March 14, 2005

Blue: The Murder of Jazz by Eric Nisenson

Allow me to summarize: Wynton Marsalis and his ilk are no better than the moldy figs of yore, who held that everything after Dixieland was a bastardization of "real" jazz. Now Marsalis, Stanley Crouch, and all those kind of guys, in their exaggerated respect for jazz heritage, are bullying into submission the "essence of jazz," i.e., freedom and innovation. Not only does it misrepresent the position of his opponents (I'm no Marsalis supporter, but I think what he is saying is that innovation must be based on a knowledge of what has gone before), this book is redundant, rambling, and flat out badly written. It's still not a waste of time, though. Within its petulant, poorly constructed arguments is a vivid capsule history of jazz, with tons of great stories and quotes. Like Miles Davis on the bebop revivalists of the seventies: "Didn't we play it good the first time?" Or Miles Davis on being told that it was Wednesday: "You're a lying motherfucker."

Miles at the Fillmore East in 1970, or possibly 1969

Not sure how I feel about this. I'm no moldy fig, but I can't listen to this, one of Miles' first forays into fusion, without feeling a little sad. Compared to the beauty, elegance, and poise of nearly anything he did before, this sounds like pandering noise, with Jack DeJohnette bashing along like a rock drummer and Chick Corea frantically battering the electric piano he didn't even want to play (though he would learn to like it well enough later, the little whore). Maybe unsettling his fans is what makes Miles a genius and all that, and that this recording can still do this after 35 years is a mark of its greatness. But I dunno. Then I look up and notice that the world is, in fact, not waiting for me to render judgment on this matter. What a relief.

Stories by the ol' Sakmeister

Saki is the Michelangelo's David of wit. Power held in reserve, no need to whack you in the face with his big dick, which is curled up like a delicate mouse. These stories are perfectly formed little seashells of wit, but without the organic component. Seashells made by super robots. Let's just pretend you know what the hell I'm talking about and never speak of this again.

Cults: Faith, Coercion, etc. etc. by Marc Galanter I love me some cults. What I wanted from this book was LSD orgies, ESP extortion, and other freaky cult shit. There is some of that, but since this guy is a sociologist, he is more concerned with definitions and explanations. Not totally boring, but still. There's a great chapter on how AA resembles a cult but is not one. In conclusion, when you hear the Mammas and the Papas sing, don't they sound like a cult?

Pharoah Sanders Blowing and Sucking A free-squawking refugee from the sixties whose claim to fame is having played with Ascension-era Coltrane, Pharoah Sanders made this truly shitty record in 1980 or so. Alternating treacly melodies with Sanders' patented honks and screeches, and featuring an embarrassing duet with a Japanese koto player, this album sucks from begriming to end. I have been on a big jazz kick recently (I'm trying not to be a bore about it, okay?), and am listening to all the classics. Great recordings make me feel humble and privileged, which is great and all, but for some reason I find it is a relief to hear something that is total crap. Why is that?