Until the Real Thing Comes Along

A big hit for Andy Kirk and His 12 Clouds of Joy, "Until the Real Thing Comes Along" is a classic. Mary Lou Williams undoubtedly established the band's greatness with her arrangements. 

Kansas City Jazz: From Ragtime to Bebop--A History

Due largely to my desire to learn more about the context of Bennie Moten's music in the 1920s and 1930s, I read the history of Kansas City jazz by Driggs and Haddix. Beginning with ragtime, white dance bands, and the social and economic conditions which led to Kansas City, Missouri becoming a "Paris of the Plains" in the 1920s and 1930s, before the fall of the Pendergast political machine, the history ends with the demise of big band and the rise of newer musical forms (bebop, R&B, rock). As one of the few histories of Kansas City's important role in the development of jazz (a simple perusal of the prominent jazz musicians who were schooled there demonstrates its significance), the history is quite detailed. The authors take great pains to demonstrate how the Pendergast political machine's flagrant violation of gambling, prostitution, and alcohol prohibitions favored a lively musical scene in the city's various bars, brothels, saloons, and nightclubs. Even in a racially segregated city such as this one, the amount of opportunities for gigs and the city's vibrant nightlife made Kansas City the premier city for jazz in the West. 

While at times the text throws so many names and abruptly shifts its focus from one musician or band to another, the reader cannot help but feel attached to black Kansas City and the musical world of 18th & Vine. Bennie Moten, Andy Kirk, Jay McShann, Lester Young, Charlie Parker, Count Basie, and Mary Lou Williams are among the most well-known names in this history, but a plethora of sidemen, arrangers, and lesser-known artists like Eddie Durham and Gene Ramsay shine. These artists attempts to make it big locally and within the Southwestern and Midwestern territorial circuit, as well as compete with the nationally-known eastern bands from New York illustrate how the "Kansas City" aesthetic to jazz and swing deserves it place in the accolades of jazz history. Their impeccable sense of rhythm, use of riffing and the blues helped define the swing sound so immortalized by Count Basie. Indeed, without influential Kansas City-based artists like Bennie Moten, whose music bridged the ragtime era and age of Swing, whose management and incorporation of early swing aesthetics blended eastern sounds (like that of Fletcher Henderson) with home-grown elements, there would have been no Basie.

As is the case with Chicago, New Orleans, and New York, jazz in Kansas City is irrevocably linked to a racist Jim Crow music industry, segregated venues, and thriving criminal underworld which seized most of the profits while African American musicians and entertainers had to make do with less. Of course, the addition of Jim Crow travel accommodations, the impact of the Depression, and the demise of big bands after WWII impacted Kansas City's jazz scene, culminating in the "end" of the Kansas City sound. It lived on through Count Basie's orchestrated jazz and transformed in the bebop of Parker and the R&B of Big Joe Turner, but its "traditional" sound is not cultivated in the same way that New Orleans preserves Dixieland. It's a shame, since so many of the most important jazz artists of the swing and bop eras either started in or perfected their art in Kansas City: Mary Lou Williams, Lester Young, Charlie Parker, and Count Basie. And these artists, although forced to establish themselves in New York or other cities, prove that Kansas City was not a peripheral region when it came to jazz creativity.

Get Low-Down Blues

An excellent musical summation of all the elements of the Bennie Moten band of the late 1920s. Beginning with a ragtime-styled introduction, the song abruptly shifts into a low-down blues featuring some scat vocals and "hot" playing. Moten's band has become one of my favorites of 1920s-1930s jazz.

Sweet Diamond Dust and Other Stories

Out of a desire to read more of Rosario Ferré's fiction, I decided to tackle her novella and related short stories contained in Sweet Diamond Dust and Other Stories. They are fascinating tales in that they clearly established the template for The House on the Lagoon and Eccentric Neighborhoods. Like those future novels, Sweet Diamond Dust is a multigenerational family drama in which a wealthy, landowning Puerto Rican family becomes a metaphor for the nation. Like the Vernets or the Mendizabals, the De La Valle family is riddled with all of the usual problems of gender, race, and class in a shifting Puerto Rican society (from the decline of the local sugar barons to industrialization and post-WWII migrations and political transformations). Unfortunately, some of her short stories are less compelling than the extended prose works, but, when combined, tell the story of a fictionalized Ponce (Santa Cruz) quite satisfactorily. 

