felt that following predetermined chord sequences based on popular songs had become a limitation (though they did not abandon these chord changes entirely, nor what they had learned.) Modal harmonic schemes gave musicians more freedom, both in terms of spontaneity and of the latitude to introduce larger, if undetermined, structures within the course of improvisation. Outside of the sphere of "music itself," new freedoms were being sought in at the highest level of the polity and national community. 

To move toward modality is to privilege the horizontal—the unfolding of music in time--over the vertical or harmonic as the key principle of musical organization. It spoke to the moment because "the people" relate instinctively to modality and its related effects. After all, modality broadly conceived is a common feature of most world music and of “folk” music. It is arguable that one of jazz’ most fertile tributaries, the blues, is modal, both in the sense of its pitch system and of emphasizing horizontal development. Blues musicians only have their story to tell. They’re just not that into harmony, or not in the sense derived from European art music of functional tonality.

To ask what it means to embrace modality is prompted by my interest in Pre-Baroque European art music, which was created within a modal system a thousand years in the making. (I thank Susan Boynton, the medievalist in Columbia University’s Music Department, for confirming these observations.) While there are of course differences, medieval and Renaissance composers viewed harmony as an artifact of melody, an incidental set of relationships produced by interwoven melodies in the distinctive polyphony of their era. In this music as well, then, interest is sustained and unity achieved by sequences of pitches with their own integrity, and not by their hierarchic relationship to a single governing pitch, as in the functional totality that Western ears became accustomed to due to the hegemony of Classical forms from the time of Haydn and Beethoven.

Functional tonality—the organization of harmonic and structural motion toward a governing pitch center—means more than just being in a certain key, with the exact set of pitches given by their position in relation to the key pitch. In classic functional tonality, the ear is guided toward that pitch center by elaborate mechanisms, bass movements like cycles of fifths and voice leading tones, to sense that key as final. That is a powerful way, perhaps a necessary one, to establish tonality in the strict sense. European art music only reached this point with Arcangelo Corelli; it was perfected by Classical composers; and then it broke down under repeated innovations that avoided, delayed, or confused that sense of cadence toward a governing pitch during the Romantic and early 20^th century eras. Jazz had appropriated this tonal edifice for its purpose of improvisation, via ragtime, Tin Pan Alley, and direct Classical influence, by the time Coltrane and Davis embarked on their life’s work.

In a modal system, one pitch may define a mode. It may be the first and last note to be sounded. It may be sounded more often than other notes. It may be sounded more or less continuously throughout a musical work, to the point of being a drone. But it is only first among equals. 

Without elaborate mechanisms to establish tonality, the note that gives its name to the mode is not conclusively the “key” – the vanishing point around which the picture is organized. Without the grid of functional tonal movement to guide the ear toward the tonic pitch, there is ambiguity as to what choices of or groupings of pitches, are most prominent in the handful the mode “permits.” And far from creating chaos, it is a productive ambiguity, capable of suggesting many directions but requiring none. Composers before Monteverdi who worked under the modal system knew this. And so did the jazz musicians who consciously brought modality back into improvisation during the 1950s. 

Thousands of modes have been “discovered,” and their properties parsed, across the many international musical forms that employ then. In this post, I am simply referring to the “Greek” modes commonly employed in jazz parlance and performance since George Russell began using them to describe jazz practices: Dorian, Mixolydian, Phrygian, and Ionian (the last to be distinguished from the “major key”). That said, the productive properties of modality hold as much for medieval and early Renaissance music as for jazz, at this broad theoretical level. 

The first note of a set (or scale) may designate the mode (E Phrygian; D Dorian, etc.) Other tones compete for prominence, however. The lowered seventh has a mysterious pull away from the nominal mode key, making itself a contender for final or governing pitch. Hence its ability to evoke latent or unseen power in religious music, such as chant, and in Latin American music and the blues. Vertical relationships are possible in pre-Baroque modality but no sequence must be followed. Without such preset harmonic underpinning, triadic combinations (very much used by time of the Renaissance) may still be freely chosen from the set of permissible notes in the mode. The D Dorian mode contains the “minor” triad D-F-A, but also the “major” G-B-A, rendering it ambivalent as to these two classic qualities, or at least opening the possibility of a sustained major passage. 

