The roots of the Blues & Jazz

Kind of Blue fou enregistrat entre el 2 de març i el 22 d’abril de 1959 en els estudis de Columbia Records de New York pel sextet format per Miles Davis (tp), Julian “Cannonball” Adderley (as), John Coltrane (ts), Bill Evans (p), Paul Chambers (b) i Jimmy Cobb (dm). Es van enregistrar cinc temes que avui són ja llegendaris: “Freddie Freeloader” (enregistrat el 3/2, amb Wynton Kelly substituint a Bill Evans al piano); “So what” i “Blue in Green” (enregistrats el 3/2); “All blues” i “Flamenco sketches” (enregistrats el 4/6).
Tots els temes de Kind of Blue són “modals” en contrast amb els treballs anteriors bàsicament fonamentats en les progressions harmòniques (els “chord changes”) pròpies del be bop i el hard bop. Miles Davis en aquella època, gairebé vint anys després que en Charlie Parker i Dizzy Guillespi “inventesin” el be-bop, ja començava a ser molt crític amb la creixent complexitat harmònica que anaven adquirint els temes del repertori usual, sobrecarregats harmònicament i que segons ell inhibien la creativitat dels intèrprets. Miles seguia atentament la proposta que des del 1953 estava desenvolupant en George Russell consistent en un nou sistema musical per la improvitsació basat en escales o modus que va ser denominat “modal” en contraposició al sistema “chord changes” del be-bop. En Miles juntament amb Bill Evans van fer una primera experiència amb Milestones (1958) que va ser l’excusa per muntar Kind of Blue. Sembla ser que l’àlbum va ser compost com una sèrie d’esbossos de conjunts d’escales que definien els paràmetres de la improvisació i l’estil de cada intèrpret, en lloc de fer-ho amb l’habitual graella d’acords. Aquesta forma de composició representava segons deia en Davis “un retorn a la línia melòdica”, absolutament denostada pels boppers i que havia acabat en una mena de rutina consistent en arpegiar amb fruïció i virtuosisme sobre els “chord changes”, fent rodes incansablement del tema de manera un tant monòtona. Per en Davis retornar a la melodia sobre una base d’acords mínima (tant mínima que es reduïa a un sol acord per tota l’estructura del tema i en tot cas cambiaba d’acord per diferenciar el pont de la resta, o introduir un tournaround) representava un nou repta de creativitat.

Aquest àlbum immediatament va tenir una gran repercussió en els músics i la seva influència va ser determinant tant en el Jazz, com en el Rock i fins i tot en la música clàssica. És un obra de ruptura amb el be bop que es consolida definitivament amb el “Giant Steps” (1960) de John Coltrane. En qualsevol cas els temes de Kind of Blue avui en dia, cinquanta anys després de la seva creació, constitueixen un llegat important del Jazz que qualsevol músic hauria d’haver estudiat. La oportunitat que ofereixen les transcripcions de Rob DuBoff, Mark Vinci, Mark Davis i John Davis, editades l’any 2000 per Hal Leonard (ISBN 0-634-01169-3) amb el títol de “Miles Davis. Kind of Blue. Transcribed scores”, és un llibre de partitures de 64 pàgines. Aquestes transcripcions són una oportunitat d’or per anar a les fonts i estudiar aquestes improvitsacions com un exercici a partir d’unes transcripcions precises i de qualitat. Cal remarcar que en el llibre hi trobaràs les transcripcions en línies separades de tots i cadascun dels intèrprets, per tant poca broma, si no tens el material ja l’estàs buscant.

A continuació t’afegeixo una descripció de cada un d’aquests cinc temes del àlbum tant emblemàtics tots ells.