Her satirical approach to Puerto Rican social relations in the "American Century" is rather priceless as it directly addresses the question of the rise and fall of the Puerto Rican gentry and bourgeoisie, and to what extent an independent Puerto Rico is viable. Despite our possible objections to the author's views on independence, which are perhaps best seen in the final short story, which imagines a Puerto Rico on the cusp of independence after the mainland government wishes to cease economic support, Ferré focuses on the interstitial spaces and shadows that connect across social classes. Like hidden black ancestors in the wealthy white family or the mixed-race nouveau riche, Ferré invariably focuses on these types of connections and their ways of uniting and dividing the "Puerto Rican family." 

While I did not enjoy the other stories as much as the novella within this collection, they are also quite experimental and polyphonic, taking the reader on a journey into the psyche of various characters from all social classes. There is a certain delight in reading of the rather extreme courses of action taken by some of these characters, particularly in their destructive actions which threaten the foundations of Puerto Rican society. Indeed, what more could accomplish this when Gloria and Titina burn the De La Valle home in the novella or the disastrous conclusion to the marriage of Don Augusto Arzuaga and Adriana? Or the solidarity of wealthy Mercedita with her friend, Carlotta? The instability and uncertainty of the narratives mirrors the ambiguous status of Puerto Rico.

The Rain

Rest in peace, Eddie Gale. This year has witnessed several of our musicians pass away, and Gale was surely an important voice in free and avant-garde jazz. On albums like Ghetto Music he somehow managed to fuse folk and choral musical elements with jazz and sound surprisingly modern and consistent. Without the hokey nature of some of Sun Ra's music, Gale demonstrated a gift for incorporating folk and other styles into jazz. 

Eubie Blake

Al Rose's biography of composer and pianist Eubie Blake is not great. It's perhaps too short and clearly written by someone who lacks objectivity when ranking the works of Blake. Moreover, Rose is at times condescending in tone when describing African Americans (perhaps a reflection of his times and upbringing?). Nevertheless, this is a very useful read for anyone interested in the life and times of Eubie Blake, who lived long enough to experience early ragtime and jazz while also participating in the ragtime revival of the second half of the 20th century. Covering his life from his birth to formerly enslaved parents in Baltimore, Rose chronicles, often in the voice of Blake himself, his development as a pianist and composer in ragtime and popular music venues to his renewed status as an elder statesman of ragtime in the 1970s.

For someone primarily interested in jazz and its history, Blake's career is perhaps more accurately seen as one of the early ingredients of jazz. Reflecting vaudeville (including his early partnership days with Noble Sissle), ragtime piano, and black musical theater in NYC, Blake's music contains jazz elements and some of his compositions themselves became standards ("Memories of You"). However, Blake himself, despite his repute as a pianist since the early 1900s, and his influence on younger musicians like James P. Johnson, was perhaps more akin to James Reese Europe and Wilbur Sweatman. Like those other early jazz pioneers, his music straddled pre-jazz ragtime, musical theater, and vaudeville while keeping up with the new sounds of jazz and blues by the late 1910s and 1920s. But Eubie doesn't quite fit in with the stride pianists like James P. Johnson or Willie the Lion Smith, despite sharing their penchant for improvisation. Perhaps, since most of Blake's recorded music consisted of rags or recordings featuring the vocals of Noble Sissle, I detect more the influence of showtunes and vaudeville (with the occasional nod to blues, jazz or the Negro spiritual).

In spite of this, Blake is certainly a key figure in the history of ragtime and jazz. His musical partnerships with James Reese Europe and Noble Sissle were also significant for the development of black music in New York. Through the Clef Club, they helped organize and professionalize black music. Through musicals like Shuffle Along and their vaudeville performances, Blake and Sissle created music that did not depend on blackface or the most pernicious racial stereotypes (think of some of the unforgettable love songs from their collaboration). The indignities Blake had to endure to make it the entertainment industry are shocking nowadays, but it is thanks to musicians like Blake and James Reese Europe that African Americans in entertainment could surpass some of the limitations of a Jim Crow musical industry. Blake, as the son of former slaves, certainly lived long enough to witness the transformations in the lives of African Americans. Undoubtedly, this process is mirrored in our music.

