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San Francisco State College: Leonard Wolf and Graduation in 1963

My most recent post on Bill’s Blog–“San Francisco State College in 1962–Wright Morris”–was the first in a series of two pieces on my experience as a graduate student in Language Arts (Creative Writing) at the College–“one of the most rewarding periods of my life.” I said the second post would focus on poet Leonard Wolf–another major influence at the time–and see us through the acquisition of my Master of Arts degree in May of 1963. I’d like to offer that second post now.

In the first post, I claimed that, in 1962, the Creative Writing faculty consisted of some of the finest writers of the era, one of whom, Wright Morris, I focused on exclusively.  Here’s a photo, taken in 1964,  of a portion of the staff in the office of Wright Morris, who is standing (far right) talking to Kay Boyle (Death of a Man, Three Short Novels: The Crazy Hunter, The Bridegroom’s BodyDecision, and several short story collections); Leo Litwak seated far right (whom I would come to know well years later, when we were guest writers at the Foothill Writers Conference; Leo was then at work on his memoir, The Medic: Life and Death in the Last Days of World War II), Bill Weigent in the center; Mark Harris far left in the back (Bang the Drum Slowly, The Self-Made Brain Surgeon and Other Stories, Mark the Glove Boy, or The Last Days of Richard Nixon, Diamond – The Baseball Writings of Mark Harris), and Judith Shatnoff down front: (Photo credit: Haunted: The Strange and Profound Art of Wright Morris)

SF State College Creative Writing Staff (2)While I’m dropping names (and the names of books), I might as well mention other faculty members of note when I arrived in 1962. Walter Van Tilburg Clark (author of The Ox-Bow Incident and The Track of The Cat) was Division Chairman, and would serve as my primary faculty adviser. Poets James Schevill, Bill Dickey, and Leonard Wolf (much more about him coming up) would make up my Masters of Arts thesis committee—and other writers on the staff were Ray B. West (Rocky Mountain StoriesThe Art of Modern FictionKingdom of the Saints); poet/critic Mark Linenthal (who liked to tell students “Everything I learned about poetry, I learned from jazz.”), James Leigh (The Rasmussen Disasters, No Man’s Land, and What Can You Do? Also a jazz trombonist who in 2000 published his memoirs, Heaven on the Side: A Jazz Life); and Herbert Wilner (All the Little Heroes, Dovisch In the Wilderness and Other Stories, Quarterback Speaks To His God).

Leonard Wolf, who became my thesis project adviser (my thesis a manuscript book I would call Poems: The Weekend—“A creative work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State College in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree Master of Arts”), was–at the time I worked with him–not one of the “well known” writers on the Creative Writing staff, although he had published his work in The New Yorker and other respected journals, along with a book of Poems, Hamadryad Hunted (1948, Bern Porter Press). In 1962, the year I met him, his daughter Naomi was born—and she would become, in the words of Wikipedia, “an American liberal progressive feminist author, journalist, and former political adviser to Al Gore and Bill Clinton,” Naomi Wolf  would come to prominence in 1991 as the author of The Beauty Myth. She also wrote The Treehouse: Eccentric Wisdom from My Father on How to Live, Love, and See: a “lovely personal memoir about an unconventional, openhearted man … a wild old visionary poet … passionate eccentric and a radically romantic humanist” who believed the creative force resides “inside all of us.”

Here is the cover of The Treehouse: Eccentric Wisdom from My Father on How to Live, Love, and See—with father and daughter together in Leonard’s later years; and here is a photo of father and daughter taken in 1966—three years after I graduated from San Francisco State College: (Photo credits: The Treehouse: Eccentric Wisdom from My Father on How to Live, Love, and See)

Leonard Wolf Naomi Book about Leonard  Leonard Wolf and Naomi 1966

In 1962, I found Leonard Wolf to be a lean, handsome, dark-bearded (he reminded me of photos I’d seen of D.H. Lawrence) purposeful, intense at times, but modest, mild-mannered, accessible, empathic adviser I felt comfortable with the first time I sat down with him in his office. I did not yet know his “history” (which turned out to be nearly as colorful as that of Wright Morris). Leonard Wolf was born in Vulcan, Romania (Transylvania), his name originally ‘Ludovic’, which was changed upon his arrival in the United States in 1930 with his mother, Roseita, older brother, Maxim (Mel) and younger sister, Shirly. After I left San Francisco State College in 1963, Leonard Wolf would, in 1967, start “Happening House, one of many organizations that originated with the hippies of the Haight Ashbury district … conceived as an alternate university, an arts center and a place of learning.” In 1968, he would publish Voices from the Love Generation with Little, Brown—a book I purchased and read while teaching in Wisconsin.

Here’s the cover of that book, and the cover of Leonard Wolf’s book of collected poems, The Stone Cicada, published by Medusa Press in 2001.

Leonard Wolf Voices from the Love Generation    Leonard Wolf The Stone Cicada

I’ve already mentioned (last post) that I had to submit my own work to be accepted in his poetry writing course, and that once he had selected the students he felt qualified, he asked us to meet at his home, rather than in a classroom on campus. I don’t recall exactly, but I think just about ten students would gather there on a weeknight–and all of them talented, interesting people. I was twenty-six, and a definite dowager was in her seventies. She had an elegant home in the Marina section of San Francisco, and we met there on one occasion. I wish, now, I’d kept a list of the students’ names (for future reference—what may have “become of them”), but unfortunately, I didn’t. The sessions held at Leonard’s home were lively, informal, and informative in a multitude of ways (regarding the craft of poetry, and otherwise)—each student respectful of the others, and Leonard open to the needs of each of us.

Aside from the friendship I formed with my sculpture teacher, Cal Albert, at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn in the mid-50s, I’d never been in the “home” of an artist or writer with whom I took a class before, to see what “domestic” life was like for them—so these journeys up the hill above Kezar Stadium to Leonard Wolf’s home were inspiring. His daughter Naomi was not born until 1962, so Leonard’s wife was “carrying” her at this time, and his wife, Deborah, was an interesting, attractive, personable woman. The house was, as Naomi would describe it in her book, The Treehouse: Eccentric Wisdom from My Father on How to Live, Love, and See, as follows (I’ll quote at some length, to give the full effect):

“Our house in San Francisco had been built in 1890, in the style of a hunting lodge. Its foundation, we were always being reassured, was on bedrock. It had survived the 1906 earthquake. Nevertheless, maybe because of the quake, it leaned visibly out of level … I did not live in a room with level floors in it until I was old enough to vote. It was easy, in a house like this, to believe that the imagination was a world that was as normal to inhabit as any other …The house was built so that the entire back end was pitched straight over a cliff. That half perched on two big timbers, with a sheer drop fifty feet down. The cliff-side balconies sagged markedly. Every time you went out on one, you were taking your life in your hands. The front half of the house was buried in wild growth: tangles of nasturtium and ivy covering a steep forest floor, overshadowed by eucalyptus and Monterey pines. When you stood on the roof of the house—which my parents insanely allowed me to do—you could see all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge in one direction, and all the way to the Bay Bridge in the other: a silver necklace and a golden chain binding the city at both harbors … As I curled up with a book in a niche by the ash-laden fireplace, looking out at the evergreens that surrounded the house, continually painted and erased by the fog, like the trees in a Chinese wall hanging—I experienced the house day-to-day as a crucible of magic.”

Here’s a photo, a family setting, of Leonard, his wife Deborah, and daughter Naomi (Photo credit: Michael A. Smith)

Leonard Wolf Chatting with Naomi and Wife

I had far less acquaintance with the house than she would, obviously, but I too found it magical. Yet, just as I found with Wright Morris, it was the one-on-one sessions in Leonard Wolf’s office–where we concentrated, together, on making my thesis project the best, most interesting “entity” we could—I felt were most valuable. Leonard Wolf was studying Russian at the time, and he suggested I include my own translations in my project, which I did: three poems by Alexander Blok (“Catkins,” “The Stranger” and “The Artist”), although we’d gone over a number of poems I had translated while taking lessons from our babysitter, Mrs. Pein. She’d given me language lessons in exchange for guitar lessons for her granddaughter—my reward if I did хорошо (good) after each lesson was not just one but two shots of vodka. At the time I felt I was being a fool (дурачить; durachit’), because, although I was able to read the poetry of Pushkin, Lermontov, and Pasternak in the original language, we focused mainly on grammar (I even wrote compositions for her which she “corrected.”). I did not learn to speak the language all that well—but a very constructive, positive result of the three years I spent working at the Lawrence Radiation Lab was, on my multiple bus journeys to and from work each day, I studied Russian, and by the time I met Leonard Wolf, I knew the language fairly well.

Here are two translations of Alexander Blok I made (with Leonard’s support and assistance–he was a stickler for finding just the “right” word–one word and one only—to “fit” the Russian)—two poems we would include in my final thesis manuscript:

[I am sorry to say this WordPress format will not reproduce the poems that follow as they appeared on the page, their exact form (lines indented, etc), so I will simply indicate the line breaks where they occur. We lose the visual counterpart, but at least we have the words–in correct order!]

THE ARTIST

In summer heat and snow-driven winters, / On the day of your wedding, feast, or funeral / I wish to rouse my deadly boredom with / The soft forgotten sound of bells.

Here! It is rising. With cold regard / I want to know, and fix, and strangle it. / Before my keen review the peal of bells / Extends to a barely perceptible thread.

Is the whirlwind rising from the sea? The bird / Of paradise singing in the leaves? Time swung / To a halt? The apples of May strewn with snow / Of blossoms? An angel passing in flight?

The hours pass, prolonged, bearing the world’s weight. / Sound, motion, and light expand; / The past passionately gazes at itself in the future. / No present. Nothing pathetic any more.

Finally, on its threshold of birth, the soul / –The new soul, the unknown force– / Is stricken by a curse, struck like thunder, / Conquered by creative reason, only to be killed.

He is locked within the frozen cage— / The gentle, kind, unbroken bird, / The bird that wished only to bear away death, / The bird that flew only to save the soul.

Here! This is my cage, of tempered steel / That glistens in the evening fire. / Here is my bird, formerly bright in plume, / Swinging on a hoop, singing in the window.

Its wings are clipped. It knows the song by rote. / Do you like to stand beneath the window? / The songs please you. But I, jaded and forlorn, / Long for more—and again, am bored.

THE STRANGER

On evenings above the restaurants / Densely lies the troubled air; / It holds the rancid breath of spring, / Conveying drunken calls—

Over the dust of by-lanes falls, / Toward the bored suburban flats, / The baker’s golden crest / And the shrill cries of children.

At night, beyond the city pikes /The dandies by the ditches stroll / With their ladies, tipping their derbies, /And exercise their wits.

Out on the lake the oarlocks creak, / A woman screams, /While in the city, bored with it all, / Indifferent, curls the moon.

On nights like this my only friend /Is the curved reflection in the glass, /Like I, befuddled / By the bitter sacramental wine.

In rows by tables close to mine / The drowsy waiters stand, / While drunks with rabbits’ eyes cry out, / “In vino veritas!’

Each night, at one suggested hour / –Do I dream, or do I see?– / The figure of a girl in silk / Passes by the window pane.

Then slowly, slight, she makes her way / Among the drunken men–alone– / As frail as smoke within the room, / And sits beside the window frame.

A vestal dressed for solemn rites: / Her skirts, like wine, excite, / Her hat with plumes among the smoke / And rings on every finger.

Strange: to watch her weave that spell / I see beneath a darkened veil; / Stranger still the promise held / Of veiled and distant shores.

The secret spell is mine to keep / –Deliverance in the sun– / Into the center of my soul / The wine and she have found their way.

I am turned on a spire of feathers– / My brain, like plumes, begins to sway— /  Drawn by the blue, the glass of her eyes, / Its light on distant shores.

Now in my soul a treasure lies, / And I am keeper of the key! / In truth, O drunken prodigy, / I know in wine is truth!

Here is a photo of Alexander Blok; a scroll painting I did of “The Stranger” (with Russian text); and a painting of another poem by Blok which I also translated: “This lamp, street, evening, shop, / This dim and senseless light of night– / If you should live another twenty years, / It will remain so. No end to it … You will die and begin again, go / Through it all again, as of old: / Evening, the icy fragments in the canal, / This lamp, this street, this shop.” (Photo credit: https://beautifulrus.com)

Alexander-Blok (1)  Alexander Blok The Stranger My Painting

Alexander Blok This Lamp Street Evening my painting

When it came to my own poems, Leonard Wolf was the perfect adviser, or “partner,” to have, for we thought along totally compatible lines when it came to the relationship of form to content. My training at Pratt Institute (anatomy classes coupled with life-drawing labs; rendering sessions, trompe l’oeil; design projects such as creating a living room based on color juxtapositions found in a favorite painting) had left me with much respect for formal properties in the visual arts (and the same in music: learning to play over set chord progressions long before I attempted “free jazz”). I had carried this respect for formal properties over when I started to write poetry—respect for the fundamentals.

I was thrilled by the “freedom” of Dylan Thomas’ poem “Fern Hill” (Line 1, 14 syllables; Line 2, 14 syllables; Line 3, 9 syllables; Line 4, 6 syllables; Line 5, 9 syllables; Line 6, 14 syllables; Line 7, 14 syllables; Line 8, 7 syllables; Line 9, 9 syllables. The lines are not arbitrary, for Thomas sticks to the set pattern in each stanza of the poem. Each stanza has the exact same number of lines with the exact same number of syllables in each line. I was thrilled by this mastery of craft (in spite of the poet’s drunken social habits), thrilled to find a host of words in the margins of his drafts, awaiting the selection, or choice, of just that “right” word–the inevitable word–for the poem.

I carried my respect for formal properties over into my own poems, and I would pay a price for it with certain factions at SF State, for “free verse,” or totally open, or “uncooked,” poetry, such as that practiced by the Beats, was still in vogue (a sort of Civil War, in fact, going on between open and closed form poets. More about that Civil War in a moment)—but Leonard Wolf was on my side. Again, In Naomi Wolf’s book, I found a very thorough, accurate, account of his ideas on the subject:

“Be disciplined. Do you want to know how to become a writer? It is not romantic. There is no revising a blank page. Keep going … [Naomi’s words]: “I remembered how, when I was a child, after I had told him I wanted to learn about them, he taught the standard forms of traditional poetry. Like a carpenter showing a child how to build a birdhouse, he taught me the basic shapes one could work with.” [quatrain, sonnet, ballad … and “the beats of the words”: iamb, trochee, spondee, anapest, dactyl, blank verse.] … “I would show him my latest poems—often written in the dreaded free verse, which was of course fashionable at the time … ‘Naomi, don’t paint abstractly until you can draw the figure. You can beak the form successfully once you have mastered it. Structure has to be the foundation—then you can play with it or depart from it altogether. But you have to know your craft … Emotions can be more powerful when they are closely confined by a strict form …The postwar poets I admired said that emotion, too, was a legitimate mode of thought. But the Beats made it a law that emotion would be the only mode of thought. They put feeling first and thought second. That led to disaster. I thought that was a pity, and I still do … The liberation of feeling and the discipline of form need each other. They need to be in balance.’”

Here is a poem of mine called “The Barmaid” we included in my thesis manuscript (I followed the syllable count of “Fern Hill” exactly—and even had the audacity to include rhyme!).

THE BARMAID

How could I ignore you, thinking of Renoir? / Like him, I’d trace your breast abed this frozen night. / I’m stirred with ginned regard. I know / Your skin would take the light. / But do I dare? Comme ci, comme ce,  / I walk toward the phonograph – a crystal flue / Of winter sounds -and drop a dime. The trumpets snow / All floors with sleight; but you / Refuse my offer of a pas  

 De deux:  ” For Sir, our management does not allow!” / So, let me tell you of your shoulders, how the sun / That frank, that unremembered glow / — “But Sir, I’m on the run?”– / Of light, would, be remembered now: / I’d put you in a field of wine and shade, and look /  At you–just look at you–with the eyes of art, you know. / And what if eyes forsook / Their handwork for the nude below?

We’d sing hip, bone and breast while nestled in the grain / And drink the reddest wine and swim the dappled sun. / And stop to press our place of love / And sign it, just for fun. / But here? Blue-violet bodies strain / To cold and crowded sound, and no one sings. “Now Sir, / I’ve work to do, you’ll have to take a seat!” I shove / And shoulder from the girl, / Thinking Renoir would complain.

Here are three more poems we decided to include in the manuscript. The third,  “Weekend,” would provide the title for the collection itself. A year after I graduated from San Francisco State College, and was teaching at the University of Hawaii, Carolyn Kizer, Editor of Poetry Northwest would accept “Weekend” for publication in the Autumn-Winter 1964-1965 issue of that journal—saying it “could be a major work”; and then, when she took the final version: “Congratulations on a noble effort.”

ANNIVERSARY: NUMBER SIX

I

We stomped, six years ago, the grass / Of churchyards with our love. / We shared our favorite trees, and felt /  Our white within the greenfields move.

II

The flesh that broke you tore our youth / in two. Our white time fled / and left two howling naked lives, / twin secrets of a medieval bed.

III

You Jill, I learned to love; began / to love your kitchen: / the flowers you picked, the roses,  pale, / and splintered glass you placed them in.

IV

Jack Thumb, a boy in corner, I / became. Vodka and caviar / my life; and kids who licked their lips / while I stained the frets of a small guitar.

V

If I were a sculptor I’d hoist your skirt; / a husband hold your hand. / I become either, a lover of sorts, / but seldom make the gesture bland.

VI

Guests in the doorway! Greet them well— / and if we have a fight /–open, flared when the moon comes up— / tell them, by God, we’ve earned the right!

Here’s a photo of the (somewhat puzzled–“What have I done?”–maybe reluctant)  young father depicted with his kids “who lick their lips” in the poem—and a full family photo, with Betty, taken at the same time:

Bill as Dad with Tim and Baby Steve  Bill, Betty and Boy Feeding Time on Hayes St

PERSIAN MINIATURES

Pure form is like a nun who never works: / You will respect her chastity, but wish / That she would pray for you, or teach a child, / Or do some menial job among the sick. / By her work her grace is best exposed, / As in this world of rhythm and of shape / Where line is both itself and loving Persia.

Whose face and gilded horse peer over hills? / A man of valor and a thing of line. / This green umbrella tilts to make a shape / But also tilts to shade a Sultan’s head. / The light blue horse on which the monarch sits, / Surrounded by a galaxy of flowers, / Is music of the painter’s craft alone.

And more; for there the Sultan really sits, / Upon a horse whose midget feet reside / In fields of white and dark vermilion flowers. / This quiet work, in which each part is placed / To tell and yet transform the Sultan’s day, / Outshines the brightest flame, and makes one think / More secrets lie in fabric than in fire.

Pure form is like a nun without a church, /A Sultan who has lost his canopy.

WEEKEND

I

The faces of the street are your best friends: / The worried, blind, and weak; they come and go / And you are fond of them. You love the light / In laundromats, where many things are done: / You stop and see–who knows ?–what rough delight / In frayed machines, on working hands, in men. / –I’ve said a thousand times that we should move, / But nothing’s cheap, your mother knows– / Come home; your mother waits. We are involved / In time, and time derides your dalliance, /But cannot cast it out, as it did mine.

II

Perhaps the rank thorn is the separate will: / Today our eldest son plays Cain and strikes /
His two week brother at the breast. Good Cain, / My self, my child, why must we live like men? / We sulk and try to share a public park: / Its monody of color on the green, /
Its carrousel of lives. We eat above / And bide our time with talk and sandwiches. /
Yet when the boy returns from dirt to show / His wounded cheek, you send us off to join /
The children, fathers, lovers down below.

III

You call the ducks and give them crusts of bread; / I sit among the bland in hell. You stop / And listen, what to hear? My child, you know / But cannot say, and that is just as well. /
Deprived of lunch, I pass the row of blondes / Called mothers by their neighbors; hoist my son / Upon his small and honest seat, and watch / Him spin on iron gadgets in the sun. / One day we walked out early and he threw / Himself on dewy grass, who hadn’t been / Outside the house for days.

IV

It’s three o’clock. I’ve come for milk but sit / Beside the soft electric purr of our / New frigidaire, and drink the wine. It drums / –In vino veritas–a fever in my skin. / You stand beneath a single light and say,  / “What reason brings you here?” The night, my dear,  /
Is my best friend; and night and I shall have / A time, be ridiculed and ridicule– / Together purge our pity and our fear. / Sometimes I make you sick, you say. My dear,  /
Sometimes my sickness makes me envy you.

V

“Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,” I sing– / And who are they? My boy, I cannot say, / But don’t they have fine names? I turn; you smile / And hug the boys, who tug upon your apron string. / Together by the sink, our forms imply / Four names in one, yet live alone. If I / Could often join the three of you, and keep / The truth that wine and night and I must bear, / I know we’d have a pretty thing; but dear, / Saturday night and Sunday too, / One does the work that one was born to do.

Here is the cover of Transfer 20, an anthology “representative of the best of the first nineteen years … intended as a celebration” published in 1965—an anthology which contained two of my own poems, “Persian Miniatures” and “The Barmaid”; and the cover of the issue of Poetry Northwest, 1964-1965 in which editor Carolyn Kizer would publish “Weekend.”

SF State College Transfer      Cover Poetry Northwest

I took one more “literature” course in my last semester at San Francisco State College: a course in poet John Milton. Oddly, I do not recall who taught it. It may even have been Leonard Wolf—or Mark Linenthal? I will include, here, the last paragraph in a paper I wrote for the course, because it shows whatever progress I may (or may not) have made in my critical prose—and does illustrate what a “true believer” I’d become when it came to poetry. “An epic is the sum of the experience of all of its separate ‘books,’ or parts; of all of its metaphors, expostulations, and expulsions—correspondences, contrasts, and complexes. It may be a frieze or an ocean, but it has the unity of its adventure, and, in the case of Paradise Lost, the meaning is each grain of sand contained in the hourglass to which Milton committed it. And he would be the first person to remind us that those grains, like the parables of angels, are just a portion of the complete knowledge which we and poetry, as citizens of the City of God, are in a position to receive.”

I recently found another paper I wrote for that course: “Thought, Poetry and Theology,” in which I quote from Eric Heller’s The Disinherited Mind,” Meister Eckhart’s The Aristocrat, Miguel de Unamuno’s Tragic Sense of Life, and James Agee’s Let Us Now Praise Famous Men—and a draft of the final poem we would include in my thesis manuscript: a poem in ten parts called “A Letter to Friends in Alaska.” The “friends” were John and Margo Mitchell, whom I’d known in Hawaii when I first went there in 1956 (John was teaching English at the University, but quit to become a full time salmon fisherman in Alaska). The paper shows the extent of my reading at this time—even more extensive for I was also preparing, daily (and nightly) for my “orals” (which would accompany my thesis book of poems), orals to be administered by three professors: Leonard Wolf, James Schevill, and Bill Dickey. The orals would cover all of English literature from Beowulf to the present—so I had a fairly substantial list of books I was reading!

I was also taking a course called “Seminar in the Teaching of Writing”—in preparation for a job teaching I hoped to acquire upon graduation. And I was a teaching assistant for an undergrad composition course–one night a week–which meant I was “correcting” the first comp class papers I’d ever had to correct. I was very slow at it (“learning on the job,” so to speak). I called my “final” paper for the teaching seminar “Miss Lonelyhearts Among the Illiterates: a response to the remedial situation.” The last paragraph of this paper was not quite so positive as what I’d written John Milton’s poetry: “What is the mission of Miss Lonelyhearts, the ambivalent and diffident, the curious and affectionate teacher? First, perhaps, to tell his students not to be too easily sure of themselves, not to have too much poise.” [This strikes me now as an odd way to encourage the acquisition of ‘character;’ but also, it strikes me as vague. Was I encouraging “humility”?] “As for the English language, he would teach them to choose their words carefully, and remind them that the words they use—truth, death, desire—had not been easily won throughout history, and that, in an age of easy fulfillment such as our own, it was the teacher’s duty to keep them–in Philip Larkin’s phrase–from ‘fulfillment’s desolate attic.”