“So What” is the first track on the album. “So What” is one of the best known examples of modal jazz, set in the Dorian mode and consisting of 16 bars of D Dorian, followed by eight bars of E♭ Dorian and another eight of D Dorian. This AABA structure puts it in the thirty-two bar format of American popular song. The piano-and-bass introduction for the piece was written by Gil Evans for Bill Evans and Paul Chambers on Kind of Blue. The introduction attributed to Gil Evans, which is closely based on the opening measures of French composer Claude Debussy’s Voiles (1910), the second prelude from his first collection of preludes. An orchestrated version by Gil Evans of this introduction is later to be found on a television broadcast given by Miles’ Quintet (minus Cannonball Adderley who was ill that day) and the Gil Evans Orchestra; the orchestra gave the introduction, after which the quintet played the rest of “So What”. The distinctive voicing employed by Bill Evans for the chords that interject the head, from the bottom up three perfect fourths followed by a major third, has been given the name “So What chord” by such theorists as Mark Levine. While the track is taken at a very moderate tempo on Kind Of Blue, it is played at an extremely fast tempo on later live recordings by the Quintet, such as Four and More. The same chord structure was later used by John Coltrane for his standard “Impressions”.

“Freddie Freeloader” is the second track on the album. The piece takes the form of a twelve-bar blues in B-flat, but the chord over the final two bars of each chorus is an A-flat7, not the traditional B-flat7 followed by either F7 for a turnaround or some variation of B-flat7 for an ending. Davis employed Wynton Kelly as the pianist for this track in place of Bill Evans, as Kelly was something of a blues specialist. The solos are by Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley, and Wynton Kelly. According to the documentary Kind of Blue: Made in Heaven, the song was named after an individual named Freddie who would frequently try to see the music Davis and others performed without paying (thus freeloading). The name may have also been inspired by Red Skelton’s most famous character, “Freddie the Freeloader” the hobo clown. “Freddie Freeloader” has proven to be one of Davis’ most enduring compositions.

“Blue in Green” is the third track on the album. One of two ballads on the LP, “Blue in Green”‘s melody is very modal, incorporating the presence of the dorian, mixolydian, and lydian modes. The first measure is a G minor chord with an added natural 13 (Gm13), which contains an F natural but the modality of the piece is already evident as the opening note of the melody is an E natural, which is the leading tone of the F major scale. The natural 13 of the chord is E natural. It has long been speculated that pianist Bill Evans wrote “Blue in Green”, even though the LP and most jazz fakebooks credit Davis only with its composition. In his autobiography, Davis maintains that he alone composed the songs on Kind of Blue. The version on Evans’ trio album Portrait in Jazz, recorded in 1959, credits the tune to ‘Davis-Evans’. Earl Zindars, in an interview conducted by Win Hinkle, said that “Blue in Green” was 100-percent written by Bill Evans. In a 1978 radio interview, Evans said that he himself had written the song. In a recording made in December 1958 or January 1959 for Chet Baker’s album Chet (prior to the Kind of Blue sessions), Evans’ introduction on the jazz standard “Alone Together” has been directly compared to his playing on “Blue in Green”.

“All Blues” is the forth on the album. It is a 12 bar blues in 6/8; the chord sequence is that of a basic blues and made up entirely of 7th chords, with a ♭VI in the turnaround instead of just the usual V chord. In the song’s original key of G this chord is an E♭7. The piece is made even more distinctive by the bass vamp that repeats through the whole piece, except when a V or ♭VI chord is reached (the 9th and 10th bars of a chorus). Further to this, there is a harmonically similar vamp that is played by the horns (the two saxophones in the case of Kind of Blue) at the beginning and then (usually) continued by the piano under any solos that take place. Each chorus is usually separated by a four-bar vamp which acts as an introduction to the next solo/chorus. While originally an instrumental piece and usually performed as such, lyrics were later written for it by Oscar Brown Jr.

“Flamenco Sketches” is the fifth track on the album. The song has no written melody, but is rather defined by a set of chord changes that are improvised over using various modes of the major scale of each tonality. Each musician separately chose the number of bars for each of the modal passages in his solo. Davis gets credit for the song form, but Evans is credited with the opening 4-bar vamp over Cmaj7 and G9sus4, which is the opening theme to his ballad improvisation “Peace Piece.” Because of the presence of this vamp, “Flamenco Sketches” is usually played as a ballad. The modes used in “Flamenco Sketches” are as follows: C Ionian (natural major scale); A♭ Mixolydian (Major with a minor 7th); B♭ Ionian; D Phrygian dominant (Phrygian with F♯ instead of F) (alternates over bass notes D and E♭); G Dorian.