The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket

Edgar Allan Poe's sole novel never appealed to me during my Poe phase, which was perhaps 17 years ago. For some reason, the nautical jargon and central character never resonated with me until Mat Johnson's satirical Pym piqued my interest. Learning of Poe's The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket influence on H.P. Lovecraft also fueled my interest. However, the fantastic, cosmological horror of Lovecraft's famous novel set in Antarctica is only hinted at in Poe's 1838 novel. Johnson's inspiration, of course, leans more heavily into the racist beliefs and practices of Poe's time, reimagining the half-Indian Dirk Peters as a black man and turning Tsalal into a utopian refuge from the blinding white horror of Antarctica and Arthur Gordon Pym. A number of other writers, including Jules Verne, were inspired by Poe's singular novel and sought to write their own sequels or adaptations, trying to find something to match the tantalizing conclusion of the original's interrupted ending.

At first, Poe's novel seems like a simple adventure story set at sea. After an initial tale of shipwreck involving an inebriated Augustus and Pym, which foreshadows their future fate, the narrative shifts to the Grampus. Arthur Gordon Pym and his friend, Augustus, join a whaling expedition after the former is sneaked aboard by the latter. Unfortunately, a mutiny on board occurs and the ship is, after some time, damaged in a gale. The four survivors, which include a man named Richard Parker (the inspiration for the character of the same name in Life of Pi), are left adrift while they slowly starve and die of thirst. Bizarrely, after committing themselves to cannibalism, they eventually access the storageroom of the ship to feed themselves a bit longer. More strange events occur, such as crossing paths with the Flying Dutchman and, their eventual rescue by the Jane Guy ship, a British schooner from Liverpool. En route to the South Seas, the Jane Guy takes the survivors (Dirk Peters and Pym) with them. They stop at a few South Indian Ocean islands like Kerguelen, restock, and eventually engage in some explorations further south in the direction of Antarctica.

Now, in the then-unknown Antarctic region, more bizarre and inexplicable events occur. Temperatures oddly rise, and they encounter black-skinned peoples on an island called Tsalal. The natives are, unlike the Negro cook from the Grampus, jet-black with black teeth. Perhaps inspired by European accounts of Polynesian and Melanesian peoples, Edgar Allan Poe turns these "savages" into something questionably human by turning their teeth black. Nonetheless, the natives are initially friendly and engage in trade with the crew, especially in "biche de mer," which sells well in the Chinese market. Of course, the treacherous black natives, after lulling the white men into a sense of false security, trap them in a ravine and kill off all but Dirk Peters and Pym. After more days of struggling to survive, they eventually escape in a canoe and continue southward, entering a land of pure whiteness (white birds who cry "Tekeli-li!" like the Tsalalians), vapor, white ash, and a shrouded human figure of vast proportions and white skin). This is the famous ending of the novel, and the "Note" after chapter 24 indicates that Dirk Peters is alive and well in Illinois some years after this.

Now, what does any of this mean? First, like the future famous novel of Melville, it shows how interconnected the global economy was, and how the diverse crews of whalers and other ships brought together all "races" of men. Through their collective labor, ties to trade and burgeoning international markets, these ships, and their contact with the South Pacific and other peoples exemplify modernization of human societies. "Savages" and "civilized" peoples were unable to remain wholly distinct, and the former were incorporated into wider circulations of goods and people through natural resources, such as the "biche de mer" of Tsalal. In the case of The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, however, the peoples of Tsalal succeed in destroying the ship that would have led to their incorporation into a colonial world of trade and domination. Perhaps, like the example of black rebellions in Virginia (Nat Turner) and Haiti, Tsalal exemplifies a refusal of modernity and its blessed comforts and sciences. Tsalal's people, intriguingly, are not entirely cut off from more advanced peoples, as they possess canoes constructed by another people which are more seaworthy than their rafts. Their own social organization is seen as primitive by Pym, but they are in communication with peoples of the surrounding islands and governed by a common king. While technologically "primitive," their land of color excludes whiteness. This actually brings to mind Haiti and the lack of citizenship accorded to whites in the 19th century.