John Coltrane knew this and exploited it when he performed his famous modal composition “Impressions.” The song’s entire harmonic scheme consists of 8-bar sections of D Dorian and Eb Dorian (forming the A and B sections, respectively, of the classic AABA popular and jazz song form.). But he sometimes interpreted the mode as G Mixolydian (or G dominant 7^th) by playing riffs associated with it for long sections (but not necessarily for the exact duration of the 32-bar song structure). Fourth triads, such as D-G-C or A-D-G, both found in the simple Dorian mode, are not only available, they are natural artifacts of selecting this mode, due to their many compelling voice leading possibilities within it, just as major or minor triads are in the case of tonal harmony. (See Susan McClary, “Modal Subjectivities: Self-Fashioning in the Italian Madrigal,” especially the chapter “I Modi.”) 

The bi- and polytonality developed by Miles Davis, Wayne Shorter and Herbie Hancock throughout the 1960s and beyond depended on their experience with this ambivalence, or equivalence, of alternating vertical pitch sets in the first wave of modal experimentation during the late 50s and beginning of the 60s. Those versed in jazz argot may recall “slash chords” which superimpose two triads or chords with non-chord bass notes. This manner of interpreting chord sequences, now quite conventional in jazz, is at the root a more sophisticated way of handling the ambiguity of underlying modes for each chordal scale and exploiting the possibilities of unexpected common tones, and suspended cadence they offer that were first developed at the time of “Kind of Blue” and “Impressions.”

In modality, structure can be generated at the improvisers’ will. One can pick a melodic cell—a handful of notes permitted in the mode—and repeat it or stress it without regard for some changing bass line or chord structure underneath, as Coltrane constantly does in Impressions. Insistent repetition of one “riff” or melodic groove is a device that funk and blues musicians know well: just stating a melodic figure, even a simple one, creates a hypnotic effect that fuels the groove and provides opportunity for dramatic release. These ad hoc or arbitrary melodic figures may also suggest a harmonic region as well as rhythmic pattern—they are constitutive of melody. In either case, the other musicians in the group may easily perceive that direction and go with it—or choose not to, but either way the openness becomes productive of improvisational artifacts. The soloist, perhaps pushed or pulled by the group, is free to develop these ideas over many measures, sometimes longer than the 32-bar parameter natural to conventional song-form improvisation.

These large structures generated in modal improvisation are open structures. The soloist may decide how much time will be spent in a certain region or melodic/rhythmic groove. It is true that in adhering to one mode, one accepts the risk that it will be monotonous, as a drone is by definition. The level of interest depends on the skill of the improviser to forge singular events, out of rhythm, pitch sequence, timbre, sheer unadulterated surprise (shrieks for example). Having a compelling rhythm—an expressive statement about time, not just executed in time—becomes paramount. The unfolding of an artistic statement in time, the drama of surprise, accident, emergent structure, perhaps ecstatically generated singularities are all at a premium in free or open form jazz, which dispensed with tonal centers of modality altogether, but which the latter thus logically anticipated.

Before the trend toward modal jazz in the late ‘50s, the sense of drama, surprise and suggestive ambiguity were all exploited masterfully by Lester Young (Coleman Hawkins’ and Don Byas’ sense of structure, while masterful, was more architectural and even physical, building to an athletic climax.) And Young often dwelled on or ended phrases on the sixth and ninth tones, avoiding the main triadic tones without grating dissonance. In other words, he used ambiguity—and like many musicians deeply versed in the blues, suggested attributes of modality.

Where is the gold, in artistic expression, but in exploring ambiguities that create new meanings?

The Advent of Bebop: How Many Prophets?