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http://www.slate.com/id/2225336/

Kind of Blue
Why the best-selling jazz album of all time is so great.
By Fred KaplanPosted Monday, Aug. 17, 2009

Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, which was released 50 years ago today, is a nearly unique thing in music or any other creative realm: a huge hit—the best-selling jazz album of all time—and the spearhead of an artistic revolution. Everyone, even people who say they don’t like jazz, likes Kind of Blue. It’s cool, romantic, melancholic, and gorgeously melodic. But why do critics regard it as one of the best jazz albums ever made? What is it about Kind of Blue that makes it not just pleasant but important?

On March 2, 1959, when its first tracks were laid down at Columbia Records’ 30th Street Studio (the album would be released on Aug. 17), Charlie Parker, the exemplar of modern jazz, the greatest alto saxophonist ever, had been dead for four years, almost to the day. The jazz world was still waiting, longing, for “the next Charlie Parker” and wondering where he’d take the music.

Parker and his trumpeter sidekick, Dizzy Gillespie—Bird and Diz, as they were called—had launched the jazz revolution of the 1940s, known as bebop. Their concept was to take a standard blues or ballad and to improvise a whole new melody built on its chord changes. This in itself was nothing new. But they took it to a new level, extending the chords to more intricate patterns, playing them in darting, syncopated phrases, usually at breakneck tempos.

The problem was, Parker not only invented bebop, he perfected it. There were only so many chords you could lay down in a 12-bar blues or a 32-bar song, only so many variations you could play on those chords. By the time he died, even Parker was running out of steam.

When Miles Davis came to New York in 1945, at the age of 19, he replaced Gillespie as Parker’s trumpeter for a few years and played very much in their style. A decade later, he, too, was wondering what to do next.

The answer came from a friend of his named George Russell (who died just last month at the age of 86). A brilliant composer and scholar in his own right, Russell spent the better part of the ’50s devising a new theory of jazz improvisation based not on chord changes but on scales or “modes.” The kind of music that resulted was often called “modal” jazz. (A scale consists of the eight notes from one octave to the next.* A chord consists of three or four specific notes in that scale, played together or in sequence: For instance, a C chord is C-E-G.)

This distinction may seem slight, but its implications were enormous. In a bebop improvisation, the chord changes (which occur when, usually, the pianist changes the harmony from one chord to another) serve as a compass; they point the direction to the next bar or the next phrase. Chords follow a particular pattern (that’s why it’s easy to hum along with most blues and ballads); you know what the next chord will be; you know that the notes you play will consist of the notes that comprise that chord or some variation on them. Playing blues, you know that the sequence of chord changes will be finished in 12 bars (or, if it’s a song, 32 bars), and then you’ll either end your solo or start the sequence again.

Russell threw the compass out the window. You could play all the notes of a scale, which is to say any and all notes. “It is for the musician to sing his own song really,” Russell wrote, “without having to meet the deadline of a particular chord.” In other words, he continued, “you are free to do anything”, “as long as you know where home is”—as long as you know where you’re going to wind up.

One night in 1958, Russell sat down with Davis at a piano and laid out his theory’s possibilities—how to link chords, scales, and melodies in almost unlimited combinations. Miles realized this was a way out of bebop’s cul-de-sac. “Man,” he told Russell, “if Bird was alive, this would kill him.”

In an interview that year with critic Nat Hentoff, Miles explained the new approach. “When you go this way,” he said, “you can go on forever. You don’t have to worry about changes, and you can do more with time. It becomes a challenge to see how melodically inventive you are. … I think a movement in jazz is beginning, away from the conventional string of chords and a return to emphasis on melodic rather than harmonic variations. There will be fewer chords but infinite possibilities as to what to do with them.”

Davis needed one more thing before he could go this route: a pianist who knew how to accompany without playing chords. This was a radical notion. Laying down the chords—supplying the frontline horn players with the compass that kept their improvisations on the right path—was what modern jazz pianists did. Russell recommended someone he’d hired for a few of his own sessions, an intense young white man named Bill Evans.