However, this reading of Tsalal and the mysterious white land to its south ignores the numerous Biblical references and the god-like being of whiteness described in the Antarctic region, not to mention the ancient inscriptions in "Ethiopian" (Ethiopic), Arabic and Egyptian describing blackness, whiteness, and the South (Antarctica) as separate regions. The darkness of Tsalal, linked to ancient Ethiopia, is forever in opposition to the whiteness of the Antarctic, possibly another reference to race as a fundamental divide linked to Biblical prophesy (the destruction of Jerusalem?) or other references to racial difference justified by pro-slavery voices in the US? The novel's ambiguous ending, as suggested by a number of studies, could also be found in Christian prophecy and Poe's own suffering (the loss of his mother and brother). And here lies the greatness of the novel, since its open to a vast number of interpretations and possible symbolic messages that combines a number of genres. Poe's creative use of ancient Egyptian, Ethiopic, and Arabic writings in the South Seas hints at a fascinating example of world-building for his fictionalized version of the South Pole. No one knows what to make of this innovative, creative tale.

The Blue Room

Forgot how marvelous Bennie Moten's Orchestra could be. "The Blue Room" combines that infectious, swinging rhythm with a raucous horn section that helped establish the sound of the 1930s (as well as Count Basie's mastery of riffs). We often forget the importance of regions like Kansas City in the development of jazz because New York, New Orleans, or Chicago demonstrate more remnants of this past.

Mister Jelly Roll

Alan Lomax's seminal biography of Jelly Roll Morton, Mister Jelly Roll The Fortunes of Jelly Roll Morton, New Orleans Creole and "Inventor of Jazz" is a fascinating read. Based on his interviews with Jelly Roll at the Library of Congress in the late 1930s, Lomax manages to capture much of Jelly Roll's voice in his prose, including additional interludes and other interview materials to paint a fuller picture of Jelly Roll Morton's life and works. As a product of a folklorist who, in the case of some of his field recordings and research abroad in places like Haiti, Lomax demonstrates a persistent interest in the historical and folkloric elements that contributed to the rise of jazz. Part of that interest carries into a keen attention paid to the Louisiana Creoles of Color and the particular social factors that led many to gravitate to music, with less of the primitivist lens used by others who studied "hot jazz" (although the attention Lomax pays to "voodoo" and "hoodoo" may be a remnant of his interest in the exotic cultures he experienced in nations like Haiti, where some of Morton's ancestors came from).

Unfortunately, Alan Lomax was obsessed with the wedge between Creole blacks and non-Creole blacks. Relying on rough generalizations of Creole sophistication meeting black pathos and soul to create jazz music, he pushes a narrative of black/mulatto dichotomy that was already breaking down by the time of Jelly Roll's career. Indeed, as Jelly Roll's own words make clear, he knew and experienced racism across the South (including the infamous chain gangs and fear of lynchings), and was very well aware of the racism in the music industry. However, Jelly Roll Morton and other Creoles interviewed by Lomax for the work were occasionally colorist and dismissive of non-Creole African Americans. Calling him a racist or insinuating he was accepting of Jim Crow is unfair. Especially after Jelly Roll's own experiences with race riots, segregation, a threat of lynchings, and his later marginalization by the seizure of jazz by white-dominated groups in music publishing and the record industry. Like future generations of jazz artists, such as Charles Mingus, Morton lived long enough to see whites make way more money than he ever dreamed of from playing black music. Without a doubt, Morton was critical of the Jim Crowed jazz industry and hoped serious, professional black musicians could maintain some status and protection from its rapacity. 