Before I turned in my poetry manuscript and suffered through my “orals,” something wonderful–a complete surprise–happened. I had three poems in the college literary journal, Transfer in 1963, and won the prize for BEST POEM, $25! The poem was “Persian Miniatures.” I was asked to accept the prize and give a “reading” at the Poetry Center. I’d never given a full-public reading of my work before. Here’s an account I would write years later of what took place.

“In 1962-63, I was a graduate student in Language Arts (Creative Writing) at what was then San Francisco State College. I was also a fairly recently ordained father (I had two kids under five years of age), a husband of sorts, and had been a full-time employee–a Scientific Data Analyst no less–at Lawrence Radiation Laboratory in Berkeley. I rode the bus to and from work every day, studying Russian (a portion of my M.A. thesis consisted of translations from Alexander Blok), and took classes at night. Needless to say, this was a hopping, hectic, nervous, but exciting time.

“I had some poems printed in Transfer 15, S.F. State’s literary magazine, and two of the editors were fellow students I never met: Ed Devlin and Paul Oehler. I won the twenty-five dollar annual poetry prize in ‘63, for a poem called “The Barmaid,” modeled on the intricate syllabic stanza patterns (and adding a rime scheme) of Dylan Thomas’ ‘Fern Hill.’ I was twenty-seven years of age, left work, attended classes, returned home, and was decidedly not a part of the campus literary scene. I was also so shy at the time that, accepting the prize and giving my very first poetry reading, I never even bothered to look up–thus missing my own boycott. ‘Beat’ students objected to a closed form or ‘cooked’ poem (as opposed to open and ‘raw’) having won the prize, and protested by raising a banner at the back of the hall–a gesture of dissent that, my then reticent and bashful consciousness buried in the task of reading my poem, I never witnessed.”

It’s all “true,” but something that surprises me now is that, according to this account, I was still working “full time” at the Rad Lab throughout the time I was at SF State, which strikes me as a nearly “impossible” thing to have brought off  (given the course load I carried), although it is true that I was not “a part of the campus literary scene”—a situation that may have prompted the boycott. Years later (1971), I would have Ed Devlin as my office mate while teaching at Monterey Peninsula College, and I would finally meet, and become friends (we would do a book of poems together: Natural Counterpoint) with Paul Oehler, a superb poet.

“Poems: The Weekend” was accepted as “A creative work submitted to the faculty of San Francisco State College in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree Master of Arts.” My “orals” turned out to be another unanticipated “adventure.” I had assumed they would take place on campus, in a cheerless classroom or office, but on a sunny afternoon, I found myself walking alongside Leonard Wolf, Jim Schevill, and Bill Dickey down to Stonestown Shopping Mall.

Here are photos of the three poets who would “grill me mercilessly” on the art form at a bar in Stonestown—when I thought I would “breeze through” the oral exam required for my Masters Degree: Leonard Wolf, Bill Dickey, and James Schevill: (Photo credits: www.sciencesource.com; Poetry Foundation; Goodreads)

Leonard Wolf 3 Bill Dickey (2)

James Schevll and dog (2)

I had applied to several colleges and universities for a job as an instructor (I’d heard, tentatively from the University of Hawaii, and I had even applied at SF State!). And I do recall feeling so confident about my prospects alongside my soon to be interrogators (or grand inquisitors) that I said, about a school I’d not heard from, “Well, if they’re not interested in me, I’m not interested in them!”–which must have prompted a response on the part of my three professors such as, “Good luck, you stupid cocky kid!”

They led me to a bar in Stonestown, and I thought, “Wow! This is going to be a piece of cake! A few drinks, a few laughs …”; but once we sat down and they asked what I might like to drink, they ordering nothing themselves. I declined their offer, thinking, “I’ll have a Cutty Sark on the Rocks–in honor of Hart Crane–when the celebration starts.” However, no celebration occurred for some time—about an hour and a half if I remember correctly. For that period of time, all three grilled me, mercilessly, on what seemed every aspect of English poetry. I don’t feel I did all that well on the academic and historically specific questions (“What is the difference in the way Wyatt and Surry first employed rhyme in their poems?”), and the thing that saved me was the poems I’d been memorizing each day—poems by everyone from Chaucer to John Keats to Dylan Thomas (and some poems in Russian and Classical and Modern Greek!).

The three professors left me sweating and devoid of a drink at the table while they excused themselves to determine my fate. When they returned, Jim Schevill told me I’d “passed,” and congratulated me–whereas Leonard Wolf whispered in my ear that the impressive recitations had saved my ass—if not exactly in those word, to that effect. Then all thee excused themselves to go home after another “hard day at the office,” I was left at the table–to order and sip my Cutty Sark on the Rocks, alone, lost, lonely–but  greatly relieved.

Here’s a signed copy of my thesis project, “Poems: The Weekend,” and my M.A. degree:

SF State College Thesis Acceptance  SF State College degree 1963

Ar last! I now had my Masters Degree in Language Arts (Creative Writing) from San Francisco State College, and I did receive an offer to teach at the University of Hawaii, for $5,500 a year. I’d been so impressed with the company I’d kept at SF State (heroes, idols such as Wright Morris and Leonard Wolf–the entire staff!) that I couldn’t sleep the night before I was to go in and tell them my decision regarding the future. I had actually decided (in spite of  only “part-time” possibilities) to stay with San Francisco State College, if they let me—but when I told the hiring committee that I’d received an offer from the University of Hawaii, they all jumped up from their shares and grasped my hands in congratulations—and that was that.

Leonard Wolf would leave San Francisco State College and go to New York in 1980. He would go on to publish several more books: A Dream of Dracula, Blood Thirst, 100 Years of Vampire Fiction (editor), Bluebeard : The Life and Crimes of Gilles De Rais, Dracula : the Connoisseur’s Guide, Horror – A Connoisseur’s Guide To Literature And Film, Monsters: Twenty Terrible and Wonderful Beasts From The Classic Dragon And Colossal Minotaur To King Kong And The Great Godzilla, The False Messiah, The Glass Mountain: A Novel (Overlook Press, 1993), The Passion of Israel, Vini-Der-Pu: A Yiddish version of Winnie the Pooh (Dutton 2000)—and others.

Leonard Wolf was ninety-six years of age when he passed away on March 20, 2019. I am very grateful to have known and worked so closely with this extraordinary man. Here are some of the books he published: (Photo credit: amazon.com)

Leonard Wolf Dracula The Connoisseur's Guide JPG  Leonard Wolf The False Messiah  Leonard Wolf Bluebeard The Life and Crimes

It seemed that, next thing I knew, my wife Betty and I had packed up our MacAllister Street home and she, Tim, Steve and I were literally sailing (on the President Wilson line) back to where marriage and family life had first started: the island of Hawaii, now an actual state in the USA since 1959.

I will close this post with three more photos: filming a lei-adorned Betty on board the President Wilson (about to sail to Oahu); my Betty looking very much at home in our new setting (the small backyard of an even smaller house we found on University Avenue), and the boys, Steve and Tim, with me in my dress code “uniform” (suit coat and tie in 1963—even in humid Hawaii!). But that–The Teaching at the University of Hawaii Years–is another tale I have to tell in the book length manuscript memoir I am at work on: “Unfolding: Aspirations and Attainments.”

Hawaii 63-66 3

Hawaii 63-66 2    Hawaii 63-66

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San Francisco State College in 1962–Wright Morris

“Medical issues” have required a break from Bill’s Blog, sorry (and I will save an account of that “adventure” for another time), yet a treatment program I have undertaken has not prevented me from completing other work I was engaged in. I would like, now–making a sort of “come back,” if I am able–to post, a chapter from a book in progress, a memoir: “Unfolding: Aspirations and Attainments”—a chapter focused on the year and a half I spent in graduate school at San Francisco State College. That adventure started in the summer of 1962, when I was twenty-six years of age, and it would turn out to be one of the most rewarding periods of my life.

In this blog, I will not attempt to reproduce all of the chapter I have completed on my San Francisco State College days (and nights, for that’s when I attended most of my classes), but focus on my initial experience at the school and one of my favorite teachers: novelist Wright Morris. I will save, for a blog to follow, another favorite teacher—poet Leonard Wolf—and completing requirements for an M.A. degree.

Here, by way of introduction, are photos of Wright Morris and Leonard Wolf (Photo credits: Wikipedia; http://www.sciencesource.com):

Wright_Morris    Leonard Wolf 3

By the summer of 1962, I had spent three years working at the “Rad Lab” (Lawrence Radiation Laboratory) in Berkeley, the last year of which was not a fortunate experience (depicted in a previous chapter of the “Unfolding: Aspirations and Attainments” manuscript) and I felt as if I had been released from a prison sentence, a term of incarceration, confinement, and would enter what, by comparison, I felt as monastic bliss. I was “back in school” again—and the very best, most inspirational educational institution, San Francisco State College (now University) I could have found for that time of my life.

In 1962, the Language Arts (or Creative Writing, the section of it I was enrolled in) division and its program were ideal—and the Creative Writing faculty consisted of some of the finest writers of the era, one of whom, Wright Morris (although a reviewer for the Washington Post once wrote, “No writer in America is more honored and less read than Wright Morris.”) was regarded by many sources I found as closely equal to, or “right up there” with, authors such as Willa Cather, William Faulkner (“a voice as distinctive as William Faulkner’s”: Michael Upchurch, The Chicago Tribune), John Steinbeck, John O’Hara, and Norman Mailer. A blurb (by critic John Aldridge) on the back of the first book by Morris I would read (just before I took a directed writing course with him: “one on one,” in his office), his winner of the 1956 National Book Award, The Field of Vision, said: “Wright Morris seems to me the most important novelist of the American middle generation.”

Walter Van Tilburg Clark (author of The Ox-Bow Incident and The Track of The Cat) was Division Chairman, and would serve as my primary faculty advisor. Anne Rice (The Vampire Chronicles; her husband Stan was a faculty member) would receive her MA in Creative Writing in 1972. She has provided one of the best accounts I’ve found on what made the school’s program so unique: “What I loved about San Francisco State was the passion. It was a commuter college and most of the kids were working, and it was very hard to go to school. They weren’t being handed an education, they were working for it just as we were working and I respected that passion very much. I loved it … I thought I had some of the best teachers I’ve ever had at San Francisco State. People that were passionate … and showed me a whole new way of looking at literature … I guess what I loved about it was the freedom and the egalitarian quality and the proletarian quality of it all — that we were all working people together … we had all that passion; we had all that warmth. We had people just hungry, hungry to learn and to write, to create and to make something of their lives. I found that incredibly exhilarating.”

Here are photos of Walter Van Tilburg Clark and Anne Rice (Wikipedia; http://www.thewomenseye.com):

Walter Van Tillburg Clark    Anne Rice

I agree, completely with her assessment. I would still be classified as a “working” person (or Proletarian”), closing out my time at the Rad Lab when I first “tested the waters” at SF State in the summer of 1962. I took a single course, and whereas I don’t remember the instructor’s name (He was not one of the faculty members of some “fame”), he was enthusiastic about the art of writing, and re-introduced me to it on an academic level in a manner that felt good, not at all threatening.

A typical assignment was to come up with single sentences that would disclose or reveal an “Instant” of existence (I came up with: “Small rain sacks walk electric wires”; “Two beer caps fell to the floor of Patty’s Place”; “The searchlights crossed, wintergreen, diamond cold.”). We were also asked to provide a “Lyric” moment (“The night we stood on sand and waiting long, beneath the single moon and open sky”; “My father and his rake, his loving arms and leaves”; “Filled with passion by your perfect commonplace”); “Kinesthetic” (“Her body was smooth and white, like the enamel on a refrigerator.”; “Fish, seaweed, leather, a horse blanket”; “The thick wet leather slammed into the socket of his eye.” [I’d done some boxing as a kid]; and “Grandeur” (“Together, they lit the silence of the night.”; “The Assyrian rage of the sky”; “I am my father’s brother, not alone his son.”; “We began, tense with genesis.”).

These exercises taught me an important lesson: every word must count, had to count; should have meaning and purpose, be the work poetry or prose! Yet I also recognized that the short lyric (of the moment) impulse or inclination came most naturally to me, given my temperament and whatever talent I might have.

Another exercise we were asked to complete was a list of “Themes” (from published work we liked) with one-sentence of examples or summaries. I chose” “The Ledge,” by Lawrence Sargent Hall: “A small light life … the Fisherman meant to hold it there, if need be, through a thousand tides.”; “The Maid’s Shoes,” by Bernard Malamud: “These people had endless troubles, and if you let yourself, you could become endlessly involved”; “The Fate of Man,” by Mikhail Sholokhov: “The fate of man, ‘a grain of sand, an orphan,; is to suffer, endure, and prevail” [the last two words lifted from William Faulkner’s Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech!]; “The Circus Wrestlers,” by Alexander Kuprin: “The wrestler’s perfect body becomes a temple of illness; full circle, boo-me-rang, бумеранг!” (Here, I must have been trying to show off my recently acquired knowledge of Russian!—my instructor didn’t bother to comment on the inclusion).

I’m not sure just what, regarding my creative capabilities, I took away from all this at the time (aside from the “Show, don’t tell” mantra, which I’d heard before) and a sense that I was OK when it came to creating “a poetic effect,” but the course was, overall, an excellent way to ease back into an academic setting (and put the Rad Lab far behind me)–although looking back now, I am puzzled by samples of my writing I chose to submit, once I had completed this “Fundamentals of Creative Writing” course, and began the formal procedure of being admitted to the graduate school program.

The only sense I can make, now, of what I must have had in mind is that, when I learned that Walter Van Tilburg Clark, author of The Ox-Bow Incident and The Track of The Cat and  Division Chairman, would serve as my primary faculty adviser (the person who would determine the direction my thesis project would take), I must have decided to submit work that resembled his own: literary realism, or what might qualify as “American Literary Regionalism” or “Local Color”—not the “familiar materials of Western Saga” he employed “to explore the human psyche and to raise deep philosophical issues” (Wikipedia) but material grounded in the Midwest I’d grown up in. I was probably more impressed that Walter Van Tilburg Clark’s novels—The Ox-Box Incident and The Track of the Cat—had been made into movies than with their content—for I was still too “immature” as a writer to have anything truly meaningful to say about “the human psyche,” and in spite of my fascination with philosophy while a student at the University of Hawaii (and my “A” in that subject), I had not yet formed a philosophy of my own which could be incorporated in my prose fiction.

Here are the covers of Walter Van Tilburg Clark’s novels The Ox-Box Incident, The Track of the Cat, and his story collection The Watchful Gods:

Walter Van Tillburg Clark Ox-Bow Incident  Walter Van Tilburg Clark Track of the Cat  Walter Van Tilburg Clak The Watchful Gods

The fiction I’d written while a student at the University of Hawaii from 1956 to 1958 (and I was surprised to discover just how much of it there was!) was sadly lacking in inspiration, was very “pedestrian,” or flat, somewhat boring. The best work I’d done up to 1962  was a Radiation Laboratory-inspired surreal science fiction novel I was still working on (“The Chuckleheads”), and some of the poetry I’d produced, and while I did include a portion of that work in the “portfolio” I submitted, the bulk of what was there was of the pedestrian, flat, “realistic,” boring variety—and Walter Van Tillburg Clark was quick to recognize that. He suggested that I set such prose aside for a while, and concentrate on my poetry, and, perhaps also, prose more stimulating to the imagination. He recommended taking a directed writing course with Wright Morris, as a means of finding a suitable direction for fiction, if I should continue to persist in my desire to write stories.

Which is what I did (take a directed writing course with Morris, simply because he was such a respected figure on campus), but my schedule was focused primarily on poetry: Mark Linenthal’s English 218 (critical papers); The Craft of Poetry with Leonard Wolf, who had us submit poems on the basis of which we would (or would not) be admitted to a class limited to a small very interesting selection of students—and I became one! Not only were we “hand-picked” or approved, but on the first day of class, he suggested we “ditch” the room we’d been assigned on campus and meet at his own home (where we might even drink wine while we discussed our work!), located on a hillside above Kezar Stadium, where the San Francisco 49ers played their home games at the time—just a short walk from the apartment Betty and I and the boys had on McAllister Street. But I will save an account of that experience, and the poetry I would write, for Part Two of my account of graduate study at San Francisco State College.

I would come to love the work I did with Leonard Wolf, who would supervise my thesis project: a manuscript of my own poems and translations of poems by the Russian poet Alexander Blok–but I would come to idolize Wright Morris, telling people now that once I had discovered and read his books, I just wanted to kneel down, kiss his ring, and say, “Teach me everything you know!” I was more than ready to learn from these masters, who were not just academics, scholars, but actual living respected writers!

Here are the covers of three of my favorite books by Wright Morris: The Field of Vision, Love Among the Cannibals, and Will’s Boy:

Wright Morris The Field of Vision (2)  Wright Morris Love Among the Cannibals  Wright Morris Will's Boy (2)

The “facts” of the life of Wright Morris, known as a “writer’s writer,” are intriguing. He came from a humble background, a self-taught man of inclusive talents–gifts he made full use of. According to Wikipedia: “Wright Marion Morris (January 6, 1910 – April 25, 19098) was an American novelist, photographer, and essayist. He is known for his portrayals of the people and artifacts of the Great Plains in words and pictures, as well as for experimenting with narrative forms …Morris was born in Central City, Nebraska … his mother, Grace Osborn Morris, died six days after he was born. His father, William Henry Morris, worked for the Union Pacific Railroad. After Grace’s death, Wright was cared for by a nanny, until his father made a trip to Omaha and returned with a young wife, Gertrude.”

In another favorite work of mine, Will’s Boy, Wright Morris states, “Gertrude was closer to my age than to my father’s.” Gertrude hated small-town life, but got along famously with Wright, as they shared many of the same childish tastes (both loved games, movies, and ice cream). In 1919, the family moved to Omaha, where they resided until 1924. when Morris moved to Chicago—but in 1933, Wright Morris would graduate from Pomona College in California. Following college, he traveled through Europe on a “wanderjahr,” an adventure he later fictionalized in a novel, Cause for Wonder. From 1944 to 1954, Morris lived in Philadelphia. From 1954-1962, he divided his time between California and Mexico. In 1963, he accepted a teaching position at San Francisco State College.

Which takes us to the time of my acquaintance with him—but before I get to my own experience of this exceptional man (whom I feel I was not just fortunate but blessed to know and study under in 1962-1963), I’ll provide an example of a perceptive critic’s response to and appraisal of a book by Wright Morris, for the review cites aspects of his writing that attracted me to his work, and to Wright Morris as a man–a sort of “father figure” to me at the time. In a 2015 Chicago Tribune article, “An appreciation of novelist Wright Morris,” novelist/critic Michael Upchurch wrote: “Nebraska-born novelist Wright Morris was on fire in the early 1950s … In the space of five years, he published four novels that were rich in their ambition and maverick in their sensibility. They were also, in their variety of setting, reflective of his sharp-eyed travels back and forth across the country. One of them, ‘The Field of Vision,’ won him the National Book Award in 1957. But the book that most Morris fans see as his touchstone work (Morris himself described it as “the linchpin in my novels concerned with the plains”) is ‘The Works of Love.’ … Here, in a voice as distinctive as William Faulkner’s or Henry Green’s, Morris describes the desultory eastward drift of a Nebraska railroad man never sharing a marital bed for long and has oddly unconsummated affairs on the side. His one true object of devotion is a boy who isn’t his, but whom he gives his name and raises as his son … Will is as generous in nature as he is befuddled in spirit. He is, as Morris puts it, ‘a father, one who didn’t know what being a father is like, and a lover, one who didn’t know much about love.’ … His travails are at the heart of the book — yet calling them ‘travails’ feels like exaggeration. Will is an unsettling mix of the nondescript and the eccentric, and he slips elusively through even the biggest events in his own life. He acquires houses, spouses and businesses, yet it’s only in hotel lobbies — furnished, inevitably, with potted palms and cigar counters — that he truly feels at home … One peculiar effect of the novel is that the reader winds up feeling far more deeply for Will than he could possibly feel for himself. That’s due largely to the rolling, forlorn cadences of the novel’s prose, starting with its opening: ‘In the dry places, men begin to dream. Where the rivers run sand, there is something in man that begins to flow.’ … Throughout the novel, Morris keeps that steady, chanting beat going, even as he spices it with wry picaresque elements … ‘The Works of Love’ — achingly, quizzically, obliquely — means something.”

Again, I hadn’t seen this high praise of Wright Morris’ work before I took my first directed writing course with him, but, as I mentioned, I made sure to read his National Book Award-winning novel The Field of Vision, and—thinking, “This man is going to be my teacher, my mentor!”—I was first impressed by the blurbs on the back cover alone: “Wright Morris is one of the most gifted and significant novelists at work in America today.” (Chicago Tribune); “Writing that is beautiful, sad, funny, quietly humorous—and as significant as anything you will find in contemporary literature.” (Cleveland Press); “The image of American life that emerges from his whole work is unequalled by any author of his generation.” (The Reporter). And the novel didn’t let me down.

In it, a group of Midwestern tourists witness the “spectacle” of a bullfight in Mexico, and each of them is flooded with memories (a middle-aged wife for whom a stolen kiss from long ago still imposes on her marriage; a flamboyant failure reliving a childhood act that kindled his desire to “touch bottom”: an eighty-seven year old pioneer who is blind to everything but the past and what he hears; a pseudo-psychiatrist accompanied by his only remaining patient, who refuses to speak). The thought, longing, isolation, hidden passions, dreams of each character is depicted by Morris’ mastery of rotated point of view—the prose original and precise at every turn. In the author’s own words: “This bizarre assembly of oddballs, dreamers, and failures might naturally come together in one place only—the bull ring of Mexico City. This least likely of all likelihoods was appropriate to this unlikely gathering.”

As for my actual sessions with him, Walter Van Tillburg Clark had been right. Contact with and being “critiqued” by a writer such as Wright Morris was exactly what I needed to grant new life to my prose fiction. I haven’t preserved the first piece I submitted to him, but I recall that it was one of the stories I’d started for my summer session class—more than likely “The Rope,” a piece overly dramatic, too predictable, “a pleasure ride becomes a nightmare” story about a “young man” on a San Francisco Bay sailing adventure with a married woman named Mrs. Alonzo B. Sturgess III. Wright Morris returned it to me with witty, pithy, no-nonsense, uncompromised commentary I wish I had on hand now (not having the manuscript itself), but he said something to the effect that I could take my place in a very long line of wannabe fiction writers hoping to have their work published in one of the then popular magazines for women, such as Cosmopolitan, McCall’s, Woman’s Home Companion, or Redbook.