Evans was conservatory-trained with a penchant for the French Impressionist composers, like Ravel and Debussy, whose harmonies floated airily above the melody line. When Evans started playing jazz, he tended not to play the root of a chord; for instance, when playing a C chord, he’d avoid playing a C note. Instead, he’d play some other note in, or hovering around, the chord, suggesting the chord without locking himself into its restraints.

Davis hired Evans for his next recording date, the session that became Kind of Blue, which would be the perfect expression of this new approach to playing.

The clearest example of its novelty is a piece, composed (without credit) by Evans, called “Flamenco Sketches.” At most jazz sessions, the sheet music that the leader passes around to the band consists of “heads”—the first 12 or so bars of a tune, with the chords notated above. The band plays the head, then each player improvises on the chords. But for “Flamenco Sketches,” Evans had jotted down the notes of five scales, each of which expressed a slightly different mood. At the top of the sheet, he wrote, “Play in the sound of these scales.”

For the band’s two saxophone players, John Coltrane on tenor and Julian “Cannonball” Adderley on alto, it was a particularly bizarre instruction. Both were astonishingly adept improvisers, but they built their creations strictly on chords, Adderley as an acolyte of Charlie Parker (with a gospel-infused tone), Coltrane as an almost spiritual explorer, searching for the right sound, the right note, mapping out his voyage on charts of chords, piling and inverting chords on top of chords, expanding each note of a chord to a new chord, not knowing which combinations might work and therefore trying them all.

A few months after the Kind of Blue sessions, Coltrane led his own band on an album called Giant Steps, which pressed this quest to its ultimate degree—literally:

Giant Steps marked the end of the bebop frontier; Coltrane knew this, and, afterward, would go in a whole new direction, less tethered to structure, more “free,” than even Russell’s concept envisioned. But on Kind of Blue, especially “Flamenco Sketches,” he took his first—and most lyrical—step out on that brink:

The departure from bebop is clear from the album’s opening tune, “So What,” which would emerge as this new sound’s anthem. Evans describes it on the album’s liner notes as “a simple figure based on 16 measures of one scale, 8 of another and 8 more of the first … in free rhythmic style.” (Loose as it is, this was more structured than some of the pieces. Evans writes that, for “Flamenco Sketches,” the improvisations on each scale can last “as long as the soloist wishes.”) In this 30-second clip from “So What,” Davis improvises on a single scale for all but the last few seconds, when Evans signals a shift to a different scale:

Compare this with “Freddie Freeloader,” the album’s only conventional blues. (For this track alone, Miles let his usual pianist, Wynton Kelly, a straight blues-and-bebop keyboardist, sit in for Evans):

Structurally, it’s similar to the early bebop tunes that Davis played with Parker in the mid-1940s, the melody latched to the pianist’s chord changes, which occur nearly every bar, as in this 1946 Parker recording of “Ornithology” with Davis as sideman:

Now contrast these conventional bop pieces with the most fully developed piece of “modal” jazz” on Kind of Blue, called “All Blues”:

It has the same feel as the other blues tunes,­­ but listen closely: The horns, blowing harmony in the background, are playing the same notes in each bar; they’re not shifting them to follow the chord changes; there are no chord changes. It sounds (hence the album’s title) kind of blue.

So Kind of Blue sounded different from the jazz that came before it. But what made it so great? The answer here is simple: the musicians. Throughout his career, certainly through the 1950s and ’60s, Miles Davis was an instinctively brilliant recruiter; a large percentage of his sidemen went on to be great leaders, and these sidemen—especially Evans, Coltrane, and Adderley—were among his greatest. They came to the date, were handed music that allowed them unprecedented freedom (to sing their “own song,” as Russell put it), and they lived up to the challenge, usually on the first take; they had a lot of their own song to sing.

The album’s legacy is mixed, precisely for this reason. It opened up a whole new path of freedom to jazz musicians: Those who had something to say thrived; those who didn’t, noodled. That’s the dark side of what Miles Davis and George Russell (and, a few months later, Ornette Coleman, in his own even-freer style of jazz) wrought: a lot of noodling—New Age noodling, jazz-rock-fusion noodling, blaring-and-squealing noodling—all of it baleful, boring, and deadly (literally deadly, given the rise of tight and riveting rock ‘n’ roll). Some of their successors confused freedom with just blowing whatever came into their heads, and it turned out there wasn’t much there.