One often hears that bebop was a "revolution": that it was an abrupt break with the jazz that came before it. I can barely pick up a new book or article about jazz these days without hearing the claim that the "modernism" was created by the few who visited Minton's Playhouse and that represented a radical break with the past. (Radical in more senses than one, as I will suggest.) But the transition, musically speaking, was actually more gradual than these commentators and authors acknowledge, and perhaps more than they realize.

One does hear of two forward looking swing players, Coleman Hawkins and Lester Young, who not only influenced but participated directly in the bebop movement. But these saxophonists were star soloists in the Fletcher Henderson and Count Basie bands, respectively. So they were part of the broad-based movement in popular music known as swing or big band that emerged to dominate American music in the early ‘30s and cannot conveniently be reappropriated for the cause of “bebop.”

In fact, many things Parker and Gillespie perfected or became known for were being anticipated by swing players for at least ten years before the famous jam sessions took place at Minton’s. So many, in fact, that the ostensible rupture of bebop loses focus.

Consider these “pre-bop” achievements: the long melodic lines of Roy Eldridge. The coloristic, tense harmonies of Duke Ellington (and yes, before 1941). The angular melodic freedom of Nat King Cole (the pianist) and Erroll Garner.  The trio format used by these same two musicians. The musicianship, control, and beat of Benny Carter. The blues inflection, coupled with fabulous technique, of Johnny Hodges. The speed and fluidity of Chu Berry. The metric displacement of Charlie Christian. And of course, the chordal substitutions of Art Tatum, transferred to the saxophone by Don Byas before Bird took his first flight (yes, this is demonstrable in the recorded history of jazz, but that’s another post).

Don Byas: Bird or Dinosaur?

How many prophets can there be before the Messiah starts to seem a little cramped in his firmament?

Parker and those in his circle are important for synthesizing the work of these swing masters. (That they were quite familiar with all of them can be demonstrated in their music as well as their statements on record.) The bebop insurgents had a novel and compelling rhythmic approach that was their own. But like any musicians, their ideas were also wound up in their personal ways of approaching their horns and their medium. Their personal styles became an orthodoxy later—an ironic, though not unique, outcome for their “revolution”. Fifteen or so years later, that is, with the help of critics, producers, and retrospective discourse of musicians themselves.

The claim that bebop was a new musical wave often appears in tandem with one asserting a new political maturity. Black modernism in this narrative carries the component of self-awareness of racial subjugation and is a form of resistance to it. “Revolution” in this sense is not therefore not used nor intended as a strictly aesthetic term. Yet the notion of modernism on which this whole narrative rests depends on a pre-modern. I submit there is an implicit condescension regarding the jazz, included its African-American strains, of at least the 20s and 30s, and perhaps earlier.

Political sympathies, then, ought not to be driven by artistic tastes anymore than the reverse. Insofar as we are interested in jazz and modernism in the arts, it is valid to consider swing era masters as both modern and progressive. If we wanted to read the history of their time in their music, we would find northern migration and growth of mass popular culture through new media to be significant factors in its making. If we were interested in the aesthetic outlines of modernism, we could find it in swing masters concern with technique, awareness of their place in the development of their music and its past, and their view of their art as autonomous from a direct social function such as dancing or civic occasions.

If we are interested in looking to music for a progressive reading of the eventual consolidation of American rights and of racial empowerment, why should the advent of the swing era not be subject matter? Louis Armstrong’s performative style has been criticized as playing to white stereotypes. But perhaps the sheer power and confidence visible in film footage could be viewed differently, as evidence of black man in control of his own image—just as is celebrated with Miles Davis, evident in Ellington’s manner, and arguable even in the case of John Coltrane’s spiritualist stance.

There are aesthetic implications in bringing the music of the swing era back in to jazz studies. Techniques (both in the sense of skill and of concept) may change with history, but they are not history itself. When fashions change, when the zeitgeist changes, of course new techniques arrive that help give them expression. But music is not cumulative like science: old ways may be lost precisely in the effort to do something different. Bebop was faster than swing, but playing slowly was not a limitation. It is a technique that must be achieved.