He went after my clichés with a vengeance. He seemed to find them everywhere in my work (language that seemed to come quite naturally, too easily to me—but expressions so overused they’d grown boring, unoriginal without my awareness), yet we seemed to get along beautifully, as if not involved in a teacher/student situation, but more the sort of thing you were likely to find in his work: a genuine friendship, but one never acknowledged as such, a “just is” thing, an acquaintance that came about without self-conscious effort—as if, rather than meeting in his office (which we did), we were meeting in one of the many comfortable, companionable hotel lobbies found in his novels: “All the lobbies are more alike than they are different, in that the purpose of every lobby is the same. To be both in, that is, and out of this world … The lobby draws a chalk mark around this unreal world … It prepares you for a short flight from one world to a better one. From the real world, where nothing much ever happens, to the unreal world where anything might happen—and sometimes does.” (From The Works of Love).

His hotel lobby office turned out to be a splendid setting for discussing the art of fiction. This may be just another cliché, but, yes, Wright Morris did become something of a “father” figure to me (I was writing, and talking to him often, about the father with whom I did not get along so well). Whatever his faults on the domestic front, my own father was a first-rate raconteur, and Wright Morris encouraged me to “talk” or tell, to work my stories over well in my head before I set them down on paper, and that seemed to help their presence on the page. He also went after my “sentimentality”–on the page, and elsewhere (in my life). In his excellent book, Haunted: The Strange and Profound Art of Wright Morris, Jackson J. Benson writes: “Wright may have been caught up in nostalgia, but at the same time he hated the idea of it. He followed the lead of most modern writers in despising any expression of sentimentality. At heart he was attached to the past and to the process of documentary but was determined, intellectually, not to be captured by a soft view of it.” Wright Morris joked about my attachment to what he called “the good olde daze.”

Here is the cover of Haunted: The Strange and Profound Art of Wright Morris by Jackson J. Benson (an engaging biography)—and the cover for Morris’ own The Works of Love, which became another of my “favorites” (Photo credits: amazon.com; http://www.nebraskapress.unl.edu):

Haunted The Strange and Profound Art of Wright Morris    Wright Morris The Works of Love

Wright Morris openly advocated writing that, as far as “material” went, maintained an “everyday quality”—concentrating on (again in the words of Jackson J. Benson): “not the action or external circumstances so much as the inner life, the struggles—the guilt, the dismay, and even the pain in the consciousness of his characters … there would be almost as much comedy as darkness. At times reading his work, one doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or relax with a smile and be depressed … Morris was a writer who specialized in bringing forth the reality behind and hovering beyond what we commonly take as real and making it tangible, not to our fingertips but to our minds.”

The more specific (‘technical”) lessons—on avoiding sentiment and clichés—were accompanied by the large picture, the “umbrella” view, such as what he would write in his essay on Katherine Anne Porter in Earthly Delights, Unearthly Adornments: “To be fully conscious, to be one of those on whom nothing is lost, is to be aware of the ceaseless overlapping of the past and the present …  However vibrant and intense, however lyrically persuasive, however appealing the sound, look and feel of the present, if the dead were not part of the quick [Porter] knew the larger part of conscious life was lacking.”

He liked Henry James’ statement: “Objects and places disposed for human use and addressed to it, must have a sense of their own, a mystic meaning proper to themselves to give out.” With me, he suggested finding that essential “figure in the carpet” (“The carpet wears out, but in the life of the carpet the Figure wears in.”), and then get out of its way writing about it (“You don’t count; only the material does.”)—transforming, transmuting, transcending experience. He liked to mention the ambivalent “Green light” at the end of Daisy’s dock in The Great Gatsby—the promise of excitement and beauty, but also the end of aspirations and dreams: the valley of ashes at the book’s end. Unavoidable ambivalence. Henry James, Wright Morris would write, “contributes the consciousness of image-making itself. The restless analyst will never have done with this impressions, the overlapping and ceaseless reappraisal, and the newly liberated should read him with caution lest they find themselves again in chains. Freedom was one illusion he always treated with the greatest respect.” At the time of our acquaintance, I was definitely “newly liberated” and in need of “caution” as a writer.

Wright Morris emphasized “finding the right voice.” The voice that would fit my intention as a writer, saying, “From the voice like a seed the rest of it would grow.” He didn’t introduce me to, but he showed me how to make best use of providing several points of view, each chapter in a novel given the person telling the story (as he’d done in The Field of Vision) alternating points of view throughout the novel. It was the technique I’d employed on my own in “The Chuckleheads.”

The best way I can illustrate the nature of our “exchange” is to quote some of the comments he posted on a paper I did save from another course I took from him (aside from directed writing sessions), a course called The Craft of Fiction, with a lecture format,  and for which we read work by D.H. Lawrence (Women in Love), Henry James (The Turn of the Screw), Thomas Mann (Death in Venice), E. M. Forster (Howards End), Louis-Ferdinand Celine (Journey to the End of the Night), Albert Camus (The Fall) and F. Scott Fitzgerald (The Great Gatsby). Our “final” was an extended paper on one of these authors, and I chose Fitzgerald. The title of my paper was “The Chinese Wall of F. Scott Fitzgerald”—based on something the character Nicole says about the main character Dick Diver in Tender is the Night: “Let him look at it—his beach, perverted now to the tastes of the tasteless; he could search it for a day and find no stone of the Chinese Wall he had once created around it, no footprint of an old friend.”

I began my paper with some personal reminiscence—something my father once told me about Zelda, Fitzgerald’s wife. “’Zelda?’ my father said. ‘Of course I knew Zelda. I danced with her up at Sewanee—although it was your Uncle Alcorn knew her best.’” Wright Morris had underlined the word “Alcorn,” and wrote in the margin: “A gem. Who else but Uncle Alcorn?” And he gave me an “A” on the paper as a whole (work that, when I read it now, often displays my efforts—successful to a degree, I think, to adopt my professor’s own style of writing!). Of the piece as a whole, he wrote: “Very good. AND readable. How about the Chinese Wall of W.C. Fields? Do the Irish always have 3 initials? JFK, FSF, WCF? Soberly speaking-(Where’s your Mother?)-What part of this wall do you scale next? Should be a good climb.” “Where’s your Mother?” referred to a passage in the opening section of my paper, where I tried to match his own playful nature yet set the overall tone, alluding to my paternal grandfather, who, as a seventeen year old cannoneer in the Confederate Army, had—at Cumberland Church, two days before Appomatax—been shot through the lungs with a Minnie Ball, and woke believing he was “associated with the Heavenly Host” (a “Miss Hobson” was spooning chicken broth into his mouth); and I followed that with: “Where’s your Mother?”, for my father, telling this tale I’d heard so often before, was reaching beneath the drapes for his glass of Early Times, and praising my mother as a “race horse,” saying “You can always tell the difference between a race horse and a mule,” insinuating that he, by comparison, was a mule.

I loved the fun Wright Morris seemed to have telling me that I had, within my paper, provided a “good climb” of Fitzgerald’s Chinese Wall—and I was thrilled by the large “OLE!” he inscribed, in the margin of my paper, beside my words “We don’t really care how Gatsby made his money, but we do wonder just what Dick Diver is doing in medicine.”; and the three even larger “GOOD[s]” he’d written in the margin beside the following: “In Fitzgerald, the Organization Man had no hardened sense of life; he simply swapped the terms of poetry for the terms of commerce.“; “The most striking fault of Tender Is the Night is that it shares in its hero’s dissolution.”; “The novel does have a strong steady tone that tempts one to overlook the fragments of incident and character—in an attempt to lace together many fates, to resolve them with a single theme: beauty that must die.”

Here are the three books by F. Scott Fitzgerald I’d used for my extended paper:

Scott Fitzgerald The Great Gatsby  Scott Fitzgerald Tender Is the Night  Scott Fitzgerald The Crack Up

Wright Morris only granted me a B+ (no “A” this time) on a second follow-up paper I wrote on F. Scott Fitzgerald, this one called “Helen and Priam on Fitzgerald’s Wall.” Morris himself wrote: “The tone of this is good and well sustained, but able Carraway Minor might have scratched a bit harder.” Reading the work now, I agree—although I did find seven large “Good[s]” inscribed in the margins, attached to the following observations: (the first referring to Fitzgerald’s “exploitation of himself and Zelda as material”): “What is amazing is that Fitzgerald was so fully on display for the writer who stood constantly at his side.” I also received a “Good” in the margin for (on Fitagerald’s letters to his daughter): “To his daughter he was Polonious and Pope and … Priam, the tired king, who had earned the right to his opinions, and was proud to reveal them to his last and most prized possession.” And on The Crack Up: “There is something in it of grandstand play, and for an unworthy audience, an audience that loves sudden failure as well as it loves success … For him, the redemption of a basically senseless battle lay in a well-conceived and well-constructed book.”

I compared Fitzgerald’s statement that he had been “only a mediocre caretaker of most of the things left in [his] hands, even of [his] talent”—to W.C. Fields: “Much of the humor of [Fields] depends on the ‘dissolute’ pride to which this statement comes dangerously close: ‘rivers of highballs, lakes of cocktails, oceans of distilled damnation … I think I’ll put on my bathing suit’ … Like Fields, Fitzgerald hadn’t lost his touch, but he’d drunk up his material, and, as The Last Tycoon shows, needed to shop around for more.”

I ended the paper with a bit of fantasy: the hope that Fitzgerald’s “heaven” might turn out to be an Elysium washed with gin-filled waters, a place where he and Zelda, and W.C. Fields perhaps, having performed due service to Helen and reclaimed by Priam (“Fitzgerald, I said, having written The Great Gatsby, was the truest son of Troy.”), are permitted to do more of both [not just write such a book, but also go “into Show Biz, having gone along with Rogers and Hart and ‘that gang,’ to cap the sublime off with a bad commercial.”] In response to this last bit, Wright Morris wrote, “That’s some heaven, man!” But he wasn’t buying this paper as a whole, and in his initial commentary, he employed a favorite phrase of his: “Ahhhhh, the good olde daze!”—adding: “Having browsed in these pastures of heaven, it’s not for me to deprecate the real estate. Nevertheless, it is true (and sad) that the Chinese Wall of Fitzgerald still marks the Continental Divide—on the one flank those who make it, on the other, in the potshards, those who count.”

I enjoyed hearing him “lecture” in the Craft of Fiction course as much as I did spending time with him in our one-on-one directed writing sessions, although some of my fellow graduate students felt he was just a so-so teacher in the former, for he spent nearly as much time relating anecdotes from personal experiences (which I loved!) as he did on the authors we were to have read. Again, in Jackson J. Benson’s words: “He was a great storyteller, and often the stories he told, while entertaining, had little to do directly with the purpose of the class.” True, but I found Wright Morris fascinating in any capacity. What Benson adds to his appraisal is also true: “But one-on-one he was as encouraging as he could be, depending on the quality of the work that was submitted to him.”

At the time, I treasured every word he wrote to me on the papers I submitted, or granted me in person—and still do. We made, I think, an interesting match-up or “pair” in our own hotel lobby, sharing mutual opinions and feelings. He did not treat me as if I were just another “student,” but a fellow writer, and that, at the time, was immensely satisfying. I’m just sorry that, unlike what I wrote for the Craft of Fiction course, I haven’t retained specific pieces he commented on from the directed writing sessions, but I do remember his being intrigued by the character, Honey Foots Cadwell, I came up with for the Chuckleheads novel. What I wrote about Honey Foots has the stamp, the rhythm and tone of Wright Morris all over it, so I know we worked on that piece together: “For as long as he could remember, Foots had waited. Waited, for his father to come home, his mother to go away. For John James Alcorn, his black sheep uncle, to sober up, get drunk, just about anything. He had waited in bars, in pharmacies, in filling stations. On playgrounds, in parking lots. Outside of church, on waterfronts. All night truck stops. In beds … Now, standing on the roof of his friend’s San Francisco apartment building, he waited for Perry, his friend, and the girl … Once, in a bar in Tiburon, he had waited six days for Perry to finish a game of chess. Well, not just a game of chess. The game lasted for a day, morning, and afternoon. But Perry, finished, went to the men’s room, and from the men’s room to Hawaii. Foots, uninformed, waited.”

I would not read Wright Morris’s other National Book Award winner, Love Among the Cannibals, until after I had my graduate degree from San Francisco State, but when I did I wished I was back in his hotel lobby office again, for the book begins “This chick, with her sun-tan oil, her beach towel, her rubber volleyball, and her radio, came along the beach at the edge of the water where the sand was firm”; and that reminded me of the way I began my summer session story, “Hand of Chance,” I wrote just before I met Wright Morris: “Two girls came up the beach to sit in the sun. An entire baseball game stopped to watch them. The ball dribbling into the sea. The girls set up an orange umbrella that looked almost white beneath the open sky. They stripped and sat on the hot sand in their too-small bathing suits. The better looking of the two lit a cigarette and the blue smoke went up her nose and came out again.” The ”chick” character “The Greek” in Love Among the Cannibals lives with “two other chicks” and “they all worked as waitresses at the same Wilshire drive-in.” I don’t know how many drive-ins resided on Wilshire Blvd. in 1956, when I hitch-hiked from New York City to Santa Monica that year, and I ended up washing dishes with an interesting assortment of wineos, I would have loved to have had an opportunity to tell Wright Morris about that coincidence, and hear his reaction, which would have been priceless, I’m sure.

Here’s a sample of the photography of Wright Morris, and the cover of his collection of the same, Distinctly American: The Photography of Wright Morris (Photo credits: Sheldonartmuseum.org; www.leegallery.com; amazon.com):

Wright Morris Photo Through the Lace Curtain (The Home Place)    Wright Morris Photo Train Depot The Home Place

Wright Morris Photo Uncle Harry    Wright Morris Photo book Distinctly American

He would not retire from teaching at San Francisco State until 1975—but even though we returned to The City in 1966 after I taught at the University of Hawaii for two years, I never saw him again—which was a mistake on my part, for he had been, and remained, a major influence on my life, and one of the most interesting, intriguing, engaging human beings I would ever meet.

Because of the long-lasting influence of Wright Morris, I would like (before I turn to a second most important person during my time at the College, Leonard Wolf) to honor him by citing an article I would discover in Poets & Writers magazine in 1997 (Morris would die of esophageal cancer in Mill Valley, California in 1998). The article, or homage, was called “Wright Morris and the American Century,” and it was written by James Hamilton, who happened to be living in a “small town across the bay from San Francisco,” and one day saw “a distinguished-looking elderly man in a floppy white hat walking along the sidewalk in [his] direction.” Hamilton “recognized him as the novelist Wright Morris, whose face [he] had seen on numerous book jackets over the years, but whom [he] had never met.” From that point on, Morris “steadily worked his way into [Hamilton’s] daily thought, because “It saddened me that a man who had graced his profession as he had was living in what I assumed to be fairly total obscurity.”

James Hamilton had actually read very little of [Morris’s] work, but he began to devour it, and “spent long hours in Morris’s small, darkened apartment” within a rest home “just down the street.” Hamilton learned that, at age 87, Morris had stopped writing—explaining: “I have been a workaholic all my life … but what words will not do is what now impresses me. Music is what sustains my life now, Mahler in particular … I had reached the point where, as a work-oriented man, the work was simply not good enough. My imagination seemed to be out of reach of the problem. It was a great injury to discover that my critical judgement had begun to fail. It was very painful.”

Hamilton’s article is rich with reflection, forward and back in time, on the part of Wright Morris, and the younger writer pays loving tribute to the latter’s portrayal of mid-20th century American values (literary historian John Aldrich wrote that Morris “took America as his province. He wrote with a sense of the whole of America in his blood and bones.”). Hamilton included the author’s feelings regarding “our own uncivil age”: “It is the incoherence that bothers me, the wastage. I cannot imagine how this nation is ever going to correct itself, it is so profoundly screwed up … What we’re going through is the real McCoy, not something we can sweep away on down the line. We can’t just ask Mother to come over and clean the table off, just get rid of the spots.”

I will conclude my own tribute to (my fortunate acquaintance with, unique friendship with) this great man, with a “parade” of his still available (Thank God!) work. Wright Morris’s final novel, Plains Song, would win the American Book Award in 1981. Just a partial list of his works is impressive: My Uncle Dudley (1942), The Man Who Was There (1945), The Inhabitants (photo-text) (1946), The Home Place (photo-text) (1948), The World in the Attic (1949), Man and Boy (1951), The Works of Love (1952), The Deep Sleep (1953), The Huge Season (1954: finalist for the National Book Award), The Field of Vision (1956: National Book Award for Fiction), Love Among the Cannibals (1957: finalist for the National Book Award), Ceremony in Lone Tree (1960: finalist for National Book Award), Cause for Wonder (1963), One Day (1965), In Orbit (1967), A Bill of Rites, a Bill of Wrongs, a Bill of Goods (essays) (1968), God’s Country and My People (photo-text) (1968), Fire Sermon (1971), The Fork River Space Project (1977), Plains Song: For Female Voices (1980: National Book Award for Fiction), Will’s Boy (1981, Solo (1983), A Cloak of Light (1985), Time Pieces: Photographs, Writing, and Memory (1989).

A lifetime of work by Wright Morris remains accessible, available, obtainable—throughout an era (ours) in which nearly everything is expendable. Considering his good fortune, I thought of all the worthy authors for whom “survival” (the ongoing recognition and respect they deserve) has not proved true—and then, three of my favorite 19th century authors for whom it has: Charles Lamb ( English essayist, poet, and antiquarian, best known for his Essays of Elia and the children’s book Tales from Shakespeare), Samuel Taylor Coleridge (English poet, literary critic, philosopher and theologian who, with his friend William Wordsworth, was a founder of the Romantic Movement in England), and  William Hazlitt (English essayist, drama and literary critic, painter, social commentator, and philosopher–now considered one of the greatest critics and essayists in the history of the English language). Here are some of their thoughts on literary perpetuity (the quality or state of being perpetual) and the significance of books.

Charles Lamb: “There is more reason to say grace before beginning a book than there is to say it before beginning to dine … What is reading, but silent conversation … I love to lose myself in other men’s minds … Books think for me … A presentation copy is a copy of a book which does not sell, sent you by the author, with his foolish autograph at the beginning of it; for which, if a stranger, he only demands your friendship; if a brother author, he expects from you a book of yours, which does not sell, in return … When my sonnet was rejected, I exclaimed, ‘Damn the age; I will write for Antiquity!’”

Samuel Taylor Coleridge: “Poetry has been to me its own exceeding great reward; it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the good and beautiful in all that meets and surrounds me … Language is the armory of the human mind, and at once contains the trophies of its past and the weapons of its future conquests.”

William Hazlitt: “The world loves to be amused by hollow professions, to be deceived by flattering appearances, to live in a state of hallucination; and can forgive everything but the plain, downright, simple, honest truth … Books let us into their souls and lay open to us the secrets of our own … No man is truly great who is great only in his lifetime. The test of greatness is the page of history … Those only deserve a monument who do not need one; that is, who have raised themselves a monument in the minds and memories of men … Fame is the inheritance not of the dead, but of the living. It is we who look back with lofty pride to the great names of antiquity, who drink of that flood of glory as of a river.”

I’ll close out the photo gallery with Wright Morris in the company of Charles Lamb (a portrait by William Hazlitt) and Hazlitt himself (a self-portrait)—excellent company Wright Morris has every right to keep (Photo credits: www.fantasticfiction.com; www.poemhunter.com; http://www.datadeluge.com):

Wright Morris hands folded photo  Charles Lamb color portrait  William Hazlett portrait

I look back on my acquaintance, my friendship with him with “lofty pride” (or immense gratitude) and to re-reading his work throughout what remains of my life—work that will remain a monument in the mind and memory forever.

Next blog: Leonard Wolf and more reflection on the time I spent at San Francisco State College.

 

 

As Time Goes By: Kurt Elling, Lynne Arriale, and Philip Levine and The Poetry of Jazz, Vol. 2

I have been fortunate to know, interview, and write about three extraordinary artists: jazz singer/songwriter Kurt Elling, jazz pianist Lynne Arriale, and poet Philip Levine—the voice of the latter, who died in 2015 at age 87, celebrated by saxophonist Benjamin Boone on two CDs: The Poetry Of Jazz, Volumes One and Two. For this Bill’s Blog post, I’d like to express—with “examples”–the admiration and respect I feel for their work.

First: Kurt Elling. I have been corresponding with his publicist, Trudy Johnson-Lenz. Back in September, 2018, she let me know about a livestreamed broadcast from Dizzy’s Club in Lincoln Center of “Kurt Elling and Friends Celebrate Jon Hendricks,” featuring special guests Aria and Michele Hendricks (Jon’s daughters), Kevin Fitzgerald Burke, and vocalist Sheila Jordan.

The program was special because of Kurt’s solid friendship with Hendricks. He wrote about that friendship in a JazzTimes piece: “The first thing—always—was the smile. Immediate-upon-recognition, and wholly spontaneous. Bona fide. Beatific. And big? I’m talking little-kid-on-Christmas joyful, light-up-the-world big. Generous, in a way that would always be entirely beyond your deserving … Then the gesture would come: the arms thrown wide open to welcome you home. It was an indication that revealed an invitation—to embrace, and to admire … Here, my friends, was a self-made man. Here was a man who started out just another kid among 15 in one family. Except he wasn’t ‘just’ anything. He was the seventh son. As such, he would choose his own fate, standing out for the rest of his life … As a boy he sang for nickels and dimes in the bars: ‘Hey, mister, don’t waste that nickel on the jukebox! Give me that nickel and I’ll sing you any song that’s there. I know ’em all!’ As an adult he sang, by invitation, for the crowned heads of Europe. What’s more, he would write his own songs and lyrics—lyrics like none that had ever been heard before. This was a man whose ingenuity and artistry propelled him to combine Shakespearean-level lyrics with mother wit and acrobatic, atomic, urbane 20th-century swing and bop.”

The September 8 live-streamed show was great—a handsome tribute to Jon Hendricks in every way. On February 28 of this year, I heard from Trudy Johnson-Lenz again, letting me know of the world premiere of “Kurt Elling’s The Big Blind,” his “noir radio-style drama with live Foley sound effects and a 23-piece orchestra, at Jazz at Lincoln Center in New York City.” Again, two performance (March 1 and March 2) would be livestreamed. The theme of this show was “What happens to a person who’s been given an artistic gift and has the temperament, but the avenue of expression is obliterated?”

Trudy Johnson-Lenz gave me a complete run-down on the performance: “Kurt co-wrote the book, eight new songs, and the lyrics to four more with Grammy-nominated songwriter and producer Phil Galdston. The Big Blind’s stellar cast: Kurt Elling, Dee Dee Bridgewater, Ben Vereen, Allison Semmes, and Ian Shaw. Guy Barker conducts the ‘Jack Lewis Orchestra,’ which is actually drummer Ulysses Owens’ New Century Big Band. Ulysses is the musical director.  Terry Kinney is directing. The Foley artist is Jeff Ward.”

Here are photos of D.D. Bridgewater, Kurt Elling, and Allison Semmes (Photo credits: http://english.cri.cn; http://www.tdf.org; http://www.broadway.com/buzz):

D.D. Brigewater 5    Kurt Elling for Blog

Allison Semmes 4

I had to miss the first offering because of a gig of my own (playing piano for an event in Cannery Row), but I saw the second complete performance, and it was grand—again, a special consideration adding to my appreciation. Back in 2009, I had written an article for Jazz West on “Kurt Elling and the Beat Generation,” and Kurt had told me then of his plans to write and produce the work I’d just seen. Here’s what he said, then: “I’ve had an idea that for a few years has been gestating. It will be somewhat autobiographical, but it will also be based on Joe E. Lewis and The Jokers Wild: just using that as a very basic skeleton, but doing it in a very contemporary context and in that way sort of embracing history, because I have all these deep parallel experiences to Joe E. Lewis. The Green Mill was the club he was working in when they [mobsters] cut his throat. I know the tunnels. I know the ghosts of that place, and that it’s still a functioning club and it still has all this energy and it’s living. I’m not that interested in the old-time gangster thing. That seems real corny to me, and I want to present contemporary music as a heavy part of this, so we’re talking about a contemporary setting of an artistic tragedy—one that features a live and semi-spontaneous score.”