Of course, Lomax was right, in a sense, about the origins of jazz msuic. Jazz was a union of sorts of downtown Creole sensibilities and "rougher" or bluesier African American uptown music. But such a statement could be made about African American music generally (a combination of "refined" and formal musical training with folk, blues, spirituals, work-songs, and others with African influences). Today, it is easier to pinpoint the problems of assuming a New Orleans origin of the music, just as one can be skeptical about Morton's claims to have been the first jazz artist. Clearly, in several cities across the US, the seeds for early jazz were sown by a plethora of different African American musicians active in black musical theater, vaudeville, ragtime, popular music, and blues. Nonetheless, one cannot deny the prominence of New Orleans musicians and their influence in early jazz, especially for Chicago. Morton was, perhaps, the finest composer of the bunch, and had traveled widely earlier than many of them. He may not have "invented" jazz, but Morton was one of the early ones to perfect its form and record some of the best "hot jazz" in the New Orleans style in the 1920s

Unfortunately, with the exception of Johnny St. Cyr and a few other bandmates of Morton, like Omer Simeon, the reader does not find more information about how exactly the Red Hot Peppers excelled so often in the recording studio. The statements of St. Cyr and Omer Simeon reveal Morton to have been a flexible bandleader who allowed members to express themselves on their solos and during breaks, but Morton struggled to maintain a consistent band by the end of the 1920s. Refusing to allow them to drink and excepting a certain degree of professionalism, plus his ego, may have irritated too many bandmates. Things allegedly reached the point where Morton expected the band to play just as he wrote the music, although some of these difficulties may have been due to working with a number of musicians untrained in the New Orleans style. Indeed, from the 1930s through the end of his life, Morton struggled and was considered old-fashioned by the rising swing generation of musicians. However, no one can deny that Morton's mastery of the New Orleans style has bequeathed some gems to the jazz standard repertoire, while showcasing the importance of composition and arrangement in early jazz to create sophisticated, multilayered pieces. 

Overall, Alan Lomax's biography lives up to its reputation. Despite the editorial assertions and unfair characterizations by Lomax, this is undoubtedly the closest thing to how Morton would have liked to be remembered. Despite the many gaps in its narrative structure or lack of details for certain moments in his life, Morton's life from a Creole childhood in New Orleans to his unfortunate death in Los Angeles, are vividly brought to life. The gambling dens, brothels, low-lives, hustlers, musicians, failed businesses, wives, girlfriends, and good living made for a storied life, even if Morton embellished or exaggerated. His high opinion of himself, musical genius, and belief that everyone was cheating him must have inspired Charles Mingus, and resonated with other luminaries of the jazz world who sought to escape the confines of the Jim Crow musical industry. 

Darktown Strutters' Ball

A particularly lively rendition of the old standard, "Darktown Strutters' Ball," by the daughter of Luis Russell.  It's always nice to see jazz standards from over a century ago being revitalized. 

Eccentric Neighborhoods

Eccentric Neighborhoods is quite similar to The House on the Lagoon,, but even more autobiographical. Elvira, the central character, is like the author in that both are from Ponce and have fathers who became governor of Puerto Rico. Of course, for this novel, Ferre changes the name of Ponce to La Concordia and surely fictionalizes several aspects of her own family's origins for a series of stories within a story about the Vernets and Riva de Santillana families. Since it lacks the narrative conceit of the more illustrious Lagoon, and Elvira is a less compelling character than Isabel, Eccentric Neighborhoods was less magical and a more arduous read. One finds the plethora of characters to be less engaging in Eccentric Neighborhoods, although both novels retain a strong focus on women, inter-generational gender dynamics, and the search for independence and autonomy. Needless to say, these concerns for the strong women in Ferre's novels mirror the condition of Puerto Rico in the 20th century. But perhaps due to the novel's greater autobiographical influences and its greater focus on Ponce and Puerto Rico's transformation from sugar to industrialization and the commonwealth (under a ficitonalized Marín), the novel provides a fascinating literary reconstruction of the lives of the criollo hacendado class and the rise of families like the Vernets, who wisely catch on to the New Deal and the future of industrialization. There is neither praise nor blame attached to the process, although the slums and destruction of the environment continue as Puerto Rico is thrust along into the 20th century (and Americanization). Eccentric Neighborhoods is truly a fascinating novel from a historical perspective, immersing the reader in the various neighborhoods, architectural delights, and transformations of Ponce and the rest of the island. 