Another appealing thing about Kind of Blue, though it’s also a heartbreaking thing: There was no sequel. Soon after the recording date, the band broke up. Evans formed his own piano trio; Adderley went back to playing gospel-tinged bop; Coltrane (after making Giant Steps) took his own road to freedom; Davis, too, retreated to earlier forms for the next few years, until he formed his next great band, in the mid-’60s, with younger musicians who pushed him on to more adventurous experiments.

Kind of Blue is a one-shot deal, so dreamily perfect you can hardly believe someone created it. Which is why it remains so deeply satisfying, on whatever level you experience it, as moody background music or as the center of your existence. Listen to it 100 times or so, and you still marvel at its spontaneous inventions; now and then, you’ll even hear something new.

Correction, Aug. 19, 2009: The article originally stated that a scale consists of 12 notes, which is true for chromatic scales (scales with all the notes—natural, flat, and sharp), but since Russell was talking about scales or “modes” that sound different from one another (meaning they include at least some different notes), this can be true only of scales with eight tones or eight notes. (Return to the corrected sentence.)

Et recomano llegir “Moving to Higher Ground: How Jazz Can Change Your Life”, escrit per en Wynton Marsalis i Geoffrey C. Ward, de 185 pàgines, editat el 2008 per Random House Inc., NY.

Com veuràs el sumari és prou il·lustratiu del seu contingut:

Introduction. “Now That’s Jazz”.
Chapter ONE. Discovering the Joy of Swinging (page 3).
Chapter TWO. Speaking the Language of Jazz (page 21).
CChapter THREE. Everybody’s Music: The Blues (page 47).
Chapter FOUR. What it Takes – and How it Feels – to Play (page 63).
Chapter FIVE. The Great Coming-Together (page 87).
Chapter SIX. Lessons from the Masters (page 109).
Chapter SEVEN. That Thing with No Name (page 157)

El paper de lideratge d’una determinada manera de veure el jazz, la que podríem dir “re-generació” que ha encapçalat en Wynton Marsalis des dels anys ‘80 és indiscutible i avui tothom li respecte el seu referent fins el punt de que se li va encomanar la direcció del Lincoln Centre de NY. Durant aquests darrers trenta anys ha fet un treball encomiable recuperant les arrels originals del jazz, els vertaders fonaments, el seu codi genètic autèntic, destriant el blat de la palla, i revisant el treball tant injustament oblidat que havien fet els jazzmen pioners (el só, l’expressió, el fraseig, l’atac, el vibrato, el swing,…i fins i tot els temes, les estructures, …). Aquesta adoració per les arrels l’ha portat a obligar als seus alumnes a saber tocar “a la manera de…”, no per imitar, si no per aprofundir en la comprensió del Jazz. Evidentment sense perdre res del que han estat totes les aportacions serioses al desenvolupament del jazz posteriors a l’època del Swing. En aquesta manera de concebre el jazz avui s’han trobat una colla de grandíssims instrumentistes de jazz tots ells molt joves. Per aquesta concepció del Jazz justament ha estat molt criticat pels, podríem dir, “avanguardistes” o gent sense criteri que han obligat als músics de jazz a caure en una mena de pirotècnia musical sense sentit des de fa no menys de cinquanta anys.
Amb la lectura atenta d’aquesta obra podràs explorar el món del jazz amb el guiatge de’n Wynton Marsalis, enriquir-na la visió i comprendre moltes de les coses que ara amb la perspectiva del temps transcorregut i la mirada intel·ligent i solida de’n Wynton adquireixen una nova dimensió.
Per si et vols acabar de convèncer de que cal llegir atentament aquesta obra que ja fa un parell d’anys que corre pel món llegeix a continuació el que en diu en Wynton Marsalis en forma d’interviu que publica en la seva pròpia Web i que trobo que complementa la visió del jazz que ell fonamenta en aquesta obra.
Que en gaudeixis de la lectura que segur t’ajudarà a comprendre molt més el Jazz que, si em permets, en diria autèntic (be, algú ho havia de dir, no?).
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Q: You’re a musician and composer. Why did you write this book, which is about life and lots of other things besides jazz?
A: When I first decided to become a musician, at the age of 12 or 13, I was inspired by my father, and by the New Orleans jazz tradition. I was under the impression that I had only to learn the fundamentals of music–rhythm, melody, harmony, texture–to progress as a musician. What I didn’t know then was that over the next three decades, jazz music would teach me many significant things about living. This book grew out of ten years of conversations with my friend Geoff Ward, and is my attempt to share some of it—about how important it is to be yourself in the world, and at the same time create while respecting the creativity of others.