Me: “Will it work that way: as a legit ‘Greek’ tragedy, hubris, denouement and all?”

Kurt: “I’m working on the form. I’m not sure how its going to end, whether he pulls himself out or what the thing is, but I’m sure you can well imagine what an intensely mental game … well, I don’t know if ‘mental game’ is the right way to put it, but it’s something for me to contemplate: his life and the lives of people who have an artistic gift in a very special frequency and for whatever reason have that gift taken away from them. And then, what do you do with the rest of your time? If you can’t have your work in the Smithsonian and play music … if you don’t have a diversity where you’ve got back up things—then what?”

Me: “When people ask me if I ever get ‘writer’s block,’ I say, ’No, I just go someplace else,’ [to play and compose music] which is a fortunate option I think.”

Kurt: “Yeah! I think this kind of idea goes to not only the questions that would specifically haunt us, but questions of regeneration, questions of self. The choice of one’s identity, and the creation of identity. I want to say that’s an American thing. It’s not just that of an individual artist. This is not just a genre-wide phenomenon. Here are all these musicians who are creating themselves by creating music. They’ve done discipline, they’ve learned history; they’ve learned about music and now they are declaring themselves. And that’s an American thing.”

The March 2 performance of Kurt Elling’s The Big Blind jumped off to a very “cool” start. We’re back in Chicago, 1957, with Kurt as band leader/vocalist Jack Lewis (who loves to shout out to his audience, in appreciation for their applause, “Without you, I’m nothin!”). He is in conference with Ian Shaw as Tony Mongoose,” a “wanna-be” manager. Jack already has one: D.D. Bridgewater as Veronica, who “owns” him in ways and means beyond their contract, but Mongoose (who says of Veronica: “She’s a colored woman, at that.”) asserts, “You been stuck in neutral, goin’ nowhere fast! You got to be ready to jump, to jazz, to jive the world, get yourself in the groove; what’s that sound? That sound, my son, is opportunity knocking!”–and he then claims, “I’ll dig you up as a real singer … Star billing, get you your own room, you open in one week … in Vegas! Everybody wins!”

The classic 50’s Show Biz jargon and fake (Mongoose) or self-conscious (Jack Lewis) “hep talk” (jive talk) is a kick, and reminded me of something else Kurt Elling talked about in our 2008 interview. I had mentioned young MFA in creative writing candidates I met at a writers conference who, when I talked about living in San Francisco in 1958, said, “You were a Beatnik! To us that was the Golden Age!”—and I told them I was not fully aware, at the time, that I was a “Beatnik,” and that my wife and I and one-year old child were dirt poor to boot and it was no “Golden Age.”

Kurt: “Yeah, it’s all the Golden Age, and none of it’s the Golden Age. You know, frankly, musicians on the jazz scene in Chicago, certainly the people I was hanging out with, well, I gravitated toward the older musicians because I wanted jazz father figures, and I wanted to have their blessing and their encouragement and their love and their acceptance. I wanted to touch the past through them, and that’s how they talk! [laughs] So I wanted to be like them. It’s a little bit like what Gary Grant said: he became Cary Grant by pretending to be him long enough so that he did! He became him! So, now it’s just part of the thing, and I think it’s cool. It’s become an organic part of me, and even here at the [Monterey Jazz] Festival, I’m not the only one, man. Talk to Joe Lovano for a couple of minutes. Some of us just want to be a part of that. We want to continue to manifest that energy, because it’s good to be a slick, you know? It’s chic! It’s not ordinary.”

I quoted another portion of Mezz Mezzrow’s Really the Blues, previously mentioned, for which Mezzrow even provides a glossary, and a translation, at the back of his book: “All I got left is a roach no longer than a pretty chick’s memory. I’m gonna breeze to my personal snatchpad and switch my dry goods while they’re [his lady friend is plural!] out on the turf,” etc. I told Kurt that, as I kid, these words became embedded in my head (and are still there, indelible), even before I learned the opening lines of the Declaration of Independence.

 Kurt: [laughing] “There you go!”

In the The Big Blind performance, Ben Vereen–as tenor saxophonist Eddie Freeman–functions as narrator (setting the frame for Jack’s life), and D.D. Bridgewater is spectacular as manager Veronica—coming on like “gangbusters,” calling Mongoose a “oil street pimp, tryin’ to impress all the boys … he learned whatever songs he knows in a prison shower,” whereas she, who loves to spend time (on an expense account) in Paris, is “building a continental  identity” for Jack, hobnobbing with French stars like Charles Aznavour and Edith Piaf—which leads her into a song about Paris, the “city of eternal love”—a song which includes some catchy lyrics (“What if forever is never … Never enough time is there—for forever.”) and a message: “Don’t matter who you love, or the color of your skin.”

Jack has reservations regarding his role as “lover,” and when Eddie enters, saying “What’s that all about?”, Jack says, “Play along will you Eddie”—the latter saying, as an aside, “Lady V found him when he was a singing waiter.”

Here are photos of the Green Mill Cocktail Lounge in Chicago (outside and in); Joe E. Brown; and two photos of Kurt Elling singing at the Green Mill (Photo credits: www.choosechicago.com;  http://uplup.com/music/green-mill-chicago; www.doctormacro.com/; Wikepedia;  www.facebook.com/kurtelling/)

Green Mill Cocktail Lounge 3

Green Mill Cocktail Lounge 2  Joe E. Brown 2 Kurt Elling at the Green Mill Cocktail Lounge  Kurt Elling at the Green Mill 2

All of the acting in Kurt Elling’s The Big Blind was solid, the story line unfolding as somewhat familiar (solid 1950s “stuff”), enticing, accurate—and good fun. And the unity of it all (the big band backing very effective—in terms of mood and forward motion) reminded me of one more set of statements Kurt Elling made back in 2008:

Kurt: “Well, again, if as an individual artist you could do anything from ranting to soliloquy to vocalese to straight up extemporaneous communication, I think that one already probably has a natural consciousness that is syncretic, one that wants to pull things together and see how they  combine. The most interesting thing is not to try to combine everything with everything; it’s to combine this interesting thing with this very disparate interesting thing, and to have a new viewpoint on everything else because you never would have thought of those two things together. So when the commissions started, who am I to say no? I gave it my best shot. They were always on a shoestring budget and they were only meant to run one or two nights at a time, but I’d give it my best shot because it was just a great creative challenge to try to figure out how these things would work together. I’m really proud of the results. I feel like I have a good organic sense of the way that dance and music and spoken word would go together, especially if I’m familiar enough with the choreographer’s work. Because a lot of times, if I’m seeing someone who has a great choreographic gift, and insight, that often inspires stories in me, so I’m adapting my thing to something that goes with this. It’s that kind of call and response, if you will.”

He held to these principles in the work I was watching. The scenes that followed were somewhat predictable, but handled with originally within each context. Jack meets a “young chick,” Jill (Allison Semmes, who took over as Diana Ross in Motown and led the 1st and 2nd Broadway national tours of that musical—and she’s adorable!)—taking photos for “a negro paper.” At the club he’s working, she asks Jack, “You a waiter?” “No, I’m a musician.” She’s impressed by, and takes photos of his performance, while he’s thinking (in Show Biz terms): “Hmmm, Jack and Jill … we may have to work on that.” She sings: “The faces I find … if I can stop the wheels of time and freeze the frame … the picture that never lies … In old age, every wrinkle’s a page …I can see so deep in you.”

The lyrics, the dialogue—everything was so cool in the overall performance, I’m tempted to try to quote each line (I took copious notes I hope are accurate!), but I haven’t space in this Blog, unfortunately, to do that, so … I’ll lightly touch on some lines that carried the performance to a very dramatic first-act conclusion: the scene having shifted to Chicago’s legendary cocktail lounge, The Green Mill, “The Pearl of Uptown … islands of love awaiting.” Jill is there, and saxophonist Eddie is “diggin’ on the light-skinned sister in the room,” saying, ironically, to the Shutter Bug (when she asks to take his picture), “They say it’ a free country,” telling her when she claims his saxophone “preaches” that he “plays the sounds that’s me,” and, when she asks, “Is it always like that for Jack—the autographs and attention?”: “Jack’s the front man, and front men are stars … stars get the honies,” adding, in a song, that other players on the stand are  “professional unsung heroes … you’re married to the music, for the music understands.”

After the show, Jack, promising “no complications,” cries, “Let’s go dancing!” Jill claims she’ll stick with “doing what she knows is right,” he claims “I’ll show you that I’m worth the risk”; and they do dance, both feel “sudden sensation,” and, in the midst of what Eddie labels “Jack’s Golden Hour” … the phone rings. It’s Veronica, of course, an “overseas call” in which she, again, promises him a gig in Paris, in “that little club over by Sacré-Cœur, Piaf’s favorite café”—then breaks off: “Jack, who’s that?” She screams accusations (D. D. Bridgewater is perfect, powerful in this role), “And in our bed!” Shouts, “I know what’s best for us,” and when Jack asks, “What’s that?”, responds, “ME!” Her jealousy drives her to song: “Be mine. Be careful! You are mine. Hear me, and you should fear me!”

But Jack has been anything but careful. At the close of his show, having asked (to her dismay) Jillie (not Mongoose) to be his new manager in Vegas, he cries out, “Special night here, Green Mill. Love!”—singing (a la Frank Sinatra), “All the Way,” and adding, “Without you, Baby, I’m nothing!” And that’s when we learn that Veronica did not call from Paris, “overseas,” but she’s there, in the Green Mill, and she’s heard everything. The radio announcer proclaims, “Take five, ladies and gentlemen.” Intermission.

Part Two of the noir radio-style drama resumes with a brazen Big Band burst, totally fit for the reentry, which is restless. Kurt (as Jack) appears in a while shirt and loose tie, phone in hand. Eddie also appears, with Mongoose. Eddie reminds Jack that Veronica “has an eight-inch blade in her boot,” and Mongoose tells Jack (who feels he’s “gotta find Jillie”), he’s “better off” (“ridding ourselves of all complications”). The next scene discloses Jack alone at the Green Mill, after hours, and Veronica shows up—on the warpath. “And now Las Vegas,” she says with a hiss; and when Jack protests, saying “Vegas is good business for me,” she snarls, “Mama’s talking! You don’t tell me, I tell you!” She slaps him, hard—saying, “You singing waiter!” She calls Jillie “a little whore.” A traumatic experience from their past slips out (“Our baby was born dead”) and when she attacks, slaps him again, it’s with a swipe of the blade she carries in her boot. Jack falls, choking. We hear a door slam, and the next scene takes place …

In hospital. Jillie is there. Jack’s throat has been cut and he can’t breathe. Jillie sings: “Let me sit beside you for a minute … Why can’t we just break free?” Nearly voiceless, Jack mutters, “Get Tony [Mongoose]!”—who appears as if on command, but turns cynical, saying, “Nothing left to manage … a lame horse … when the going gets tough … I’ve seen ‘em come and go …if he wants to stay in Show Biz, he can get a job as a drummer’s ventriloquist”—arrogantly adding “I’m the real star of the show!”

Eddie assumes a more prominent role as narrator from this point on. “Tony split town, leaving Jillie and me. And what’s left of Jack’s … voice.” Eddie tells us that the doctors say they don’t know if Jack will ever sing again. Jack “won’t rat on Veronica.” The two women, the rivalsfor what’s left of Jack, literally bump into each other on a visit to the hospital. Veronica asks Jillie if she’s there to see her “father”—then, “What is he … your sugar daddy?”

Jack’s voice gone, he takes to drink—and turns on Jillie: “You and your bloody street pictures.” He claims that Tony (Mongoose) was his “ticket to everything.” Jillie says, “I believed in you, not just your singing.” Jack strikes her, breaking a bottle of booze. Mournful music follows. Eddie shows up at Jillie’s place, saying he hasn’t heard a word from Jack, but has heard that he’s become “a running bum at the end of the bar”—and we shift to that scene, Jack singing (surprisingly well!) a song about “memories like old movies … moaning, slurring over words unspoken.” And then attempts the classic “Angel Eyes” (“I Try to think that loves not around / But it’s uncomfortably near / My old heart ain’t gaining no ground /Because my angel eyes ain’t here … So drink up all you people / Order anything you see / Have fun you happy people /The laughs and the jokes on me.”).

Eddie’s narration continues as Jack’s deterioration does: “Jack went on a real bender … library stairs, staring at strangers.” The wicked witch Veronica appears “somewhere in the fog, in the shadows,” in a “blur,” and sings: “I know your desperate wish, I know your darkest fear. Why am I still here? Survival!” And thinking of rival Jillie: “I’ll show her how a woman fights back when she’s black and blue … This is not the end … he’ll come back to me again, and we’ll laugh … I’ll laugh … Love: it’s never fair!” But it’s her “survival.”

Here are two photos of Kurt Elling in his role as Jack in The Big Blind (Photo credits www.pastemagazine.com/;  /www.southbankcentre.co.uk ):

Kurt Elling in Radio Drama The Big Blind  Kurt Elling in The Big Blind (2)

Eddie finally gets caught up with Jack, “passed out in a park.” Eddie attempts to lure him “back,” saying, “I believe the boys are gonna raise the roof tonight.” And not just “three chords” stuff (“ain’t gonna find me playing that shit”). He reminds Jack of Jillie, “The one gal who would have loved you”—and when Jack responds “It’s all gone … How am I supposed to live, Eddie?”, the latter sings a plaintive refrain on “love”: “You just have to feel it … when the world seems suddenly still … that soft-spoken melody will find its way to you … when hope is lost, give your words up to the great unknown … the sounds of the street and the voice of your soul.” And Eddie offers Jack a gentle sermon on rehabilitation: “Practice till you find something worth playing … Show up! Show up! When love is lost, or only exists in a dream … the melody remains in your heart, when pain fills you up again.”

The immediate result is good. Eddie tells us that “Jack came to stay with me for a while,” and Eddie “kept tabs on Miss Jillie,” who, returning to art school, has found success in NYC, a show of her photographs “opening Sunday afternoon at the Two Deuces.” Jack returns, momentarily, to “the joy box,” asking to sit in (“Could you loan me the piano for a minute?”) and tells his audience, “I haven’t been doing much singing, folks … This is new.” He sings, “They say dreams never die; I think that’s a lie … How can a dream live on, after the night is gone? … What becomes of the soul when the story is said and done … the music we hear will all disappear … on swallow wings.”

When he finishes the song, he sees Jillie—but walks out, just giving her a “little wave.” He tells Eddie: “See ya back at the crib,” but Eddie knows he’s just witnessed Jack’s “swan song … He just walked out into the night and disappeared.” Years go by. Eddie receives postcards depicting mountains and pine trees and the only words are: “It’s a good life up here.” Word comes he’s worked as a deck hand … he still listens to the radio—broadcasts from New York and Chicago. He signs off all contact: “Take care of yourself, Jack.”

At the close of the radio-drama, Eddie reflects: “We were two swinging cats at the opposite ends of our prime … Jack Lewis was my friend … he was the voice of Chicago: the sound!”

The voice of the announcer introduces the full cast, to rousing Big Band music and raucous applause from the audience. Kurt Elling is alive and well! He has added another “chapter” to his own story, his exceptional multi-faceted career. Congratulations, Kurt and friends on an excellent production: brilliant music, meaningful lyrics, a perfect balance between music and words, accessible story line, fully engaging drama, exceptional acting—the works! And thanks, again, Trudy Johnson-Lenz, for letting me know in advance about this important event.

 

Pianist Lynne Arriale recently sent me her latest CD, Give Us These Days, featuring her trio with Jasper Somsen on bass, and Jasper Van Hulten on drums. Going through previous recordings I have of hers, I realized we “go back” a long long way. I have: The Eyes Have It (1994), When You Listen (1995), With Words Unspoken (1996), A Long Road Home (1997), The Pleasure Of Your Company (with Richard “Cookie” Thomas: 1998), Melody (1999), Live at the Montreux Jazz Festival (1999), Inspiration (2000), Arise (2002), Come Together (2004). Other recordings by this prolific artist I do not have are: Lynne Arriale Trio: Live In Burghausen (2006), Lynne Arriale Trio Live (2011), Convergence (2011), Live at B’ Jazz (2014), Nuance:The Bennett Studio Sessions (2017), Solo (2017).

If I remember correctly, I first met Lynne Arriale, and heard her play, at the Jazz Bakery in Santa Monica—perhaps as far back as the mid-1990s. Fellow jazz writer Scott Yanow took me there, and introduced me to Lynne (whom he’d written about). In 2002, an article I wrote about her (based on an interview I had with her after she performed at the Jazz & Blues Company in Carmel) appeared in the March/ April issue of Coda. When Marian McPartland played at the Monterey Jazz Festival in 2004, she did so, in piano duets, with Jason Moran, Bill Charlop, and Lynne Arriale—and I contributed an article, “Piano Abundance: Marian McPartland, the matriarch of jazz piano, highlights a constellation of keyboard stars,” to that year’s Festival program. Lynne was one of the “keyboard stars” I wrote about. I also recall a concert she gave at a walkdown venue I don’t remember the name of in Pacific Grove, CA, where I live—Lynne performing solo on a white grand piano.

I wrote the following in the Coda piece: “[Lynne Arriale] opened her second set at the Jazz & Blues Company in Carmel, California with “Bemsha Swing”–Monk with a vengeance, amply demonstrating that she’s at home with all forms of jazz and can richly interpret anybody’s tunes. No easy task in the case of Monk, given the individuation that giant himself possessed, and the host of genres (from stride to blues to bop) he too had absorbed and transformed … Poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge prized the sort of individual artistry that could ‘dissolve, diffuse, dissipate in order to re-create.’ Coleridge, and Monk, would have been pleased with what Arriale did with “Bemsha Swing.” With unabated force and skill, she broke up the rhythms in a manner that might have surprised Monk, adding some cutting-edge cragginess of her own–wild clusters, sudden glisses, insinuating phrases and pauses that might have made Cecil Taylor smile, had he been in the house! The audience was kept alert, alive, and appreciative by it all until, the tune–the avalanche–resolved, Lynne Arriale sat back and smiled herself, saying, “It’s great to feel the presence of listening.” … She then exchanged the appropriate power (and joy) of Monkish “attitude” for the deceptive ease and serenity of William Walton’s “Touch Her Soft Lips and Part,” a tune that contained classical elegance.”

The first tune on the Give Us These Days CD is Joni Mitchell’s classic “Woodstock.” A somewhat solemn vamp leads into the theme, and the solely instrumental respectful rendering more than suggests the words (getting the soul “free,” and “back to the garden”); deft, direct, clean, carefully selected notes capturing the mood (along with Jasper Van Hulten’s accents and cymbal washes); a keyboard sweep followed by a percussive mode reassessing the event (bombers turned into butterflies—or “camping out” turned muddy?); a measure of frenzy in the celebration—chordal variation on the theme, and then back to it, mixed with an anthem (a touch of Jimi Hendrix?) “feel” and out, sweeping the keys again.

The next tune, “Appassionata,” features Van Hulten with a host of drum effects (all over the kit percussion), side by side with Lynne Arriale’s passionate but spare (subtle!) Flamingo melodic touch, handsome interplay, a lively yet over all lightsome conversation, dialogue, exchange … piano and drums back off for an subtle, agile bass solo by Jasper Somsen. Lynne’s ingenious rhythmic comping transforms itself into alert, alive melodicism for the close—followed by the lyric refrain of “welcome” in her composition (all but three tunes on the CD are her own), “Finding Home”; handsome lower register  chords beneath a lovely “no place like home” melody, offered as if cherished, caressed (her masterful touch!).

In his liner notes to Give Us These Days, Lawrence Abrams writes: “Above all, Lynne remains unfailingly a melodist. Her improvised musical sentences, or lines, are strong, lean, and lyrical. But whether they are rhythmic or motivic, as in Over and Out, or as in Finding Home, luxuriously long and complex, they fairly glow with her passion for melody.”

Here’s a photo of Lynne Arriale and the cover of the “Give Us These Days” CD (Photo credit: https://twitter.com):

Lynne Arriale 3  Lynne Arriale Give Us These Days

When, in the 2002 interview, I talked with her about her penchant for unadorned melody, Lynne Arriale offered a fitting analogy to speech. “‘Just because you know more words [substitute “notes”?], does that mean your speech is going to be more profound, or your writing? And the answer is ‘No,’ of course not. We all know that, yet it’s funny that, in music sometimes, doing more to something is considered hip, or whatever. But if we dress it up, we won’t be able to see the forest from the trees’ … Elsewhere, in the liner notes to Lynne Arriale Trio Live at Montreux, she’d said she wants an audience ‘to experience the widest range of human emotions,’ absorbing ‘many different colors, many different moods, many different directions.’ It works. Such generosity of spirit endeared her to the audience in Switzerland, and they loved her for it in Carmel too.”

Lynne Arriale generally works in a trio format. On that night in Carmel, I interviewed her with miracle-working drummer Steve Davis, who had provided percussive support for the past eight years and seemed to anticipate the pianist’s every musical move (for example, in their rapport on “Seven Steps to Heaven” with its stuttered Satie-like close). On the night I saw, heard, and interviewed her, Lynne Arriale’s plane had been delayed in Chicago, and she arrived at The Jazz & Blues Company just ten minutes before the trio’s gig began. Nevertheless, a slender, beautiful woman with auburn hair (which, tossing it in time to “Steven Steps to Heaven,” flared red) and stunning blue eyes, she carried a black “pillow” or cushion to the white piano bench (a cushion that looked as if it might be used for displaying jewels at Tiffany’s), and she performed without a trace of haste–or hunger (after her sets, when she, Steve Davis, and I retired to the Rio Grill, I would learn that she hadn’t had time to eat–an activity she undertook with zeal). I wrote, “Lynne Arriale’s appearance matches the range of her music, for it also suggests a completely winning, slightly waif-like quality that quickly converts to a tough, no-nonsense and fully articulate manner. All of these aspects turn up in her music.”

The title tune on the Give Us These Days CD (introduced by mallets on cymbal, establishing at the start a very comfortable “setting’) is again a piece that delivers sublime melody, again featuring Lynne’s brilliant bright touch, this time the mood arising from gratitude. The piece was inspired by Jim Schley’s poem, “Devotional,” which pays homage to every human cycle from marriage and inception (“confiding as never before /with body-sundering confidence;/ the sealed secrecy of youth”) to aging and treasured simple senses: “Hear one plea / when I say, let each of us three / live to be old … the sense of smell is ravenous / as you know, for these / blessed scents of kin: / the cotton jersey you work in, / or stockings for nights of singing / translucent as fragrance, / jade dress and cream-colored blouse, / mine to hold as I fold them … If I might be /so bold … if I may —Give us these days.”

Lynne Arriale “translates,” embodies such feelings into an instrumental prayer, reference for “the things of this world,” faith: the dialogue this time taking place between her left (chordal) and right (melody line) hands, totally at peace, at ease with one another, delicate at times to the point of appropriate silence (“stillness”), heartfelt devotion enhanced, again, by her melodic poise.