As mentioned, the changes are matters of personal artistic choice, and do not necessarily imply a higher conceptual advancement. This is why no one knows what to do with Thelonious Monk or Lucky Thompson. They were not bebop, because they did not simply apply Parker and Gillespie’s instrumental style to their own instruments. But they were just as advanced. Modern jazz. The techniques of any era, past and present, are interesting intellectually and artistically available for those who might want to change again and stand outside orthodoxy. Especially if we, as artists or writers on the arts, don't see history as linear.

There are pedagogical reasons along with scholarly ones to take a broad view of jazz history. Jazz performance can and should teach techniques that may be basic but are still necessary. Are young musicians taught to play slowly and convincingly? Is it really that simple to play guitar with four equal quarter notes, in accompanying other musicians, as Freddie Green did? Try it. Insofar as these techniques are simple, they have a profound simplicity: they must be achieved, and carry insights that are lost in greater complexity. Rhythm itself, an item of mastery from the ragtime era (to listen to Jelly Roll Morton’s recordings), is hard to represent with notation, but can be transmitted in practice, through mentorship within an artistic community—just as they were once developed.

In the end, the retrospective assignment of “revolutionary” status to bebop is a sign of a definite political agenda. It is not bad to have such an agenda. I am in accord with this agenda, or its political thrust. That is one reason why I want to make it explicit. The assignment of revolutionary status to bebop, however, seems to be a way of justifying later radical experiments. The implicit argument behind this self-legitimation is that change is a constant, and thus the desired changes must happen in the present. The corollary for the need to justify radical change is to point to radical change in the past. Part of this view stems from the ‘sixties and its music, when revolution, or talk of it, was actually in the air for reasons that it was not in the ‘forties.

To those that take the view of history as constant, radical and still necessary change—and the history being made now—I would only ask, do we all change together, in one direction? That we is a question to which many revolutionaries, and those leaders who made their revolution into an oppressive orthodoxy, might answer “yes.” It is not the view of artists, though, who value individual expression, however politically engaged they may be. With respect to swing and to bebop, let us go back to their history and ask how they viewed it themselves.

On the Aesthetics of Improvisation

What part of improvisation can we hear? If it is granted that music performance with improvisation involves some structure, and foreknowledge, what is the element that is improvised--and how is it perceived?

Improvised music is often said to be legitimate by virtue of the process that go into making it. These processes are valued because the music they produce is thus original, authentic, democratic. Its creation is truly "creative" in some special or multifaceted way.

When the performance is apprehended, by the audience, by other musicians, by consumerrs of recordings, even in close, expertly trained analysis, it makes sense that they would value the product because they are aware that the production of this music followed these principles. But they can not be merely abstract conventions, distinct from the act of hearing and interpreting the music. They must be perceptible to be truly valued.

I believe improvisation can if fact be perceived. Insofar as an improvised performance involves indeterminacy, i.e., lack of prior determination, that element can be heard in the music. After all, randomness, or "pure" indeterminacy, can be heard; listen to wind chimes as a song. Greater degrees of prior determination of music, such as twelve-tone composition or total serialization, can also be heard. So why should the element of creation in the act of performance not be perceptible?

I submit that the listener finds originality, authenticity, democracy in the music because, even if passive, he or she is in some sense participating. They are more or less able to sense the unstructured, or unplanned elements insofar as they are more or less familiar with the structure or a priori decisions in the music. It is easy for a well-versed listener to hear what is truly unique in a Dexter Gordon solo insofar as they are familiar with the structure Gordon agrees to and the material he tends to identify with as his own (his "licks"). But free improvisation--that is, the improvised part, can also be perceived.

The perception of improvisation depends on familiarity with the individual composer's prior intentions, decisions, boundaries--with their identity. So the exact nature, not just the exact profile, of each improvisation, is unique. The element of improvisation that is heard depends on the improvised.