Q: What does the title of this book, Moving to Higher Ground, mean to you?
A: Too often in life, petty squabbles and small-mindedness keep us from realizing a higher purpose. In jazz, that higher purpose is not theoretical: We want to sound good. And when we do, you can hear what it’s like when people are really trying to get along. It’s purely human: In Jazz, you can mess up and still come together, still move together to higher ground. The title means ascending through engagement.

Q: You suggest that the ideas at the heart of jazz can carry over into everyday life. How so?
A: Let’s take two ideas in jazz that are most central: swinging and the blues.
Swinging is the art of negotiation with someone else, under the pressure of time. It shows you how opposites can come together, without compromising who they are. The one who plays the highest-sounding instrument in the rhythm section–the time-keeping cymbal–has to find a way of working with the one who plays the lowest instrument, the bass. And the bass player, who plays the softest instrument, has to find a way of working with the player of the loudest, the drums. To succeed, everybody has to have a very clear idea of the common goal: What exactly are we here to do? In jazz we know: swing. In life, if everyone involved can agree on a primary objective, a group can accomplish almost anything.
The blues is many things–a musical form, a distinctive sound, a universal feeling–but above all, the blues is survival music. It’s message is simple: things are never so bad that they can’t get any better. It’s about crying over something, actually wailing–and it’s about coming back. The words may be sad but the dancing shuffle (the definitive rhythm of the blues) is always happy or heading toward happiness. The blues is about what is–and what is has demons and angels sitting at the same table. That’s a bitter-sweet and realistic message about life that everybody needs, that everybody can hear and respond to. I’ve heard people respond to it, all over the world.

Q: How do jazz principles apply to, say, holding a successful meeting?
A: If you come to a meeting without an agenda it’s probably not going to be a very good meeting. In jazz improvisation, the agenda is the form of the song. But an agenda alone doesn’t guarantee success. If everybody feels free to participate, unexpected things are sure to come up and will have to be dealt with intelligently. That’s true in jazz improvisation, too. Things are bound to come up. Some need to be discarded right away. Others need to be expounded upon. Anyone in the rhythm section playing along behind the soloist can decide, “Hey, we need to investigate this further.” And the soloist can respond, “Yeah, let’s go into that.” It’s a system of checks and balances, but what makes it work is the fact that everybody is listening and responding to what the soloist is saying without ever forgetting the agenda. That’s a pretty good model for swinging, and for getting things done.

Q: How do jazz principles apply to a family?
The central relationship on the bandstand is between the bass and the drums. They’re opposites of volume and register. The drums are the loudest and the swung cymbal is the highest-pitched while the bass is the softest and lowest-pitched. In order to swing, the right-hand stroke on the cymbal must find the right-hand pluck of the bass on every beat. While it is impossible to line those beats up with metronomic perfection it is possible to achieve a perfect intent to be together. That’s what you would like to see with a mama and a daddy. They represent gender opposites. While they try to come together to solve a problem we can go in the direction of a good time. When they don’t–when one is too loud or the other is unyielding–it becomes a matter of endurance, not swinging.