The Tales of Ise

I was pleasantly surprised to see how readable The Tales of Ise can be. Translated by Peter Macmillan, it's smooth, engaging, and lyrical while taking the reader on a journey to Heian Japan. Based around 125 episodes combining poetry and prose, the narrative is a fictionalized take on the life of aristocrat Ariwara no Narihira. Most of the episodes concern Narihira's love affairs and poetic messages to past and present women in his life. Some also contrast the countryside with the elite court culture of the capital (modern Kyoto) and describe various regions of Honshu. Reading this after the Ochikubo Monogatari, one can see how The Tales of Ise influenced future monogatari through its subject matter, tropes, and combination of poetry and prose. 

Like Ochikubo Monogatari, men and women often communicate through love poems, and the courtly culture of the capital is clearly the main social arena through which the various characters interact. However, unlike the husband of Lady Ochikubo, Narihira is a womanizer who is constantly wooing or sleeping with various women of all social classes (countrywomen, women of higher rank, lusting for his own sister), including the Priestess of Ise. I personally think Ochikubo Monogatari is, at times, a defense of monogamy possibly written by a woman. Ise Monogatari, on the other hand, seems to lack any judgment of the various affairs of Narihira, and takes the reader on an endless romp with the various successful and unsuccessful conquests of its protagonists. At times, one cannot help but admire him though, as he decides to stay with country women or, in one case, with an older woman to please others besides himself. 

In its combination of poetry and prose to tell a (somewhat) central narrative, it also brings to mind the far older Satyricon of Petronius. While Petronius's comic "novel" is more of a satire on Rome from nearly 2000 years ago, both texts combine poetry and prose to propel a narrative centered on a man and his amorous affairs. Encolpius is far less likable or romantic than Narihira, but both engage with a variety of social classes in their various amorous affairs across their respective territories. The Tales of Ise, however, actually consists of well-written poetry and contains less humor. Yet, both are bound together by their episodic nature of life in highly stratified ancient societies. Ultimately, The Tales of Ise is the more rewarding work because of the incomplete nature of The Satyricon, but it is interesting to see how early "fiction" in both the "Western" and "Eastern" contexts evolved from a combination of verse and prose. 

Nova

Samuel R. Delany's Nova is difficult to describe. A relatively short novel that blends space opera with mythic quest, Delany's world-building is excellent and engaging. Dealing with the topic of novas, energy sources, galactic politics and the nature of history and time, it tells the tale of Lorq Von Ray's ragtag crew racing against the Reds in search of Illyrion. Stylistically, the novel moves through flashbacks and, at times, ends mid-sentence, leaving for a jarring feeling of sensory overload. Much like Dan and, eventually, Lorq, sensory overload from peering directly into the nova matches the theme of the book, where the break down of the laws of physics accompanies a radical shift in history and politics. While at times the prose could be somewhat of a chore to thumb through, the crew of the Roc, particularly Mouse and Katin, are fascinating characters revealing much of what life in the 32nd century is like. Katin's meta-novel mirrors the themes of Nova and a conception of history and time that connects all of humanity, a return to "cultural solidity" of sorts considered lost by the thinkers of the day.

However, as a product of its historical epoch and telling the tale of a great transformation in humanity's trajectory, the novel form allows Katin to see his own connections with the revolutionary Ashton Clark and the rise of cyborg technology that ended alienation of worker and labor (but exploitation of labor, particularly miners, is rampant). The Tarot Cards and references to ancient mysticism allow for a resurgence of ancient belief in fate and cycles, which will end the current cycle to usher in a new age (hints of Spengler here, no doubt, but the cards are meant to be guides, not destiny.  Class dimensions are no doubt present, as the Outer Colonies are peopled by the workers, the Pleiades Federation dominated by the middle-class (now wealthy, such as the Von Rays), and Draco by the plutocracy (Prince and Ruby Red). By the novel's end, the dominance of the plutocracy is no longer secure. This raises the question of the future fate of the species under the domination of the Pleiades Federation and the Outer Colonies, perhaps leading to another set of conflicts with the descendants of Von Ray and the working-classes.A sequel to this would be a fascinating read to see how the galaxy looks after the revolution in energy sources weakens Draco. But, maybe the world of Nova is best left alone in its transition to a new epoch.