Here’s another photo of Lynne Arriale, surrounded by a few of her other recordings (Photo credit: http://www.wuwm.com):

Lynne Arriale Inspiration Lynne Arriale Milwaukee

Lynne Arriale Convergence 2

The tune “Slightly Off Center” is just that! It’s “Free up!” time, and the trio does, with ease—prancing, proud, uncompromised expression, extension—and another fetching melody: sprightly, playful, leaning to the left, leaning to the right, but keeping, always, its difficult balance—truly swinging! Dexterous, mellow hard bop—with a sudden stop! “Another Sky” offers a beautiful panorama established by the first few notes: soft spacious reflection, restraint, taste, and a grand “view” of the world. As is the “acceptance” (in the Zen sense of “mindfulness”) of the Beatles’ “Let It Be” (“There will be an answer … Let it be.”): not a trace of competition or cynicism (with or about the original) in Lynne’s improvisation, but her own “space” taken possession of; her lyricism, laced with her gracious “touch” always, present without strain … Let it be.

“Over and Out” is a perfect instrumental close out piece, which displays each artist in the trio at “the best” (just as the bass and drum solos have been throughout the recording), “Gospel funky” here (as the liner notes say); a joyful noise served with gladness; Jasper Somsen soloing handsomely, subtly; Jasper Van Hulten quick and clean (Lynne churning it up in the background, frisky, free play) and all three back into a unison funky close out.

“Take It With Me” is my favorite Tom Waits song—and it was a delight to hear Kate McGarry sing it so beautifully here, with Lynne providing perfect (exquisite, tasteful, imaginative) backing. “It’s got to be more than flesh and bone / All that you’ve loved is all you own … I’m gonna take it with me when I go.” Human promise, hope, experience—transmuted, transcended … Congratulations, and thanks, Lynne Arriale and friends!

 

The third artist I would like to celebrate is Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award (twice!) winner and Poet Laureate of the United States  (2011-1012) Philip Levine—and by “extension,” saxophonist Benjamin Boone. I was fortunate to become friends with Phil, under unusual  circumstance. We discovered we had attended the same Art Tatum/Erroll Garner concert in Detroit the mid-1950s, and we discovered we shared the same disease (vestibular: vertigo)—but the collaboration between Philip Levine and Benjamin Boone came about in a more “natural” manner. Both teaching at Fresno State University (Phil Creative Writing, Benjamin Music), they paired off for a recording, The Poetry of Jazz, which featured Levine reading his own poems (many related to music), Boone providing musical backing (as composer, arranger, performer). The first CD includes further musical assistance on the part of “super star” instrumentalists Chris Potter, Tom Harrell, Branford Marsalis, and Greg Osby—whereas for a second CD, The Poetry of Jazz: Volume Two (recorded between August 2012 and October 2018), Boone assembled a first-rate ensemble of local talent. Philip Levine reads poems that are favorites of mine, because they focus on the lives (the sort of existence Levine shared) of working-class Detroiters–and the readings resonate with my own experience of that city.

The first piece, “Let Me Begin Again,” opens (musically) with a cymbal wash, piano flourish, subtle alto saxophone, and Philip Levine steps in: “ … begin again as a speck / of dust caught in the night winds … Let /me go back to land after a lifetime of going nowhere.”; and it ends “Tonight I shall enter my life / after being at sea for ages, quietly, / in a hospital named for an automobile [Henry Ford Hospital, where Levine was born, and at which my own grandmother was once Head of Nurses!] … A tiny wise child who this time will love / his life because it is like no other.” Benjamin Boone matches or complements each shift in mood, tone, and time passing handsomely.

The second piece, “An Ordinary Morning,” is introduced by a soft acoustic bass pattern, then Philip Levine: “A man is singing on the bus / coming in from Toledo,” his “hoarse, quiet voice” … “tells / of love that is true, of love /that endures a whole weekend.” [Music: melodic sax in background]: The entire bus joins in song, even the driver: “One by one my new neighbors … accept / this bright sung conversation … We are / the living newly arrived / in Detroit, city of dreams … each on his own black throne.” Once again, Benjamin Boone “comps” each shift in mood or to another character adroitly (an apt sax fade at the end)—and assists in establishing the irony as well (“Detroit, city of dreams”).

Here are photos of the covers of the two The Poetry of Jazz CDs:

Phil Levine The Poetry of Jazz Vol 2  Phil Levine The Poetry of Jazz

I met Philip Levine when a teaching colleague of mine at Monterey Peninsula College, George Lober (who had Levine as a teacher at Fresno State University), invited him to give a reading at MPC. George told me that Phil was having vertigo “issues,” and would like to talk with me about the condition, which we did—at some length at a party after the reading, and thereafter in letters. We would correspond from April 2003 through August 2005, and not only discussed our mutual vestibular “affliction,” but jazz, the poetry scene in general, and living in New York City (where Phil was also teaching at the time).

I’ve had a vertigo condition for twenty-seven years now (brought on by a viral infection that did permanent damage to my inner ear), and when I met Phil in 2003, I had collected a stack of articles on the condition as thick as the Bible (both Testaments), much of which I passed on to him. Here’s a portion of a letter I would receive not long after his reading in Monterey: “Thanks for all the advice re the vertigo. I went off to Nashville last week prepared for trouble & got almost none … I’ll try most anything. I have had several episodes of loss of balance but no vertigo since I saw you. During my last reading I caught myself about to make a rather large gesture which would have evolved looking up–which is what I did in Monterey–, & I did not make said gesture. I’ll see how things go, & and if NYC is OK I’ll stick with what I have. If not I’ll try to locate someone as good as your Dr. Schindler [a San Francisco otolaryngologist who realized I had an inner ear problem, not Meniere’s Disease, with which I had been mistakenly diagnosed elsewhere for three years!]. I’ve been going to a gym most days; I use an exercise bike.”

I’m pleased to report that by the time of our final correspondence in 2005, Phil had done something I’ve never been able to do: he beat the vertigo “rap,” telling me, “We made a trip to Pragu, & I managed to get a low-salt menu anywhere I went … It’s now more than a year since I’ve had any loss of balance & almost two years since I had vertigo. I stick to the diet & try to avoid stress, which isn’t always possible.”

Phil Levine was the same candid, upfront, open, forthright presence in person (or in his letters) that he is in his poems (and that, unfortunately, has not always been the case with poets I’ve known). I treasure each of the letters he wrote to me, and what he had to say about poetry has proven invaluable. “I can’t stand people who think they are owed an audience of thousands & untold wealth because they write poetry. I went into this shit with my eyes open; I knew the chances of any success, commercial or otherwise, were about zero; I did it because I loved writing, I simply wanted to do this & nothing else. Well, life has given me the opportunity to write. And on top of that I lucked in & got a good publisher, a great editor, & some prizes, all more than I expected. If I’d never won a prize would I still be writing? Yes, If I’d never published would I still be writing? I don’t know. Thank God my character never had to face that test … The poetry thing is so intense here [NYC] you have to get away. Too many people on the make … It reminds me of Nathanial West on Hollywood. He’s got a character who can only think of everything in terms of: Will it film? Here it’s, would this make an anthology & who would publish it? Horseshit.”

I was thrilled when I sent him a book of my own poems, he responded favorably: “Thanks also for Some Grand Dust [We had talked about this book the night I met him]. Several of the Moker poems are special. He’s not Kees’ Robinson or Berryman’s Henry. He’s really your own Moker with a fuller inner life from either of those two. He’s also much more accepting of life as it is than they are. It’s a collection that deserves much more attention than it’s probably had, but the poetry world is like the rest of the American worlds: a mess … Good luck, & thanks again for your help & your gifts … ps. I’m still astonished that we were both at that Tatum night. I saw him two days later talking baseball & got a poem out of it about 30 years later.”

His Tatum poem is a gem (I was surprised it was not on either of the The Poetry of Jazz CDs. It’s called “On the Corner,” and the great blind pianist is presented as passing by “blind as the sea, /heavy, tottering /on the arm of the young / bass player, and they /both talking / Jackie Robinson.” The bass player say, “Wait’ll / you see Mays,” how fast he is too first, like Jackie Robinson—and the last line has Tatum speaking, “I can’t hardly wait.” In another letter, I mentioned Tatum and blind vocalist Al Hibbler having “driving” [an automobile!] contests, and Phil replied, “Art Tatum & Hibbler driving! My mother was almost as bad. When she was in her eighties her sight began to go–macular degeneration–but she didn’t let that stop her from driving, though she did stay off the freeways–by this time she lived in LA. Finally she couldn’t get a renewal on her license, couldn’t pass the vision test, couldn’t get insurance, & sold her car. She never seemed to take into account the fact she might kill a dozen kids–she lived only two blocks from a big high school.”

Here are photos of Philip Levine, with Benjamin Boone, and solo (Photo credits: www.nytimes.com; jazzdagama.com; The Fresno Bee; artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com):

Phillip Levine 3

ben-and-phil

Phillip Levine with Benjamin Boone 2  Phil Levine NY Times

We talked lots of jazz in our correspondence, and I’ll give one more sample here—and then provide a couple more examples of tracks from the The Poetry of Jazz: Volume Two CD. I’d mentioned serving on a panel at the Monterey Jazz Festival with Charles Mingus’s wife, Sue—and Phil wrote: “Have you read the book by Sue Mingus about Charles the maniac? It has a name like ‘Today at Midnight’? [Tonight at Noon: A Love Story].The parts that are good are so good that everyone who cares about jazz or human behavior ought to read it. How she stuck with Mingus is beyond me, except he was fascinating as well as monstrous … You mentioned combining music & poetry. I did several concerts with a great percussionist named Steve Schick; I once rehearsed with two of the cats from the Paul Winter consort, the cellist & the pianist, but their playing was far too soft for what I was reading–Garcia Lorca’s toughest stuff from POET IN NEW YORK, “Offices & Denunciations.” And the cellist said flat out, You need a percussionist, & within a day we had this guy Schick, & he was superb. This was for a Christmas thing in a cathedral, & working with these guys was fun. They were real pros.”

And now we have recordings of Phillip Levine reading his poems within a totally compatible musical setting created by Benjamin Boone. Two more of my favorite tracks on The Poetry of Jazz: Volume Two are “Belle Isle, 1949” and “The Conductor of Nothing.” The first, after a synthesized “spring” atmosphere is established musically, describes a adolescent “swim” in the Detroit River (the “voice” of the poem and “a Polish highschool girl / I’d never seen before” run down, “in this first warm spring night” to “baptize ourselves in the brine / of car parts, dead fish, stolen bicycles, / melted snow.” The ending is classic: “ Back panting / to the gray coarse beach we didn’t dare / fall on, the damp piles of clothes, / and dressing side by side in silence / to go back where we came from.”  Alternating piano notes and soft melodic alto sax refrain close out the piece, and I couldn’t help but think (or feel), O Yes, memories of those Michigan “first warm spring nights”!

The second poem, “The Conductor of Nothing,” opens with delicate wire brush drum work and soft saxophone trills, a wavering mood; then Phil with a complaint in the voice of the narrator himself: “If you were to stop and ask me / how long I have been as I am, / a man who hates nothing / and rides old trains for the sake / of riding. I could only answer / with that soft moan I’ve come / to love. It seems a lifetime I’ve / been silently crossing and recrossing / this huge land of broken rivers / and fouled lakes, and no one has cared enough even to ask for a ticket / or question this dingy parody of a uniform.” We get a considerable portion of the conductor’s existence, and the poem ends: “Thus / I come back to life each day /miraculously among the dead, / a sort of moving monument / to what a man can never be– / someone who can say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ / kindly and with a real meaning, and bending to hear you out, place / a hand upon your shoulder, open / my eyes fully to your eyes, lift / your burden down, and point the way.” The musical close out consists of gentle piano accents, and a wavering saxophone, to point that way.

If you feel the need (and in our present era, that’s a very legitimate need, I feel) for poetry with real meaning–poetry filled with genuine care, insight, and compassion–accompanied by a musical setting that contains the same, The Poetry of Jazz: Volume Two (and the first volume!) awaits you.

And what a joy for me: to have known this truly great poet and human being, Philip Levine—just as it’s been genuine joy to have known and written about Kurt Elling and Lynne Arriale. I hope you have taken pleasure in this blog devoted to their latest accomplishments.

 

 

Poetry and Disinterestedness, John Keats, William Hazlitt, Bianca Stone, and Gothic Grief

I’m back (from blogs on jazz) to thinking lots about poetry lately (and writing some): thinking focused on what makes poetry worth writing (and reading): what makes the act of writing poetry truly meaningful, truly necessary (required to be achieved, needed; essential, imperative, indispensable, incumbent). In 1955, sixty-four years ago, I began to read contemporary poetry with the serious attention it deserves. I attended “live” readings in New York City, and I spent a considerable amount of time listening to the then available Caedmon recordings: Dylan Thomas, T.S. Eliot, e.e. cummings, Edna St. Vincent Millay, W.H. Auden, Marianne Moore, Wallace Stevens, Archibald MacLeish, William Carlos Williams, Gertrude Stein, Robert Graves, Stephen Spender, et cetera.

I spent considerable time attempting to determine just what made poetry “truly meaningful,” essential, true–rather than a gratuitous (“not called for by the circumstances not necessary, appropriate, or justified UNWARRANTED”) act—and over the past sixty-four  years, I have read, heard and more than likely written work that might be regarded as spurious “creativity”: just showing off, displaying well-schooled (too often workshop well-schooled?) verbal finesse (or what one has been taught as finesse—playing “the game,” clever, “cute”); mistaking therapy (getting “stuff” off one’s mind, or chest–unloading) for The Real Thing; a martyrdom that sacrifices original thought and feeling for overt political purpose or persuasion (adopting a stance or “position”—a specific party platform the language of which is not one’s own); self-aggrandizement (overestimating one’s own importance or power—an attitude that might be present, and detrimental, no matter what activity one is engaged in); or the worst offense against genuine poetry perhaps: outright fakery—deceit, dissimulation, dissembling, enjoying being thought of as a “Poet” (capital “P”), pretending one is a Poet, but not necessarily producing much that resembles the art form itself.

I’ve never had the courage of conviction of the totally committed, uncompromising Osip Mandelstam, who, when an aspiring young poet read his poems to him (“everything that I could”), listened attentively (“his face showing neither approval nor disapproval”), and finally said, “It doesn’t matter how gutta-percha [rigid natural latex produced from the sap of a Malaysian tree] a voice you read those poems in—they are still bad.”—and on another occasion, when the wannabe poet V. Kaverin read his work to Mandelstam, the poet spoke to him “sternly, with passion and conviction”: “There was no room for irony. It was important to him that I stop writing verses, and what he was saying was a defense of poetry against me and against those tens and hundreds of young men and women who were amusing themselves with the game of words.” (from Mandelstam, by Clarence Brown). Kaverin gained his first “intimation of the fact that poetry does not exist for itself alone, and that if it does not strive to express life, to give it lasting form, no one has any use for even the cleverest gathering of rhymed lines.”

I’ve read and heard some open to doubt, debatable “poetry” over the years, but I’ve never had the nerve to respond as Mandelstam did, although … on occasion, I’ve wished I had.

So … What IS The Real Thing? Whenever, now, I feel a bit uncertain, I go back to what I recognized, experienced as “The Real Thing” when I first read it—this a few years before I got serious about the art form in NYC: when I discovered the work of John Keats. As Andrew Motion writes in his excellent Keats: A Biography: “Keats confirms his ambition (his appeal to posterity became increasingly emphatic as he failed to find short-term success), and asserts his necessary independence. If he is to make his name as a poet, he says, it will be because he develops his individual gifts, rather than adapting them to suit the expectations of a ‘fierce miscreed.’ He pledges his loyalty to an aesthetic which is highly personal, rather than one which is determined by conventional readers or specific social forces … It is only by resisting the temptation to tease ‘the world for grace’ that poets can achieve their ambitions. Identity depends on calm self-possession.”

Here are four portraits of John Keats—the first a painting by William Hilton; second a sketch by Benjamin Haydon; a life mask by Haydon, and a piece by Joseph Severn (the artist who accompanied Keats to Rome, where the poet died at age twenty-five). (Photo credits: Wikipedia; The Thanatos Archive; keatslettersproject.com; amazon.com)

john_keats_by_william_hilton  john-keats-sketch

john keats life mask by benjamin haydon  john keats sketch sleeping by joseph severen

And here are words from the man himself, from The Selected Letters of John Keats: To John Hamilton Reynolds, 3 Feb. 1818: “Every man has his speculations, but every man does not brood and peacock over them till he makes a false coinage and deceives himself … We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us—and if we do not agree, seems to put its hand in its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing that enters into one’s soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject—How beautiful are the retired flowers! How would they lose their beauty were they to throng into the highway crying out, “Admire me I am a violet!—dote upon me I am a primrose! … I don’t mean to deny Wordsworth’s grandeur and Hunt’s merit, but I mean to say we need not be teased with grandeur and merit when we can have them uncontaminated and unobtrusive.”

Here are a few more insights from Keats: A Biography, by Andrew Motion: “Inevitably, some aspects of the age influenced him more than others, and some hardly affected him at all. This means that distinctions have to be made, as well as associations emphasized, in placing his story within its context. But even when his poems struggled to overrule time, they reflected his particular circumstances. He was born with the City at his back, among clamorous commercial interests, Volunteers training, radicals protesting, hospitals expanding, and suburbs spilling into open country. He spent his adult life paying very deliberate attention to these things, and to other national and international issues as well. In some respects they persuaded him that he was an outsider. In others they gave him confidence. He could insist on independence because he knew that he belonged nowhere precisely. He looked beyond everyday events because he understood how they might confine and disappoint him. And he realized that in striving to achieve various sorts of cohesion in his work, he could never ignore the stubborn facts of paradox and contradiction.”

Reading Shakespeare “religiously” provided John Keats a sense that “the most powerful poetry does not make its effects by hectoring, or even candidly expressing the author’s personal opinion, but by creating a self-sufficient imaginative universe—a universe in which readers are invited to make independent critical decisions and moral judgements.” Poet/critic Matthew Arnold understood that Keats’ work was ‘not imitative, indeed, of Shakespeare, but Shakespearean because its expression has that rounded perfection and felicity of loveliness of which Shakespeare is the great master’ … Keats’ affinity with Shakespeare depends on thoughts about poetic identity; about the overriding need for it to remain fluid, to have no trace of the egotistical sublime, to have in its extreme suppleness and empathy ‘no character at all.’”

This paragraph anticipates Keats’ theory of impersonality or Negative Capability. Contemplating his own craft and the art of others, especially William Shakespeare, writing to his brothers in 1817, Keats proposed that a great thinker is “capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.” A poet, then, has the power to bury self-consciousness, dwell in a state of openness to all experience, and identify with the object contemplated. The inspirational power of beauty, according to Keats, is more important than the quest for objective fact; as he writes in his “Ode on a Grecian Urn”:”‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty—that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”

Writing to his friend Benjamin Bailey in the same year, Keats said: “Men of Genius are great as certain ethereal Chemicals operating on the Mass of neutral intellect – but they have not any individuality, any determined Character … I am certain of nothing but of the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same idea of all our passions as of love: they are all, in their sublime, creative of essential beauty … The imagination may be compared to Adam’s dream, – he awoke and found it truth.”

The approach, or philosophy, is one John Keats shared with (and was perhaps inspired by) another friend: the older, more “well-established” (highly respected lecturer, critic) William Hazlitt, whose core or major principle was disinterestedness in all its modes: detachment, equity, evenhandedness, fairness, impartiality, justice, neutrality, nonpartianship, objectivity (the autonyms for which are: bias, favoritism, nonobjectivity, onesidedness, partisanship, and prejudice).

Here’s a self-portrait by William Hazlitt, and the cover of his Selected Writings: (Photo credit: en.wikipedia.org)

william hazlitt self-portrait wikipedia    william hazlett selected works

[The] ability to respond to imaginative and rhetorical power, “even in those cases where one might disagree with the ideas so movingly expressed,” was evidence of the disinterestedness which Hazlitt prized.—or as David Bromwich [in Hazlitt: The Mind of a Critic] emphasizes: “Hazlitt’s concept of disinterestedness did not mean lack of interest or strict judicial impartiality, but rather, the capacity to enter sympathetically into interests or positions other than one’s own. Disinterestedness did not preclude partisanship, or Hazlitt would not have been able to achieve it!” … In his early foray into philosophy, ‘’An Essay on the Principles of Human Action’”(1805), Hazlitt argued that “the imagination was essentially disinterested – as capable of responding to the predicament of a friend, neighbor, or stranger as to one’s own predicament. Habit, of course, would in time render us more self-centered, but innately, our imaginative capacities were boundless … The imagination required to appreciate the plight of this yet-nonexistent self, he argued, was akin to the imagination that appreciated the plight of all other selves – mine, thine, his, and hers. Hazlitt’s theory directly challenged the prevailing Hobbesian idea of man’s innate selfishness, a belief which was often used to justify social repression (society must limit individual selfishness), or, in more Malthusian fashion, to justify a laissez faire attitude in which the selfishness of each person was presumed to be balanced by the selfishness of everyone else.”

Here’s William Hazlitt in his own early-19th century words (from “An Essay on the Principles of Human Action”): “Would it not be strange if this constant fellowship [of a child, in school] of joys and sorrows did not produce in him some sensibility to the good or ill fortune of his companions, and some real good-will towards them? The greatest part of our pleasures depend upon habit: and those which arise from acts of kindness and disinterested [italics mine] attachment to others are the most common, the most lasting, the least mixed with evil of all others, as a man devoid of all attachment to others, whose heart was thoroughly hard and insensible to every thing but his own interest would scarcely be able to support his existence, (for in him the spring and active principle of life would be gone), it follows that we ought to cultivate sentiments of generosity and kindness for others … The advantages of virtue are however to be derived, like those of any liberal art, from the immediate gratification attending it, from it’s necessary effect on the mind, and not from a gross calculation of self-interest. This effect must be the greatest, where there is the most love of virtue for its own sake, as we become truly disinterested, and generous.”

On Keats’ “authenticity,” David Bromwich writes: “The sumptuous details, Classical references and painterly gestures would all become trademarks. And there is something else too—something that again anticipates his mature work. The ‘beauties’ of the ‘Imitation’ are not merely a lovely escape from the world; they enact a form of engagement with it. By setting his ‘emerald’ island ‘in the silver sheen / Of the bright waters’, Keats describes a miniature England that belongs in a specific historical context. Its seclusion is an emblem of peacefulness in general, and the result of a particular Peace—the Peace between England and France, which was signed in Paris at the time it was written.”

I’ve carried The Real Thing, the poetry of John Keats with me throughout eighty-three years of existence now, and a single poem of his, “Bright Star,” came in quite handy, stood me in good stead, with a few old girl friends and even with my wife of sixty-two years, Betty (whom I’ve known for seventy-two years!). I still love this (to my ears, eyes, heart, and soul) perfect poem, and here it is:

Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—

No—yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

I return, frequently, to the work of poets I have relished in my lifetime, and regard as The Real Thing: the Russian poets Osip Mandelstam, Vladimir Mayakovsky, Anna Ahkmatova, Marina Tsvetaeva, Boris Pasternak; the Greek poets Georgos Seferis, Yannis Ritsos, and Odysseus Elytis; Americans Robert Lowell, Theodore Roethke, Jack Spicer, Elizabeth Bishop, James Scheville, Richard Wilbur, Carolyn Kizer, John Logan, Philip Levine, Paul Zimmer, Li-Young Lee, Amy Gerstler, Mary Ruefle, Robert Sward, Sandra McPherson—and a recent “discovery,” the multi-talented Bianca Stone.