The listener may feel, and value, these qualities of originality, authenticity, and especially democracy, insofar as they have the sense of participating in them and that they are meaningful. He or she may even perceive that it is beautiful because randomness and indeterminacy are facets of real experience, often welcome in the face of oppressive determinacy.

Pace Fred Lerdahl: we actively construct music as listeners in order to make meaning out of it. And we do so when we hear improvisation.

Live Review: McCoy Tyner

McCoy Tyner, Piano
Charlie Parker Jazz Festival – August 28, 2010
Marcus Garvey Park, Harlem

It was an emotional experience seeing the last living member of John Coltrane Quartet perform (after nearly 40 years; my bad). Tyner’s bearing in pictures from the days of the classic Coltrane quartet projected Eastern asceticism and deliberate humility (contrasting a certain wild energy of Elvin Jones, both musically and personally). Yesterday he seemed more outgoing and personable than I remembered. He brought his family and introduced them with a very American down-home friendliness to the crowd in front of him.

Those who expect to hear the complex but swinging right hand acrobatics Tyner used until the 1970s would have been disappointed. At yesterday’s concert, his playing was reminiscent of Abdullah Ibrahim or Keith Jarrett, sustaining incantatory ostinatos for whole numbers, and across numbers. In terms of the piano, it was all about how both hands work together, not melody (right hand) and accompaniment (left hand).

His first piece was the most intriguing. He set up a counterpoint between two very regular melodies, with chords changing with each melody note. It was classic (or classical) in its strict development and balance, but African in its polytexturality and churning depth below the surface.

Other songs included the standard I Should Care, Coltrane’s Mr. PC, and his own Blues on the Corner. On the latter two, he punctuated the ostinatos with some short, stabbing clusters. But otherwise his measured pace seemed appropriate to an elder statesman, rather than a young firebrand.

The First Thing Bird Would Have Said

Revive Da Live
Charlie Parker Jazz Festival
(Raydar Ellis, Ben Williams, Justin Brown, Jaleel Shaw, Marcus Strickland, Marc Cary, Corey King and Ingmar Thomas)

“It’s too loud.”

This all star group’s aim, according to the program, is to “explore the genius of Parker by combining music from his past with modern day interpretations” in order” to educate and inspire broader audiences about the depths and origins of today’s popular music.”

The funk beats, a rapper, an electronic keyboard, and the modal harmonies so compatible with the ethos of the 1960s rock generation, would have been unfamiliar to Parker. But my gut feeling is he would have understood those things, because they are musical choices and he understood that music must change.

But the excessive volume—sensed even where I was at the other end of the park space from the stage—seems unmusical, and that, I submit, is where he would have drawn the line. These are all fine musicians, who offered very confident, interesting improvisations—no qualms there.

Why must it be so loud to appeal to “broader audiences”? (read: those unwashed multitudes who only know rock or hip-hop.) That seems to me to be caving in to corporate-backed technology and mass media as fast as Harry Reid caves in to the Tea Party. It’s one thing to use a public address system. It’s another to achieve a level of volume so electronic and alien that it subtly undermines the audience’s health. (Yes, I mean health.)

I’m not saying that it was ear-splitting. Just uncomfortable to body and breath. It’s about respect for nature, for public space, and the conviviality of the outdoor festival audience. An impromptu conga circle group was playing simultaneously (maintaining their regular Saturday meeting, one presumes). That sound added to the chaos. But close up, they seemed hipper, in the sense of understatement: more sensual, more about drawing you in than pushing you back.

I don’t know whether this acoustic problem was the responsbility of the producers, rather than the musicians. This is not the only jazz concert I’ve been to with this issue. It can’t be because I am old—I grew up in the ‘60s when loud became de rigeur (in every sense of the Gallic word). Can we talk about this, please?

The group updated a standard Bird recorded, I’ll Remember April, and his own Now’s The Time and Little Willie Leaps. The latter replaced the looping, difficult up-tempo rendition Parker chose with a much slower, straight-eighth note version made to fit a funk beat. The effect was to turn Parker’s roller-coaster into a treadmill.