Q: What can jazz teach us about our feelings and ourselves as individuals?
A: We’re all given the gift of creativity. It comes out in all kinds of ways–the way we talk or dress or cook or whistle. I remember when I was a kid my friends and I used to see who could cut grass in the most creative way. But many times young people are put down for having a gift or skill that doesn’t fit with somebody else’s idea of what he or she should do with their lives. Jazz is the opposite of that. It tells you, “That’s you! Take pride in this thing. Express yourself. Your sound is unique. Work on it. Understand it.” Often it teaches you to celebrate yourself.
When we talk about expressing feelings in jazz, we mean spiritual feelings, empathetic feelings, feelings that are beyond thought. In jazz, musical ideas move too quickly for you to stop and analyze or to formulate a lie. By the time you think about it, that moment of music is long gone. Jazz teaches you to cherish how you feel in the moment. It puts a premium on having faith in the people you’re playing with. Because the second you lose that faith and start to question what they’re doing, the distraction takes your mind off the music and onto bad decisions that you will surely begin to make. The combination of emotional honesty and mutual trust that jazz demands can help you if applied to almost any field.

Q: How can jazz help you understand your own friends and family better?
A: At first it may seem like a paradox, but jazz helps you understand other people by teaching you that you never really know anybody. When you play music with someone–even someone you think you know really well–they’ll play things you don’t expect and can’t anticipate. You’ll go in one direction, based on what you think is going to happen and they’ll take a completely different path. Jazz lets people be free, and to surprise you–and them. It doesn’t let you mail in your response or let you lump people into categories that turn out to be meaningless. It also shows you that people, even geniuses, evolve over time. The Duke Ellington who played in 1931 was very different from the Duke of 1961. So you learn to be patient with other people and respect the progress they’ve made and are still capable of making. One of the biggest challenges in dealing with friends and family is communication and more communication. Jazz forces us to communicate with people while recognizing their objectives, and over objectives, and where we can come together.

Q: How is jazz related to America, the country that created it?
A: This art form was created to explain who we are. We have rights and responsibilities in the music just as we do as citizens. The Constitution can be amended and songs can always be added to or changes. In jazz we place a premium on the individual’s right to self-expression but we also insist on checks and balances between one person’s rights infringing on another–the soloists and the rhythm section have to work things out together.

Otherwise the piece is a mess.
Jazz allows us to improvise, to negotiate with one another. It’s the sound of many people coming together in one thing. You might be from Chicago and be Jewish but you can stand on this bandstand with a Creole from New Orleans and when both of y’all play, you’ll agree on what sounds good, and you’ll agree on it because you both can hear it. It’s democracy in action and it allows us, for all our faults, to see the success of our history. It tells us who we have been, who we are now, and who we can be in the future.

Q: Why is jazz especially relevant today?
A: This country is looking for change. Just look at what’s going on: An African American and a woman were leading contenders for the presidency; Big questions of race and identity; millions of brand-new voters turning out. Barack Obama carrying southern states in the primaries with a charismatic message of coming together. It’s a different time in our country and I think it’s the perfect time for this music.
Now, jazz has always been timely because it deals with the timeless issues of people, and of our democracy. Louis Armstrong dealt with them. So did Duke Ellington and Benny Goodman. But if you listen to political candidates today, they almost never talk about culture. It’s never really been part of our national dialogue and it should be, because it’s the best was for us actually to come together. We talk a lot about having national conversations and we’ve tried legislating unity. But we need to understand that art can bring people who are different together. Jazz provides a context for all the experiences we as human beings share.
The direction of our culture is ascendant. Jazz is a perfect embodiment of that. Jazz is ascendant. If we take a long view of the past 150 years, we won’t come to the conclusion that things are getting worse. We still have problems of corruption and greed. Jazz can provide a good antidote for them, too. To maintain their integrity, musicians have had to make many decisions that placed substance over commercial success. Jazz musicians have always aspired to an almost Utopian vision of a country in which everybody would come together and swing.
The contemporary excitement around empowering people is not new to jazz. Jazz is empowerment. Its first great achievement was to empower individual musicians to take part in the creative process through improvisation. Participation is essential to a healthy American democracy, and it’s essential to America’s greatest music, too. Everybody has to participate to make it sound good. Whether you’re playing or listening, you have to be active. If you’re just sitting there and waiting for something to happen, nothing will. I hope this book will empower as many people as possible to take part by showing how an understanding of jazz and its principles can change your life, and our lives together.