Since “finding” her, I have acquired four books by Bianca Stone (an accomplished visual artist as well as poet): Someone Else’s Wedding Vows, The Mobius Strip Club of Grief, Antigonick (a collaboration with translator Anne Carson), and Poetry Comics from The Book of Hours. She is also the chair of the Ruth Stone Foundation, an organization that honors the work of her grandmother, poet Ruth Stone–whose 1999 book Ordinary Words won the National Book Critics Circle Award, soon followed by other award-winning collections, including In the Next Galaxy (2002), winner of the National Book Award; In the Dark (2004); and What Love Comes To: New & Selected Poems (2008), a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.

The first book by Bianca Stone I read was Someone Else’s Wedding Vows—and a single poem there, “Reading a Science Article on the Airplane to JFK,” nearly stopped my heart (and brought empathic tears) because my sister Emily, six years younger than I (active, joyous, loving, a soul-mate at whose bedside I would sit, when she was a teenager, to play “quiet chords from my guitar,” and sing her favorite folk-songs), had just died of pancreatic cancer. Here’s a portion of Bianca Stone’s poem:

“… You have experienced profound grief—

how do you react to this?

Down on the ground your family

writhes. Down on the ground

you are surrounded at Starbucks

with a terrible glow.

And you have seen someone you love,

with a colossal

complex vehemence, die.

And it is pinned under glass

in perfect condition.

It is wrapped around you

like old fur. You’ve looked at the sky

until your eyes touched

zodiacal fantasies—right there in the void.

You know this. That the body lays down

while the mind bloats

on intellectual chaos …”

Here’s a portion of a review of The Mobius Strip Club of Grief  (the second book by Bianca Stone I read, and admired, extravagantly) by Jaime Zuckerman (It appeared in The Kenyon Review): “The Möbius Strip Club of Grief builds on the intellectual work of its feminist forebears and offers a vision of womanhood that is raw, raging, sad, and beautiful. The women in Stone’s poems don’t fit any of the definitions of woman that society has neatly provided; her poems blur, challenge, and outright erase those definitions completely. In their place, Stone offers a womanhood in which we can find some sort of personal freedom from all the grief of simply living. A womanhood that will last long after the current trends have lost their shine and we still need to be heard … Stone’s first collection of poems, Someone Else’s Wedding Vows—as well as her collection of poetry, comics, and several chapbooks—are full of falling in love, being lost and found, sometimes desperate, sometimes joyful abandon … The Möbius Strip Club of Grief begins as an elegy for Bianca Stone’s grandmother, the poet Ruth Stone, and becomes an elegy for America … [Bianca Stone] asks herself about the collection, ‘Why am I writing this psychosexual opus to the mind of my women?’ Because, Bianca, we need to hear it. We need all the inspiration we can get right now … It is through the ‘genius’ or the creativity of women—grandmas, mothers, daughters—that we can find some salvation or solace. It’s poetry itself that gives us our agency and helps us overcome our multitude of grief.”

Here’s a photo of Bianca Stone, of Ruth Stone, a sample of Bianca Stone’s art work, and the cover of her book Poetry Comics from the Book of Hours: (Photo credits: Facebook; poetryfoundation.org/poets/ruth-stonewww.essaydaily.org: Visual Essayists: Bianca Stone)

bianca stone 11  ruth-stone poetry foundation

bianca stone art work bed and upside down lovers      bianca stone poetry comics cover

I let John Keats and William Hazlett speak for themselves, and their work; here’s Bianca Stone on being a poet/artist (interview by Ariel Kahn in The Ilanot Review): “There’s so much that can be expressed with visual images that just can’t be in words. And what’s powerful about words alone is that the reader can create the visual in their mind. This of course is a well-known fact about the power of poetry. And why so many people get it wrong trying to ‘understand’ it. But in any case, I try in my poetry comics to not take away that negative capability [John Keats!]that mystery in the words, and instead think of the images as I would a line of a poem … I’m more apt to allow for irony in the juxtaposition between playful and dramatic. I like to counteract the tones; they come from the same place, but translate differently once out in the open. Writing poetry requires a certain amount of something–not necessarily work, but something– in the head; even two words coming together, that power when they are beside one another–it’s a very specific mode of the brain that’s turning on. Whereas with images I feel I can let my mind wander while I do it. There’s a totally different area sparking when I’m doing this. Different demands of mindfulness …  like the forms of poetry that make it poetry, it’s a necessary confine … that white space (gutter) between panels. The blank space creates meaning. That space where we don’t see what’s happening is where the magic is. It’s just like Keats’ negative capability. It’s just like a line break. Like the poetic form, or just the form the poem makes on the page: stanzas, etc. So I know that space, and the confined space, is important … Letting imagination cross the border of what you want to convey to the reader—what is perhaps appropriate or literal—and the unknown, the enigmatic. That is what I am most interested in.. I encourage readers to smile in curiosity! But also to surrender themselves to The Not Knowing. There’s a power in not asking what something means, the irony being that the question becomes relevant only once you stop asking it. And also perhaps, in some ways, answered … Giving something a term, however undefined, can be life-altering … And there’s so much imperfection in labels, but that too is what’s so fun about it … So after I heard this term [“poetry comics”] I began to combine poetry and art with great intention. And calling it something gave me permission to bring my art into my (let’s call it) ‘professional’ life as a writer. I mean, here were these two arts I’d loved doing ever since I could hold a pen, and now I could experiment with what it really meant to combine them; how to do both justice; how to complicate and further the power of each medium.”

When I think of Bianca Stone’s work, I find the rightful “grief” that Jaime Zuckerman recognized and commented on, but I also find an appropriate, unique, original, witty, a bit ghoulish, disturbing “stance” that I think of as “Gothic”—thus the phrase “Gothic Grief” in my title for this Bill’s Blog post. I’ll take a little time, here, to establish a definition of what I see as a tradition I feel she “carries on,” and represents well. The phrase “Gothic art” arrived on the cultural scene in the 12th century AD, a style of medieval art developed in Northern France, inspired by the development of Gothic architecture. The Gothic period included sculpture, panel painting, stained glass, fresco and illuminated manuscripts. Here are some examples:

gothic sculpture 1    gothic sculpture 2

From Wikipedia: “The earliest Gothic art was monumental sculpture, on the walls of Cathedrals and abbeys–illustrating stories of the New Testament and the Old Testament side by side. Saints’ lives were often depicted. Images of the Virgin Mary changed from the Byzantine iconic form to a more human and affectionate mother, cuddling her infant, swaying from her hip, and showing the refined manners of a well-born aristocratic courtly lady.”

From Wikipedia again: “In literature, Gothic fiction (largely known by the subgenre Gothic horror) would come about in 1764 (at the hands of English author Horace Walpole, with his novel The Castle of Otranto, subtitled in its second edition ‘A Gothic Story’)–a genre that combines fiction, horror, death, and at times romance. The genre had much success in the 19th century, as witnessed in prose by Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and the works of Edgar Allen Poe, and in the poetry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Lord Byron.” Another novel in this genre, dating from the late Victorian era, is Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

From architecture to literature—quite a journey! As is: from the 12th century to Bianca Stone. Here are some more lines from one of her poems, “Emily Dickinson”—lines I feel express “Gothic Grief”:

“She applied her passion like a hot iron sword.

And no one can take off her clothes, ever—she comes

and her language takes them off of us,

not piece by piece, not fumbling buttons,

but all at once in a single shot,

her tiny poems like grenades that fit in the hand.

And we here bask in the debris,

stripped down to our private parts,

the snow white of the bone, the authentic corpse in heat.

The absolute original.”

To my mind (and heart, and soul), Bianca Stone is an “absolute original,” The Real Thing. I rarely, if ever, attempt to contact poets I admire or have just “discovered,” but I was so impressed with Bianca’s brilliant mix of poetry and visual art that I sent her the following (and received a gracious “Thank you, William!” on Facebook): “I am relatively ancient and relished an exciting era (mid-50s: abstract expressionism) at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn (and playing jazz piano there). Because I loved both art forms, I attempted to combine (and do justice to both) poetry and graphic art: woodcut prints of Classical and Modern Greek and Russian poems—but I did not possess the imagination, originality, and “great intention” you offer in your poetry comics, Book of Hours, Antigonick—and all you do with visual art and words. Thanks for advancing, so handsomely, a tradition that began for me with appreciation of the work of William Blake, Kenneth Patchen, and Shiko Munakata.”

Gratitude for disinterestedness, John Keats, William Hazlitt, Bianca Stone, Gothic grief, and poets who enrich and sustain our lives with The Real Thing seems a reasonable way to close out this blog post. Yes, Thanks!

 

 

 

The 61st Annual Monterey Jazz Festival–Continued

At the close of my last blog post (which I devoted largely to the appearance of Norah Jones at the 61st Monterey Jazz Festival–and the state of jazz as an art form just now), I said I did plan, in my next post, to do justice to much of the excellent music I witnessed at this year’s Monterey Jazz Festival—and  I mentioned two  performances I much admired on the first (Friday, September 21) night: the Hristo Vitchev Quartet (Hristo Vitchev, guitar; Jasnam Daya Singh, piano; Dan Robbins, bass; Mike Shannon, drums) and the Jan Ira Bloom Quartet (the leader on soprano sax; Dawn Clement, piano; Mark Hellas, bass; Bobby Previte, drums).

The Hristo Vitchev Quarter opened the Festival that first night, performing on The Garden Stage at 6:30. I was not all that familiar with 37-year-old Bulgaria-born (but now based in San Francisco) Hristo Vitchev (“one of the newest and most innovative voices in modern jazz guitar,” an artist who “combines elements of classical, modern jazz, folk, and avant-garde sonic hues in his music”), but I have known Brazilian-born Jasnam Daya Singh for some time, for he performed for years in Monterey as Weber Iago—and we had a chance at this year’s Festival to renew our friendship (by way of a good “catching up” chat just before the group performed—during which I was reminded of the time he told me that, given the host of his Bossa Nova “hits” I am acquainted with, only a portion of the music of Antonio Carlos Jobim ever made it out of Brazil). I have written about Dan Robbins and Mike Shannon (both highly respected Monterey Bay Area musicians) in the past, and I’d previewed the group’s excellent recent CD Of Light and Shadows—so I was eager to hear them together, “live.”

Their set met all of my expectations. They played the title tune from the CD, “Of Light and Shadows,” which begins with a three note vamp, Jasnam Daya Singh’s unique fluid piano configurations in the backgound, then foreground in unison with Hristo Vitchev’ s equally circumfluent guitar. A characteristic of the group’s music is the seeming ease with which the individual voices blend (emerge and submerge), united, the whole unfolding  handsomely, each voice taking a turn “on top,” then gracefully bowing out. Mike Shannon offers accelerated but subtle drum-breaks, followed by deft guitar lines, and these in turn by Jasnam Daya Singh’s consistently original, inventive improvisations (a mix of fresh bop configuration and classical restraint). A four note guitar/bass in unison theme takes us “out.”

“The Shortest Wave Length,” also found on the CD, opens with lush, beautiful piano, off which Vitchev builds the theme (Mike Shannon urging the piece on with his customary taste and skill). Dan Robbins provides a handsome bass solo, followed by a piano interlude (similar to the opening), gracious right hand runs and glorious two-handed piano, Hristo Vitchev easing his way into this frame, melodic, maintaining his warm tone, yet offering playful, prancing notes—all four musicians expanding, enhancing the theme, an ascent, and anthem march forward—then back to the original piano opening: (graceful, “classical” design and disposition), with Mike Shannon’s subtle “tympani” effects at the close.

A third tune from Of Light and Shadow offered was a beautiful ballad, “A Portrait of a Love Forgotten”—a simple repetitious two chord opening giving way to subtle guitar modulations, tender, melodic: guitar and piano “married,” as one, a warm gentle texture sustained; stillness yet a gracious “glide” forward, extended guitar runs, chromatic journeys; then piano with the same touch, caress (not an anxious trace anywhere: just persistent affection)—and back to the alternating two chord pattern, with subtle enhancement by all four musicians: Dan Robbins in unison on the theme with Mike Shannon’s wash of cymbals at the end. This is a superb fully together combo to watch for—again and again!

Here are photos of Hristo Vitchev, Jasnan Daya Singh, and the Quartet in a row: Dan Robbins, Vitchev, Singh, and Mike Shannon (Photo credits: The Mercury News; zw.linkedin.com; jazzguitarsociety.com)

hristo vitchev 1 the mercury news jasnan daya singh 2hristo vitchev quartet

I was familiar with the work of soprano saxophonist Jane Ira Bloom, but had only recently been introduced to her pianist, Dawn Clement, through their CD Wild Lines: Improvising Emily Dickinson. Wild Lines is a superb, reverent homage to one of my “top ten” favorite poets, Emily D., and at Monterey, whereas Jane Ira Bloom improvised beautifully on the pieces her group offered, much of credit has to go to Dawn Clement, who not only offered first-rate piano, but recited portions of the poems with elegance and maximum respect.

“Excuse Emily and Her Atoms” began with those words, followed by a soft piano vamp, the words “The North Star is of small fabric but it implies much  yet presides,” and exquisite give and take between Bloom and Clement, building to deft sprightly piano runs, the echo of Jane Ira Bloom’s themes and configurations, “wild lines,” a fade to Mark Helias’ first-rate bass solo, soprano sax minimalism (melodic repetition), and ending with a soaring, “uplifting” (“Leave me ecstasy”) ending.

Next came “Alone and In A circumstance,” piano intro, vamp, and recitation: “Alone and in a circumstance / Reluctant to be told / A spider on my reticence / Assiduously crawled.” (“And so much more at home than I / Immediately grew / I felt myself a visitor / And hurriedly withdrew.”). Jane Ira Bloom (“All compositions” but one are attributed to her in the CD liner notes) provided a handsome melody here (reminiscent of “I Can’t Get Started”), floating, flowing, enhanced by Bobby Previte’s tom tom and brittle cymbal work—the theme offset by Clement’s piano vamp and exchanged melodically, supported by the expert rhythm section of Helias and Previte, the latter’s full kit accompaniment, with emphasis on ride cymbal: the playfulness melting to a smooth melodic “withdrawal.”

“One Note” began with a portion of Emily D’s poem: “One note from / One Bird / is better than / a million words,” excerpted from The Gorgeous Nothings: skipping, ornithological gestures on piano, replicated on soprano sax, then both together above smooth wire brush drumming, a bop riff, and impressive improvisation by Dawn Clement. The set ended with mournful melody, shuffling drum work (and hi hat clarity), bowed bass, soaring sax, unison accents, and everybody comin’ home on “I Lived on Dread”—an extraordinary performance by all:

I lived on Dread—
To Those who know
The Stimulus there is
In Danger—Other impetus
Is numb—and Vitalless—

As ’twere a Spur—upon the Soul—
A Fear will urge it where
To go without the Sceptre’s aid
Were Challenging Despair.

Jane Ira Bloom emerged as one of the Festival weekend’s “super stars,” I feel: this Friday night set with her quartet—and her superb set on Saturday night with pianist Fred Hersch (their duo on “Time After Time” sent writer Andy Gilbert into an ecstatic trance, and me too! Followed by a memorable “There’s a Place for Us.”). I am going to pause for a moment and insert an account of a personal “condition” I carried with me throughout the weekend—one which proved “beneficial” for all of Jan Ira Bloom’s sets, but not necessarily for access to other venues than the Pacific Jazz Café (which has a unique policy) and witnessing the work of artists I would love to have heard and seen but found inaccessible.

First: Here are photos of Jan Ira Bloom, Dawn Clement, Dawn with Jan Ira Bloom leading her quartet, and drummer Bobby Previte (Photo credits: nply.org; All About Jazz; Stuart Brinin; Eye Shot Jazz: Daniel Sheehan)

jane ira bloom  dawn clement all about jazz (2)

dawn clement and jane ira bloom san francisco classical voice  bobby previte eyeshotjazz

Briefly: I have a vestibular system (vertigo) condition I’ve experienced (off and on) for twenty-seven years, along with a visual condition (macular degeneration), and, back in December of 1017, I spent ten days in Community Hospital (and seventeen physical therapy sessions just after) attempting to regain the use of a left leg that, mysteriously, had ceased to function (no sensation whatsoever)—and while I had little trouble manipulating (traversing) the Fairgrounds during the day (in sunlight), I discovered, once the sun went down, that darkness presented numerous obstacles, and considerable risk, when it came to mobility (maintaining my balance), going from one venue to the next. Events in the main arena (Jimmy Lyons Stage) take place at one end of the Fairgrounds—and the other far end nests a North Coast Brewing Company open pavilion where I hoped to meet my friend Stu Brinin on occasion for liquid refreshment and good conversation (Stu is a photographer who lives in Oakland, and he “rooms” at the home of my wife Betty and me throughout the Festival weekend. He’s a very gregarious, genial fellow, a Master of extraversion, and we have decided, in our minds, to change the name of the North Coast Brewing Company sanctuary to Stu’s Place).

The “policy” the Pacific Jazz Café provided was a raised section or “nook” (seating area) for members of the audience with “physical or mental impairments that substantially limit ‘major life’ activities.” (“Major life activities include walking, sitting, reading, seeing, and communicating”– as defined by the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, a civil rights law that prohibits discrimination against individuals so defined)—and when I walked in for Jane Ira Bloom’s first set on Friday night, an usher spotted my cane (and tentative mobility) and directed me to the elevated isolated (off to the left) section (best view in the house!) and provided a seat I returned to on Saturday night—for Fred Hersch’s “Solo Piano” set, and his set with Jane Ira Bloom which followed (I would also hear the trio of guitarist Julian Lage and Bill Frisell’s Trio there on Sunday night).

The Hersch solo piano set at 7:30 on Sunday night was splendid—exceptional in the way his performances always are: original, elegant, winsome, masterful. He dug into his past, playing “a little gem” he first discovered in high school, “something by Antonio Carlo Jobim,” Hersch a master of dynamics, applying his exquisite touch to the tune, which (I’m sorry to say) I can’t recall the name of (although it was a piece I’ve played myself—and I was reminded of my talk with Jasnam Daya Singh, with which I began this Blog, and his commentary on the host of songs by the prolific Jobim that never made it out of Brazil). Fred Hersch played it tender, each note a caress; and he played it prancing, even “cute,” a demonstration of richly considered, and fully coordinated, two-hand piano.

George Gerswin’s “Embraceable You” followed: an ingenious transformation of the original melody taking place, once that melody had been established in mind—left and right hands offering what seemed different tunes (inventive lower register, deep bass, and dancing tasteful treble (high-pitched) lines—both together a beautiful blend as “one.” He played “My Old Man” (from Joni Mitchell’s 1971 album Blue), referring to his own “misspent youth” beforehand—and he added a range of tunes to his graceful, cheerful, classically precise rendering of that tune with “Doxy,” (and he can play the blues!), Billy Joel’s “And So It Goes” (strictly instrumental, but the rich words—”In every heart there is a room / A sanctuary safe and strong / To heal the wounds from lovers past / Until a new one comes along”—implied in every note; and he offered a beautiful, subtle (left hand only at the start) treatment of a song I associate with Chet Baker: “This Is Always.”

Just when you felt no other set could equate or surpass what you’d just heard—Fred Hersch’s set with Jane Ira Bloom did! As I’ve already said, I feel Jane Ira Bloom emerged as one of the Festival weekend’s “super stars,” and this superb set on Saturday night with Fred Hersch secured the opinion (as well as his super star status). They offered two of my favorite songs from their Jane Ira Bloom & Fred Hersch/As One CD (both composed by the pianist): “A Child’s Song [for Charlie Haden]” and “Janeology.” The former begins with a soft loving solo improv opening by Hersch, then a rich engaging soprano sax theme, accompanied by faultless, tasteful piano comping (the two are perfectly paired! Respectful of, empathic with, each other). Jane Ira Bloom is one of the most animated instrumentalists I’ve ever seen “in action,” arching, swaying, undulating, executing gestures absolutely in time, in keeping with the music—and when she “fades,” Hersch enters as if only the perspective, the point of view of an improvisation had shifted, not the personnel.

Here is a photo of Fred Hersch at the piano—and with Jane Ira Bloom (Photo credits: https://williamscenter.lafayette.edu; Stuart Brinin)

fred hersch jazz pianist 2

fred hersch and jane ira bloom by stuart brinin

Their “Time After Time,” as I remarked earlier, was superb—this duet sending writer Andy Gilbert, who was standing just outside of my “nook,” into an ecstatic trance–and me too! I’d heard this song on her The Red Quartets CD (which not only includes Fred Hersch, but Mark Dresser and Bobby Previte as well), as she and Hersch together played it as gently, tenderly, movingly (again: a wordless phrasing of “the one you run to see” and “you’ve kept my love so young, so new” embodied the sentiments perfectly) as they performed on the recording—and Fred Hersch’s solo was “relaxed” love incarnate—as comfortable, natural, yet grand as a creative act can be. And their joint close out with (and again wordless, but implied) “so lucky to be … loving … you” was perfection.

“Janeology” was a delightful mix of lithesome spats and splashes, good fun—Jane Ira Bloom bobbing and weaving like Sugar Ray Robinson throughout—piano and sax playing games with one another (good games), almost a “chase scene,” the mobility enhanced by Hersch’s “plink plinks,” and booming bass chords that she danced atop of—counterpoint at its crazy best, and then they just quit, suddenly, delightfully. After, she said, “We’ll leave you with something by Leonard Bernstein … I think you will recognize this.” With mutual delicacy and a powerful ending, they close out the set with “There’s a Place for Us.” Beautiful!

Leaving the Pacific Jazz Café, somewhat reluctantly (for I’d had the best seat in the house for the remarkable performances I’d witnessed), I had hoped to catch the tale end portion of “Celebrating a MJF Legend: Remembering Ray Brown” (featuring Christian McBride, Benny Green, and Gregory Hutchinson—with John Clayton, John Patitucci, and Diane Reeves as “Special Guests”)—but this set was held in the main arena, a considerable distance away, and the difficulty I was having walking successfully (with regard to my vestibular system—and I wouldn’t make use of available, and convenient, shuttle transportation until the next day) discouraged me from taking the “hike.” Also convenient, was a building close by the Pacific Jazz Café which offered a large screen version of whatever took place on the Jimmy Lyons Stage main arena), so I went “next door”—to check out the result of a project I’d worked on for this year’s Festival.

On the basis of some short video pieces for which I had provided copy for the 60th anniversary MJF (humorous quips from Festival history, such as Miles Davis response to being asked to “go first” in 1964: “Sure, I like them fresh ears.”–short videos shown throughout the weekend), I had been asked to provide copy for an extended video on Ray Brown—words to be used as voice overs in the film. I’d come up with what I felt was “good stuff” (my acquaintance with bassist Ray Brown extending back to the early 50s, when I saw him with Jazz at the Philharmonic in Detroit). The person who asked for this material said he “loved” what I sent him, and I was curious to see how it had been used—although I was somewhat concerned, because I’d not heard from him again, and I was to be paid on the basis of how much of what I’d written was actually used in the finished project.

Sitting in the Jazz Theater, I learned that none of what I’d written had been used in the final film—which consisted solely of interviews (“testimonial”) by artists such as Christian McBride and Diane Reeves. Disappointed (disgusted? Betrayed?), I decided to “skip” whatever might be left of the Ray Brown tribute set, and go sip a quiet glass of wine outside, waiting for Jon Batiste’s set at 10:10.

Here are two pictures of Ray Brown at the Monterey Jazz Festival (with Christen McBride, and with Christen and with Benny Green). (Photos credits: montereyjazzfestival.org)

ray brown and christian mcbride at mjf  ray brown, christian mcbride, benny green, milt jackson at mjf (elde stewart) (2)

And here, for posterity (Definition: “If you save something ‘for posterity,’ you’re hoping that years later people will appreciate it, like a time capsule you bury in the yard.”) is what I had written in tribute to Ray Brown:

Raymond Matthews Brown was a highly respected, constantly sought-after masterful double-bassist—an innovator, a mentor, educator, exceptional talent scout, and iconic ambassador for the art form of jazz.

He shaped his own set of aesthetic principles and stood by them all of his life: “The most important thing about the bass as an instrument is not playing it fast, not playing solos, but getting a good sound”—which Ray Brown had from the start: a large, solid, original sound that made him much sought after as an accompanist.

Yet the end result of considerable discipline was, as those he performed with acknowledged, “how much he loved to play … he kept on playing when everyone else took a break.” Asked toward the end of his life, “Do you still love it?”, he replied, “Why play if you don’t?” Pittsburg, PA-born Ray Brown started out on piano at age 8, hoped to switch to trombone (but couldn’t afford one) and filled, in high school, an empty orchestra space on bass. He served an apprenticeship (listening to Duke Ellington’s orchestra by way of the city’s beer garden jukeboxes) learning the licks of jazz legend Jimmy Blanton, and answered the call of 52nd Street just after he graduated from high school–purchasing a one-way-ticket to NYC. A friend, pianist Hank Jones, introduced him to Dizzy Gillespie, who hired Ray on the spot. From this time on, Ray Brown helped define the role of the modern jazz rhythm section with his “unique dynamic and innate sense of swing.”

Ray met, and married, Ella Fitzgerald (and introduced “the first lady of song” to bebop) and they performed together (with Oscar Peterson) om tours with JATP (Jazz at the Philharmonic, with whom Ray would remain for 18 years, but only 4 with Ella). A lean, tall, handsome Ray, a genuine gentleman, responded, when someone in the audience at a Detroit concert shouted out suggestive comments regarding the vocalist, by setting down his bass, coming to the front of the stage, and telling the heckler that, if he didn’t stop the offense, Ray would take him outside and teach him some manners.

Ray Brown made his first appearance at the Monterey Jazz Festival in 1959, with the Oscar Peterson Trio (with which he would play for 15 years, Peterson saying the group formed a “breathe together bond.”). Brown would return to the MJF seven more times, serving in a number of capacities (rehearsing the Gil Evans big band in 1966; in a Salute to JATP in 1971; in a 1973 Charlie Parker Tribute, and with Dizzy Gillespie and Friends in 1978.)

He acted as MJF Musical Director in 1966: “A wild time [Janis Joplin performed],” in Ray’s words: “Fans were carrying on so bad the neighbors complained to the police.” Ray was chatting with General Manager Jimmy Lyons when, in Ray’s words again: “This guy walks up with all these medals on his chest.” He was Monterey’s Chief of Police, and he asked, “Who’s running this thing?” Lyons pointed to Ray, and the Chief told Ray, “I want this show shut down by midnight, and if it isn’t, I’m going to put you in jail.” Ray contacted Count Basie, who agreed to shorten his set, as did Carmen McRae (Ray: “You know how evil she could be!”), but saxophonist Gerry Mulligan accused Ray Brown of “Crow Jim tactics,” his show cut because he was white. “Man,” Ray Brown summarized his term as Musical Director, “Gerry had a complete conniption, and Jimmy just stood by and smiled.”

Ray Brown would settle in LA—in high demand to accompany singers such as Frank Sinatra, Billy Eckstine, Tony Bennett, and Sarah Vaughan; and, as a talent scout of young pianists, such as Benny Green (who first performed at MJF with the California High School All-Star Band at age 15), Geoff Kiezer, and Larry Fuller. Ray performed at MJF with a young Christian McBride (alongside old pros Milt Jackson and J.J. Johnson—and Benny Green) in 1994. Ray was 68 at the time, McBride 22. It was Ray’s last MJF appearance. He recalls: “Tim Jackson just asked me, ‘Why don’t you do something alone with Christian?’ And I said, ‘Okay but you know this crowd.” The crowd loved it; the bass duet was stunning.

A golf fanatic (a friend joked that Ray might have “made more money playing golf than playing bass.”), having performed and recorded with everyone from Andre Previn, opera stars Kiri Te Kanawa and Leontyne Price, having received an Honorary Degree (1995, Doctor of Music) from Berklee College of Music, and inducted, in 2003, in the Down Beat Hall of Fame, Ray Brown played golf all morning before a gig in Indianapolis in 2002, went back to his hotel room to take a nap, and passed away.

Here are more photos of Ray–from back in the era in which I first saw him “live”—photos I also sent with what I had written (Photo credits: rjt4.tumbir.com; Pittsburgh Music History)

ray brown and hank jones with ella 1948 (2)  ray_brown_and_ella_fitzgerald_at_birdland_with ray brown marcel_fleiss (2)

At 10:10 on Saturday night at the 61st MJF, I heard and saw Jon Batiste (with the Dap-Kings in a “New Orleans to Brooklyn” set which took place in the main arena, but I witnessed it in the Jazz Theater). I’ll say of Jon Batiste what I claimed for Jane Ira Bloom: I felt he was one of the Festival weekend’s “super stars.” He played three of my favorite tunes: Woody Guthrie’s “This Land Is Your Land” (“The voice was chanting as the fog was lifting / This land was made for you and me.”); “St. James Infirmary”; and Thelonious Monk’s ‘Round Midnight” (perhaps even more roguish, ludic, spry than the composer offered it.).

Talking with NPR’s Terry Gross, Batiste said, “One of the first songs I had ever learned was ‘Straight, No Chaser,’ so I had known of [Monk’s] music, but I had never checked his playing out, and wow! It was like, and this is the power of music and why I think everything is everything, we’re all connected: This artist had cultivated a sound that I intuitively was reaching for 50 years before I existed. And I didn’t even know that what I was reaching for had already been developed … So at that point, you say ‘absorbed,’ I kid you not, it must’ve been at least for nine months to a year exclusively listening to Thelonious Monk.”

Whatever Jon Batiste “absorbs,” he also makes his own. One of the first jazz pieces I loved, and learned to sing (even recorded, on a very primitive device at age 13) was “St. James Infirmary” (Jack Teagarden’s version)—but Batiste’s “take” made me rethink (and feel) the song completely. About it, he has said (in a PopMatters interview with Christian John Wikane): “The song means a lot to me because it’s a song I learned early in my development. It’s something that you learn if you’re 11 years old and playing music in New Orleans … What I was doing was trying to create an outlet for the band to express the climax of angst and despair that you would feel if you were in the situation of the song, just completely crestfallen … The scene that I was creating on ‘Saint James Infirmary Blues’ was a funeral procession. The person who’s in the song can sense that something bad is on the horizon, but doesn’t know it happened yet. It takes this elegant melody, this graceful melody, and puts the blues through it. It’s like the love has gone to this place of despair. The song continues on to where you have the procession when you hear the horns and the drums come in, which is what happens in New Orleans. You have a dirge that brings people to home.”

Jon Batiste has not only mastered the music of New Orlean, past and present, but the city’s food supply as well, and where to find it–such as his favorite local meal, the humble poboy sandwich. “You can find the best poboys in unexpected locations, like grocery stores and gas stations,” he says in a video, and even provides unique directions: “You take Chartres to Natchez, down to Tchoupitoulas,” he says, instructing viewers to “hang a right on Smith Street,” with a doctored street sign reading “Bjonlignounolas” appearing on the screen as he lets his audience know how to correctly answer a wizard named Dennis’ riddle to earn the best poboy in town.

As for New Orleans jazz, Batiste says, “Music has always been a way for people to endure hardship and figure out how to really connect to their humanity or affirm their humanity when everything around them is trying to squash their humanity … Its importance goes beyond entertainment … In any situation, music can be used as a reprieve or a balm.” Which is exactly what he offered in Monterey on Saturday night—with a range of tunes from the three I’ve cited to “Kenner Boogie” (“It’s the way I interpret the feeling and the scene of being back home. The left hand is like a whole band, and the right hand is like a party. In the way it comes together, it’s the whole community.”) and “Don’t Stop”: “When it comes to loving me, don’t stop / I know there ain’t no guarantee, but don’t stop / Let’s keep it shaking while we can … Don’t stop dreaming, don’t stop believing / ’Cause you know our time is coming up / So with all you’ve got, don’t stop.”

Here are two photos of Jon Batiste (Photo credits: www.facebook.com/JonBatisteMusic/; http://www.thedailybeast.com)

jon batiste 3 jambands  jon baiste the daily beast

In his article “Women Run the Show at Monterey Jazz Fest” (in San Francisco Classical Voice), my friend Andy Gilbert wrote: “When a music festival’s mojo is working, every set seems to bump up against each other as if part of an expansive conversation about form, expression, collaboration, and the state of the art form itself … In an eagerly awaited and overdue breakthrough, the world’s longest continuously running jazz festival made a concerted effort this year to present women-led ensembles, and the results were both jaw-droppingly revelatory and utterly quotidian … What’s the Monterey Jazz Fest like when all five major stages feature a significant female presence? … Monterey delivered something truly new, and it was glorious to behold. It wasn’t so much the profusion of stellar women players as the fecund diversity in visions of bandleaders, composers, and arrangers.”

My Oakland photographer buddy Stu Brinin told me not to miss saxophonist Kristen Strom, who performed at 2:00 on Saturday afternoon in Dizzy’s Den. She led a group made up of herself on alto and soprano saxes, two trumpets, guitar, bass, and drums—the results providing a tight, unified, but also free and easy swing, not fancy or indulgent, but accessible melody, solid harmony, her own tone or “attack” strong—especially on a tune called “The Vikings” (The word a historical revival, from Old Norse vikingr “freebooter, sea-rover, pirate, viking ” which usually is explained as “one who came from the fjords”). Andy Gilbert would write of her, “San Jose saxophonist Kristen Strom’s Moving Day [set] summoned the sly but open-hearted spirit of the late, beloved bassist John Shifflett, bringing to life his little-heard compositions as a window into the generous soul of a musician’s musician.”

Another friend, drummer Akira Tana (who was of much help when I wrote Jazz Journeys to Japan: The Heart Within), told me he would be playing in trumpeter Aya Takazawa’s quintet at 12:30 on Sunday afternoon. Another fine “tight” group: her playing spirited, mid-range, a bit self-conscious on her solos at the start, but strong. Engaging—and excellent unison work with saxophonist Lyle Link. Pianist Matt Clark offered a tasteful solo (variety: solid chords, nimble right-hand runs)—the format mostly the Hard Bop so popular, still, in Japan (and my man Akira providing steady, hard-driving rhythm). Good blues, and Aya throughout an attractive stage presence, very much “in the moment”—a definite crowd-pleaser, accomplished artist.

I’ll briefly mention three more artists I enjoyed: Anastassiya Petrova’s organ quartet (rich Russian two-handed, and two-footed! Hammond B3 conservatory-trained technique, and then Berklee College of Music, and she swings)! The entire group “radiates nuance, power, and a down-home, soul kitchen vibe”–granting refreshing youthful energy, and gratitude (“Thanks a lot for coming; it means a lot to all of us: from Kazakhstan, to you!”). On Saturday afternoon, having discovered a shuttle that would take ne from venue to venue, in the main arena, I enjoyed “Detroit’s Queen of the Blues,” Thornetta Davis (“You been gone so long, I thought you were dead … Here you come knockin’ on my door / But I don’t need you anymore … I’d rather be alone, than lonely with you … All you gave me was the Blues.”), and Blue Notes’ Jose James, called a “fearless musical omnivore,” thrilling his audience with  Bill Withers’ “Lean on Me,” and “Just the Two of Us.”

Here are photos of Kristen Strom, Aya Takazawa, Anastassiya Petrova, Thornetta Davis, and Jose James (Photo credits: Stuart Brinin; www.nautiljon.com; https://insta-stalker.com/profile/anastassiya_petrova_music/; Detroit Metro Times; http://www.soulbounce.com)

kristen strom by stuart brinin  aya takazawa nautilijon  anastassiya petrova insta stalker

thornetta davis detroit metro times  jose-james-soul bounce

While the 61st MJF offered  abundant, prolific representation of “The Year of the Woman in Monterey,” it also hosted a generous sampling of World Music. Two of my favorite groups were Bakante (“From the Delta to the Desert, a World Music Supergroup”) and Ladama. The former featured members from four continents (“Multicultural, multigenerational, multilingual”). They presented their first piece, simply called “Song,” “for all the women of the world, sung by Malika Tirolien, accompanied by lap steel guitar, three guitars, bass, and three percussionists—infectious universal rhythms! Malika also offered “The Day Will Rise,” a song or stirring chant she wrote for her grandfather—and the set was rounded off with “Ego Chamber” (“Social media connects us, but also divides us.”) and “Air,” a song Malika Tirolien wrote for her daughter: about “mistakes I made and my parents made, in the hope she will do better.”).

Ladama–according to the program notes I acquired before I heard the group—consists of “four women, virtuosic musicians, and educators — Lara Klaus, Daniela Serna, Mafer Bandola and Sara Lucas — each from a different country and culture of the Americas, who are sisters in song, rhythm and spirit. Harnessing music from their respective countries of origin — Brazil, Colombia, Venezuela and the United States, the group utilizes traditional and non-traditional instruments from across the Americas, but with a modern twist, to produce Latin Alternative music.” And that’s exactly what they provided: delightful, rousing yet subtle, florid music—played on instruments that ranged from a large hand drum to the Bandola Ilanera: one of many varieties of small pear-shape chordophones found in Venezuela and Columbia (“traditionally built with only seven frets and four gut strings and played with a pick; many [being made] nowadays with up to 21 frets“)–this played, masterfully, by Mafer Bandola, who also offered spirited vocals, with a beautiful upper register “float.” All four women shared vocal chores, and instrumental finesse. Ladama gave us a delightful set, fully expressing, divulging, in their own words, “how we feel making this music.”

I had large hopes for, but was disappointment by a set that was supposed to feature Charles Lloyd and Lucinda Williams: a fascinating match-up. I had been playing their excellent Blue Note CD Vanished Gardens over and over again, and looked forward to hearing and seeing it “reproduced” in Monterey. Charles Lloyd didn’t disappoint, at all: in fact his brilliant improvisations (which range from far “out” to sweetly restrained—his, in Herbie Hancock’s word, “huge heart that’s brimming with love”) provided persistent delight that kept raising the question: Where’s Lucinda? Jazz writer friend Scott Yanow passed by and said, “Let me know if she ever comes out”—which she eventually did, acting (I’ll have to confess) a little the worse for wear—offering some songs from the CD, but one of them, “Ventura,” contained the lyrics “But I can’t pretend, I wish I was somewhere else”–and that nearly seemed to be the truth of it.

In pre-preparation for “Tia Fuller & Ingrid Jensen Present Tribute to Geri Allen The Fierce Nurturer: Life of a Song Through Spirit,” at home, I had listened to the many inspiring CDs I have  by Geri Allen: one of my favorite pianists, composers, educators, human beings. The tribute set featured tap dancer Maurice Chestnut (“The fourth member of our band”), who resuscitated his original 2011 performance with Geri Allen of her festival-commissioned piece, “The Dazzler,” dedicated to showman Sammy Davis Jr. Now, as then, Chestnut (in the words of Paul de Barros) “contributed not just the usual clickety virtuoso turns on a tap platform, but graceful, interpretive moves integrated smartly into the trio’s flow.” And Terri Lyne Carrington provided her customary vital drumming. Portions of a video on Geri Allen (The Nurturer), the presence of spoken “Facebook”-style slogans that contained words and phrases such as “energy” and “our wisdom,” and even a moving “Amazing Grace” couldn’t for me (I’m sorry to say) offset what seemed to be a somewhat uninspired routine performance on actual tunes—so to make amends for my own not so positive response to this well-intended Festival opening night set, I’ll quote what Andy Gilbert wrote: “The festival’s artists-in-residence Tia Fuller (alto sax) and Ingrid Jensen (trumpet) presented a thoughtful and deeply felt tribute to the late pianist Geri Allen on Friday in the Arena that keyed on her enigmatic harmonic vocabulary and cagey sense of time.”

I had a fortunate surprise experience while listening to the Anat Cohen Tenet in the Jazz Theater. Vocalist Barbara Paris, whom I came to know at IAJE conferences I attended over the years, did not perform at the Festival, but was there, and she came up to me and said it was good to see me again, “out and about.” We went outside and sat at a table for a grand reunion conversation. She gave me her latest CD, Nine Decades of Jazz, which features her pianist Billy Wallace (who passed away in 2017 and had begun recording in 1955 with Clifford Brown and Max Roach). Barbara Paris and I got “caught up” on our lives and how we felt about the state of jazz in 2019—and it was great to see her again.

Here are photos of Ladama, Terri Lyne Carrington, and Barbara Paris (Photo credits:  http://www.ladamaproject.org; http://www.londonjazznews.com)

ladama ladama site  terri lyne carington london jazz news

barbara paris cd (2)

I’ll close this second portion blog on the 51st Annual Monterey Jazz Festival with something I was, again, asked to write (for voice overs) about 2018 Showcase Artist Dianne Reeves—but which, alas, again (like what I provided the MJF on Ray Brown) was neglected, did not appear in the video devoted to her. I did hear her sing a soulful “The Nearness of You” (one of my all-time favorite tunes)—and I have admired her performances at the Festival, for years. Here, for “posterity,” again, is what I wrote about her.

The voice of Dianne Reeves has been described using a host of adjectives: “warm,” “lush,” “very personal,” and phrases such as “breathtaking virtuosity,” “improvisational prowess,” “unique jazz and R&B stylings,” “astonishing skill”, “always capable of greatness.” In a 1996 performance at the Monterey Jazz Festival–a recreation of Jon Hendrick’s “Evolution of the Blues Song”–she symbolized (wearing the plain dress of a slave and holding a baby in her arms) The Mother of the Blues; and later, wearing colorful choir garb, she joined a chorus of singers and dancers in a joyously harmonized and choreographed “Everything started in the house of the Lord.”

Jon Hendrick’s original 1960 production took place in a setting with children seated on the floor, learning how the blues came about from a man who was still creating the score as he had ascended the stairs to the stage. This spontaneous performance left the audience in tears (Hendricks himself said an aftermath of reverent silence was “the most spiritual thing that has ever happened to me in my life.”). The 1996 recreation was a powerful carefully worked out production, and Dianne Reeves, as an established vocal master, was the ideal person to play a major role in it.

Dianne has been called “the pre-eminent jazz vocalist in the world,” and has been recognized and honored in just about every way possible, from honorary doctorates from Berklee College of Music and the Julliard School, to appearances with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and Berlin Philharmonic, to an NEA Jazz Masters Fellowship Award.

This year, at the Monterey Jazz Festival, she is the Showcase Artist. She will perform multiple times at the Festival–to display the various aspects of her artistry (such as her most recent release, Beautiful Life, which won the 2015 Grammy for Best Jazz Vocal Performance)–and she will participate in a one-on-one Conversation, discussing her career.

Dianne Reeves first appeared at the Monterey Jazz Festival in 1990, with pianist Billy Childs’ group Night Flight, which had launched her career. She was Artist in Residence in 2010 (presenting “Strings Attached” with Russell Malone and Romero Lubambo).

Dianne Reeves has established herself as an all-time MJF favorite.

Here are photos of her at the 30th Annual Monterey Jazz Festival, and her appearance in the 1996 recreation of Jon Hendrick’s “Evolution of the Blues Song” (Photo credit: http://www2.montereyjazzfestival.org/blog/jon-hendricks-1921-2017))

dianne reeves at mjf 30  jon hendricks_dianne reeves_joe williams_mjf_1996_(c)bill wishner (1)

 

 

David Friesen, His My Faith, My Life CD, Jazz Beyond, and More Thoughts on the Art Form of Jazz Itself

At the close of my last blog post (which I devoted largely to the appearance of Norah Jones at the 61st Monterey Jazz Festival–and the state of jazz as an art form just now), I said I did plan, in my next post, to do justice to much of the excellent music I witnessed at this year’s Monterey Jazz Festival—and I shall do that, although, because I would like to take advantage, now, of immediate enthusiasm and gratitude felt having recently received a remarkable double CD from bassist David Friesen (one for which I was asked to write liner notes, and did so—and I will include those notes here), I would like to hold off on a more extensive post on the Monterey Jazz Festival in order to post word on the amazing work David has just completed.

Jazz bassist/pianist/composer David Friesen’s My Faith, My Life contains work that sums up and amplifies an exceptional career. In many ways, my response to David Friesen’s lifetime consecration to jazz–a career throughout which, given his inclusive, supernal (surpassing the ordinary), transcendent nature, he has taken jazz beyond its temporal, terrestrial boundaries, or borders–my response invites further reflection on the current state of the art form of jazz itself..

Here’s the cover of the My Faith, My Life CD, and a photo of David Friesen himself (Photo credit: 13thfloor.co.nz)

David Friesen CD My Faith My Life    David-Friesen The 13th Floor

And here is access to a YouTube video by David Friesen on the release of the CD: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r0ELqxpe5Zs&feature=share

At the close of my last blog, I cited statements Nate Chinen offered in his recent book Playing Changes: Jazz for the New Century: “As long as people have been talking about jazz, they’ve been talking about where it’s going. The conversation rests on presumptions of forward progress and collective striving. But while some musicians have embraced the premise, others refused to play along. A well-meaning interviewer once asked Thelonious Monk where he thought jazz was going, and the pianist replied, ‘I don’t know where it’s doing. Maybe it’s going to hell. You can’t make anything go anywhere. It just happens.’”

I agree with Nate Chinen. Looking back on a claim I made when, just before the Monterey Jazz Festival took place this year, I was invited to give a Skype interview regarding the event for a  program called Showcase on TV news channel TRT in Istanbul, Turkey: when asked “Why is jazz still cool?”, I responded, “Because that’s its nature. Jazz is cool in and of itself—no matter what ‘history’ may attempt to claim (‘Jazz is dead’; ‘The audience for it is getting too old, or dead’; et cetera). Those who are faithful to the art form don’t just like it, they love it, with a passion.” I agree with Chenin that “There is no way of prognosticating jazz’s future. Or even its precise trajectory, because the art form doesn’t adhere to a linear axis.” It just IS. Given the “spirit of multiplicity that now prevails,” I agree with Chenin when he says of “the present moment and its endless possibilities … Progress is almost beside the point. The music will flow and fluctuate, keep going. And where to? Anywhere. It just happens.”

A complete, accurate definition of the word “jazz” has proven difficult to pin down—from the day (or night) ragtime turned into “jass.” The word “jazz” didn’t appear in print until 1912, and applied to baseball, not music. Ben Henderson, a right-handed pitcher for the Portland Beavers in the Pacific Coast League reported in the Los Angeles Times: “I got a new curve this year . . .  I call it the jazz ball because it wobbles [a knuckle ball?] and you simply can’t do anything with it.” Circumstantial evidence is strong that the word was used for a long time in the American South to refer to sexual intercourse. Among other theories (or guesses) we have: the word derives from “jism or jasm, nineteenth-century terms that referred to spirit or vitality as well as to semen; from Jezebel, a nineteenth-century term for a prostitute, or from jasmine, a perfume supposedly favored by Jezebels.”

Standard dictionary definitions are less colorful (or offensive). Jazz is American music that stemmed from ragtime and blues, “characterized by propulsive syncopated rhythms, polyphonic ensemble playing, varying degrees of improvisation, and often deliberate distortions of pitch and timbre”; or “popular dance music influenced by jazz and played in a loud rhythmic manner.” Standard text book definitions are just as cut and dry (or dull: nowhere near as lively as the music itself): “Music might be jazz if it has a bluesy flavor, or uses jazz associated music instruments such as saxophones and drums, or has jazzy rhythms.”

This may be a case where scholarly “experts” are not of much assistance, and it’s best to go to a source that knows the music best: jazz musicians themselves. One of the most articulate of these (both musically and verbally) was Duke Ellington who, asked to define the art form, said, “I think the music situation today has reached the point where it isn’t necessary for categories. I think what people hear in music is either agreeable to the ear or not. And if this is so, if music is agreeable to my ear, why does it have to have a category? … There are two kinds of music. Good music, and the other kind.”

That final sentence has also been attributed to Richard Strauss, and numerous other musical figures, but it may not matter who got there first. The observation seems true. And Ellington was known to come up with other insights just as lively, and enjoyable, as the art form itself—such as: “By and large, jazz has always been like the kind of a man you wouldn’t want your daughter to associate with.” … “Music is my mistress and she plays second fiddle to no one.” … I never had much interest in the piano until I realized that every time I played, a girl would appear on the piano bench to my left and another to my right” … “Roaming through the jungle of ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs,’ searching for a more agreeable noise, I live a life of primitivity with the mind of a child and an unquenchable thirst for sharps and flats.” (from Music Is My Mistress).

Here are two photos of Duke Ellington–solo and with his orchestra (Photo credits: battleofthebands.com; musicrising.tulane.edu)

Duke Ellington Battle of the Big Bands    Duke Ellington and Orchestra jazz in motion Russia

I mentioned David Friesen’s own career throughout which, given his inclusive and transcendent nature, he has taken jazz beyond its terrestrial boundaries, or borders, and I believe he would agree with Duke Ellington on the following point: “Jazz is a good barometer of freedom… In its beginnings, the United States of America spawned certain ideals of freedom and independence through which, eventually, jazz was evolved, and the music is so free that many people say it is the only unhampered, unhindered expression of complete freedom yet produced in this country.”

I know, from the interviews I’ve done with David, that he would agree with Ellington that “The most important thing I look for in a musician is whether he knows how to listen.” And I believe David Friesen might answer the following question as Duke Ellington did: “What would you be without music? Music is everything. Nature is music (cicadas in the tropical night). The sea is music, the wind is music. The rain drumming on the roof and the storm raging in the sky are music. Music is the oldest entity. The scope of music is immense and infinite. It is the ‘esperanto’ of the world.”

I’ll turn back full time to David Friesen and his copious contributions to jazz (now that we may have a better understanding of what jazz IS, or can BE), but I’d like to include, as a means of wrapping up this discussion of where the art form is today, the thoughts of one its more articulate contemporary practitioners, pianist Brad Mehldau: thoughts on what it was like to collaborate, in improvisation, with bassist Charlie Haden on their CD Long Ago and Far Away.

“Charlie [Haden] and I are walking along a path side by side, with no one in front. The path is wide enough for that … It’s like the path itself is being laid with every step we take together. Just beyond each last step, there’s nothing but a precipice of wide open space—pure potential … In order to attain that ‘higher’ kind of freedom, you had to have absorbed  some fundamental aesthetic guidelines in a deep nuanced way—so you could have your way with them … If the resolution is suspended, there is a design—the sweet pleasure of deferred finality. Tension and resolution—the hallmarks of harmony, are always at play… he was not particularly interested in freedom for its own sake. He cherished order and formal integrity in music just as much, and what he cherished most was beauty … he had this very respectful, often delicate and reverent approach to playing.”

Here are photos of Charlie Haden and Brad Mehldau ((Photo credits: https://www.discogs.com; https://twitter.com/bradmehldau)

Charlie Haden    Brad Mehdau Facebook

And those words echo what I find in the music of David Friesen: design, tension (passion) and resolution, order and formal integrity—and above all: beauty, a “very respectful, often delicate and reverent approach to playing.” Jazz Beyond—above and beyond, higher, transcendent, both of this world and not of this world (boundless, “otherworldly”), or as I said in my liner notes to the double CD My Faith, My Life: music informed by the faith that has shaped David’s life: a life synonymous with music: a dynamic, ongoing commitment—continuity enacted at an optimal level, always.

Here are my liner notes:

At the peak of their careers, great artists often turn to autobiography: a full account or summary of all they have given us over the years, a fully mature (fully-realized) re-creation of or reflection on the work of a lifetime. Gandhi, St. Augustine, Teresa of Avila, Mark Twain, Henry Adams, Helen Keller, William Butler Yeats, Nadezhda Mandelstam, Mary McCarthy, and Harpo Marx all did so in words—but a great musical artist is more likely to offer this gift in the medium known best: such as the miraculous two CD recording My Faith, My Life by jazz bassist/pianist/composer David Friesen—a work that sums up and amplifies an exceptional career.

David Friesen’s faith is that of Saint Anselm of Canterbury (“I do not seek to understand so that I may believe; but I believe so that I may understand. For I believe this also, that unless I believe, I shall not understand.”) and that faith has shaped his life: a life synonymous with music: a dynamic, ongoing commitment—continuity enacted at an optimal level, always. I first heard and wrote about a performance by David Friesen (in Monterey, California) in 1988; have been fortunate to write written liner notes for seven of his CDs (Departures, Three To Get Ready, Four to Go, The Name of a Woman, Five and Three, Triple Exposure, and Structures), and have maintained 30 years of admiration and respect for David and his work.

The first CD in the autobiographical My Faith, My Life consists of recent solo performance on bass. A few of the pieces first appeared on LPs I have in my collection: “Ancient Kings” on Through the Listening Glass (1978, with John Stowell); “Children of the Kingdom” (Star Dance, 1976, with John Stowell, Paul McCandless, and Steve Gadd); “Sitka in the Woods” (Amber Skies, 1983, with Chick Corea, Joe Henderson, and Paul Horn); “Martin’s Balcony” and “Long Trip Home” (Departures, CD, 1990, with Uwe Kropinski), and “Lament for the Lost/ Procession” (on Long Trip Home, CD, 1992). On My Faith, My Life, David Friesen goes it alone, which calls all the more attention to the intimacy and immediacy of his compositions, and the extent to which David has become at One with these pieces over the years.

“Ancient Kings” opens with a familiar Friesen underpinning fluid vamp, then a drone that turns into a fully engaging melodic contour, the mood one of the passionate meditation (a paradox, yes!) David has become a master of; “Children of the Kingdom” offers a merciful mood, patient, forebearing, free of the “cast out into outer darkness” weeping and gnashing of teeth of Matthew 8: 12, from which the title comes; “Sitka in the Woods” suggests immense space, anticipation, drama, homage to the largest conifer of the spruce species (growing 200 feet tall, 17 feet in diameter in David’s native Oregon); “Martin’s Balcony” (along with “Roof Tops”) is panoramic, an expansive “here and now,” with inviting echoes, percussive clicks, counter rhythms; “Long Trip Home” is a journey, reflective, lyrical; and “Lament for the Lost/Procession” is just that: a deep grieving “cello” sound, a wide range of voices, turning into a pilgrimage, a reverent procession that soars with praise and prayer—a perfect close to the solo bass “My Faith, My Life” CD—each track laced to another by a shakuhachi interlude or transition: the whole a bounteous suite, a lifetime of music.

Here are two more photos of David Friesen: a solo performance of “Children of the Kingdom” at the Monterey Jazz Festival in 1977, and now (Photo credits: The Hudson Collection;  https://jazzdagama.com)

David Friesen and Glenn Moore7  David-Friesen Jazz da Gama photo

As early as 1976, Nat Hentoff wrote: “Once in a great while, a musician emerges with such authority and such seemingly effortless originality that his place in the front ranks of his instrument is unquestioned.” Hentoff was not speaking of promise or potential, but actual performance, and forty-two years later, with My Faith, My Life, David Friesen has added immeasurably to his stature. The adjectives Hentoff provided stand, immensely expanded: “Prodigious technique … compelling story telling … mood-exploring … spaciousness of spirit … one of those musicians who can never get enough of music.”

The second CD in this set features David Friesen performing more of his own compositions on piano—an instrument for which he may not be as well know as on Homage bass (although he soon should be!): an instrument he embraces with the same taste, touch, and skill as he does the bass. Again, a few of the pieces have a worthy history: “Only Just Yesterday” appeared on the CD Five and Three (2010); “Playground” and “Song for Ben” on Where the Light Falls (2014); “Right from Wrong” and “Another Time, Another Place” on Triple Exposure (2016); and “New Hope” on Structures (2017). Each piece is rendered in the spirit each title suggests: “Only Just Yesterday” recognition, realization, the recent past made present; “Playground” lighthearted, sportive, a refreshing recess; “Another Time, Another Place” suitably nostalgic, a simultaneous sense of lost and found; “New Hope” is stately, soaring, laced with goodness and mercy all the days of your life. As with the first CD, these reinterpretations offer the intimacy and conviction that arrive with age: wisdom as David has come to wear it.

The last two pieces on this CD provide perfect closure: “Time Changes” easefully evolves, with both anticipation and solid steps forward; and “My Faith, My Life” sums it all up: a credo, affirmation, reverence—lower register continuity laced with sublime melody: a hymn to the Source of all song, with a fitting A-men at the close. With its two CD suites complementing each other so fully, My Faith, My Life is an epochal achievement: a testament to all that faith matched with a meaningful, purposeful life can create.

Congratulations, David, on this achievement—your lifetime of exceptional creativity.

In my next blog post, I will make good on the promise to do justice to much of the excellent music I witnessed at the 61st Monterey Jazz Festival. I’ll close now with an overview of what I’ve tried to say about jazz in general: the wise words of a writer I much admire, Ernest Becker: “How a person solves the natural yearning for self-expression and significance determines the quality of [a] life … Human beings are the only things that mediate meaning, which is to say that they give the only human meaning we can know”; and he quotes Carl Jung saying that the “relationship to the self is at once relationship to our fellow beings”—and also theologian Martin Buber on “seeing in the other person the self-transcending life process that gives to one’s self the larger nourishment it needs.”

And I’d like to toss in some words of the Chinese 369-298 B.C.E. Taoist philosopher Zhuangzi (Chuang-Tzu): “The artisan Shui made things round and square more exactly than if he had used instruments of measure. The operation of his fingers required no application of his mind; his intelligence was entire and encountered no resistance.” And on Confucius looking at a Cataract near the gorge of Lu, which fell a height of two hundred and forty cubits, “producing a turbulence in which no tortoise, crocodile, or fish could play. He saw, however, an old man swimming about in it,” and he asked his disciples to rescue the man—but by the time they got there, the old man was “walking along singing, with his hair disheveled, and enjoying himself at the foot of the embankment.”

Confucius asked the old man if he had some miraculous “way of treading the water,” and the gentleman responded, “No. I began to learn the art at the very earliest time. I enter and go down with the water in the very center if its whirl and come up with it when it whirls the other way. I follow the way of the water and do nothing contrary to it … I know not how I do it and yet I do it. That is why I say my success is as sure as fate.”

That’s all for now, Folks. May whatever (merciful and meaningful) “success” you desire eventually become as sure as fate. See you next blog.

The 61st Annual Monterey Jazz Festival–and Some Preludes

I inhabited three exceptional nights and two exceptional days of music at the 61st Annual Monterey Jazz Festival: September 21-23. Before I get into the depth of that music, and (given my “inclusive” nature in this blog) one unanticipated event that preceded it, I would like–as a lead for the entire blog piece–to describe a single incident that took place at the Festival, for I feel that it will heighten the joy of, and in a condensed way, summarize all that I was fortunate to experience.

One of the most engaging sets at the Festival unfolded at 3:40 on Saturday afternoon on the main (Jimmy Lyons) stage: a commissioned piece called “Premiere Monterey Encounter (A Latin Jazz Suite for Flute),” composed and presented by Oscar Hernandez and his Spanish Harlem Orchestra—with “Special Guest” Hubert Laws (on flute). The piece itself was preceded by an ample display of Latin tunes that disclosed the orchestra’s full power and finesse, and the commissioned work itself commenced with a smooth piano intro (Hernandez). Followed by swirls of sound from three vocalists, one of them–Jeremy Bosch—aptly doubling on flute. A handsome melody, as theme, emerged (offset by sudden orchestral flares, accents), then a barrage of brilliant percussion (congas, timbales, bongos, maracas, guiro), showing all that this large aggregate was capable of (deep baritone sax beneath the theme). Hernandez offered a brief piano interlude, and then Hubert Laws was introduced (wearing a snappy Fedora hat with erect feather), the crowd well aware (from previous MJF appearances) of his renown). Laws and Jeremy Bosch engaged in a rich exchange of adroitly overlapping melodic lines, while the percussion quarter went wild—anthem orchestration giving way to the sweet theme again, enhanced by the bright melodicism of the two flutes, each with its own signature tone: Bosch holding his own with the iconic Laws, who closed the piece with a coda, a chromatic delight (up, down, sideways!), the end.

The performance was amazing, indelible, and the audience emerged from the arena vocalizing fragments of what they’d just heard. I found it necessary to make use of a porta-potty that stood nearby. As I stood inside, attending to my business, I heard someone singing, beautifully, perfectly in pitch, a woman with a voice as soft and engaging as that of Norah Jones. But it was not Norah Jones. At first I thought that lovely voice must be a recording, coming from a sound system just outside or overhead—but no, I realized that it came from next door—that the sublime voice was manifesting itself in the porta-potty right next to mine! Some divine female creature with the gift of an outrageously beautiful voice was singing, while attending to her “business” just next door.

I had an urge to knock on her door and offer her a contract, on the spot—or perhaps my services as a professional accompanist (which I am, although I did not have a piano on hand). Later, when I emerged having done neither and told friends about this extraordinary encounter, we took turns coming up with better, more unique, ways in which I might have made the acquaintance of her unique talent—but alas, by then, it was too late to implement them. However, in its rare way, this experience did heighten the joy of, and in its condensed way, summarize all that I was fortunate to experience that weekend at the Monterey Jazz Festival.

Here are photos of Oscar Hernandez and his Spanish Harlem Orchestra—and flutists Jeremy Bosch and Hubert Laws (Photo credits: news.stlpublicradio.org; www.spanishharlemorchestra.com/jeremy; http://www.knkx.org)

Spanish Harlem Orchestra

Spanish Harlem Orchestra Jeremy Bosch 2    Monterey Jazz Hubert Laws KNKX Port Townsend

The second unanticipated event–another fortuitous complete surprise—was an e-mail letter I received three days before the Monterey Jazz Festival began. It read:“Dear Bill … My name is Sedef and I am the interview producer of an English language broadcasting TV channel in Istanbul, Turkey–TRT World’s flagship arts and culture programme Showcase. It is my pleasure to invite you for a remote 5-7 minutes interview on Monterey Jazz Festival (we want to take it as a start point, to have a look at this year’s program, why it is such a legendary festival, and come to the question of why is jazz still cool) on September 20th Thursday 13:30 GMT via Skype … Please see below brief information on TRT World and Showcase and do not hesitate to contact me on any further questions … TRT World is Turkey’s first international English-language news network, offering in-depth reporting with a focus on global responsibility. It reaches more than 120 million households around the world, and that number is growing … I look forward to hearing from you upon your earliest convenience, Sedef ILGIC, Interview Producer.”

This “news” was pretty exciting. I responded immediately with a resounding “Yes!”—and when I heard from Sedef Ilgic, saying she was “very happy that you accept to be our guest, I am sure it will be a lovely interview,” and she wanted “to make sure that we are on the same page with timing, it will be 6:30 am in California on September 20th Thursday (I am sorry to ask you to be up that early and wish I could send you a cup of Turkish coffee – however that is the time we shoot as live that I cannot change it)”;  also saying “I will send you the exact questions we plan to ask you a couple of hours prior to the interview”; and lastly, “It would be very nice if you could tell me what is the most interesting for you to talk about briefly.” I wrote back saying that I had written the text and captions for a book that came out in 1997: Monterey Jazz Festival: Forty Legendary Years. “It was a fully engaging project that allowed me to interview, and get to know as friends, some extraordinary jazz artists: drummer Max Roach, pianist Dave Brubeck, bassist Ray Brown (to whom tribute is being paid this year), and pianist John Lewis and bassist Percy Heath of the Modern Jazz Quartet. I would love to be able to talk briefly about that project—and, should there be time, some work (writing) I’ve done for the Festival since then—and most importantly, this year’s Festival lineup.”

After I checked to make sure a Skype call would work on my laptop computer (fortunately, it was already fully installed), I awaited the questions I would be asked—which did arrive at 5:00 am. I felt fully prepared to respond to them. I connected with Istanbul (I even received instruction as to just how I should position myself before the camera on my computer: “A little more to the left, Bill?”) ten minutes before we went “live”—and the first question, asked by the host, a beautiful woman wearing a headscarf or hijab worn by Muslim women (I never learned her name) was: “You wrote Monterey Jazz Festival: Forty Legendary Years and interviewed an extraordinary lineup of jazz artists for the project. what is the most amazing moment you experienced during these interviews?”

This had been the first of six (!) questions sent me at 5:00 am, and given the limited time assigned for the interview, I wanted to do it justice, but saw no way I could do so and do justice to the others (just a little more than a minute for the rest?), but I talked about interviewing pianist Dave Brubeck for the book (forty-three years after I’d first heard him play in Ann Arbor, Michigan back in 1954), and his memorable performance of his commissioned piece, The Real Ambassadors, at MJF in 1962. Unfortunately, some glitch had occurred in the broadcast (the voice of the man who’d instructed me in positioning myself came on, asking if I heard a “buzzing” sound at my end, which I did not, so he said, “must be Skype.”)

We proceeded, and the next question was one I was well ready for: “With the abundance of musical hybrids out today, why is jazz still cool?” “Because that’s its nature,” I replied. “Jazz is cool in and of itself”—no matter what “history” may attempt to claim (“Jazz is dead”; “The audience for it is getting too old, or dead”; et cetera). “Those who are faithful to the art form don’t just like it, they love it, with a passion.” And I mentioned my own feelings when I first began to play jazz at age 14; and members of my generation in the former Soviet Union who hid beneath blankets to listen to Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk on illegal VOA broadcasts, and vowed that they would become “jazzmen” or “die.”

The next and last question (“I’m sorry, Bill, we’ve run out of time.”) was: “What’s the next step in the evolution of jazz?” That, too, was easy to respond to. “Global,” I said, “world music. It already is.” And I mentioned that the host city for International Jazz Day was Istanbul, five years ago (I said “I think three,” a mistake), and mentioned seeing an “old friend” (whom I had interviewed in 1990 at Berkeley College of Music, when he was 21), Igor Butman, who was in charge of International Jazz Day in Saint Petersburg recently—and the progress Jazz has made as a global art form over the last few years: its extent now as “world music.” I said, “It’s wonderful,” and the Showcase host said, “Wonderful”, and that was it for my own ten or so minutes of world fame—which was a delight for me.

The program was “streamed,” and I watched a re-run twice, thinking I’d never have a “permanent” copy, but later in the afternoon, I found two versions, on the TRT site (https://www.trtworld.com/video/showcase/contemporary-istanbul-chamber-of-immortality-monterey-jazz-festival-full-episode-showcase/5ba4d33b58cd863d6876f3f2) and on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch time_continue=1130&v=88UV1A8GTwc. So the program has been “preserved,” and is available. Showcase added a number of fine historic photos from the Monterey Jazz Festival archives, which fleshed out the overview of the event handsomely. Thank you again, Sedef Ilgic and TRT World’s Showcase for the chance to add my “offering.”

Here’s a photo of Sedef Ilgic, and a photo of the Showcase host (Photo credits: https://twitter.com/sedefilgic; https://trtworld.com/video/showcase).

Sedef Ilgic of TRT in TurkeyTurkish Showcase Host

Given my customary blog indulgence (Sorry, sort of!), I’ve spent considerable time (and space) on my Monterey Jazz Festival “prelude” (and the porta-potty songstress experience) here—so I would like to focus on one of the major Festival treats for me this year: the appearance of Norah Jones in the main (Jimmy Lyons) arena on the last night, and then two of the first sets that began it all, out on the grounds—and save the rest (There was so much admirable music this year!) for another blog, to be posted (I hope) fairly soon.

I’d never seen Norah Jones (“live”) before, but I love her music, the quality of her voice, and I looked forward to her Sunday night set, eagerly. She did not disappoint me at all. I find her voice infectious, intoxicating: the consistency of mood (subtle, generally low key, sustaining, emotionally engaging, intimate), rich with “down-to-earth”–daily round—meaning, yet at the same time transcendent, other-worldly. Listening to her sing, I share the responses (as described) by other writers: “Romantic,” “dreamy,” “a  signature sound,” “a unique blend.” In a New Yorker article, “Slow Burn,” Sasha Frere-Jones writes: “She is selling the all-time No. 1 hit song—sex …  Jones’s music, too, is a recombinant blend that could be racked in various parts of a store. The twang in Jones’s voice establishes a cosmetic link to country, while the upright bass and piano suggest jazz … Most important, Jones never ruffles feathers or breaks the skin.”

Frere-Jones continues: “That doesn’t mean skin is irrelevant—it is the whole point. Consider this line from guitarist Jesse Harris’s “I’ve Got to See You Again,” recorded on Jones’s first album: “To not touch your skin is not why I sing.” Sex is in the music, the look, and everywhere in between. Jones is beautiful in a way that reassures those threatened by Beyoncé’s American thighs or Britney’s global bodysuits. For such an alleged milquetoast, Jones’s breakout song, “Don’t Know Why” [which she did sing that Sunday night] is certainly suggestive: “I don’t know why I didn’t come / I left you by the house of fun.” The album’s lyrics continue in this vein, sounding like a transcription of phone calls during the first week of a romance: She’s got to see you again, she’s feeling the same way all over again, she can’t hide beneath her sheets, she’s waiting for you to come on home and turn her on. It may smell like sandalwood and your dad may give it to you for Christmas, but Jones’s music is one big booty call.”

I’ll confess that the subtle but sultry “voice’ is one that invites a bedroom setting and intimacy encouraged there (a quality I’ve also admired in vocalists from Chris Conner to Karrin Allyson), but I’m also familiar with responses far less “inviting,” or favorable. In an article, “The Humility of Norah Jones,” Daniel Schorn reports, “Quiet, slow songs are what first made her so successful, but some said they could put you to sleep—dubbing her ‘Snorah Jones.’” He adds, “One critic wrote, after her first two albums, ‘Jones’ success is due to not being all that special. You can go to your local jazz club any night and maybe see somebody just as good. All the songs sound the same. There’s nothing remotely experimental about them. The songs are, for the most part, fairly pedestrian.'”

When Katie Couric, interviewing Jones, cited this criticism, the latter said, “Uh-huh. That’s mean … What I was going for in the first two albums I didn’t necessarily achieve. Because I was young and because it was my first time out. And the second album was such a ‘quickie’ sort of ‘Let’s just get it over with!’ But the kind of music I make, there’s a lot of subtlety in it. And I think it takes a couple of listens to actually really get it. ‘Pedestrian’ is a mean way of saying simple.” “Or accessible,” Couric points out. “Or, they’re very accessible,” Jones says. But that accessibility provides the attainable (“able to be reached or entered”) fundamental meaning I value—something not always present in the pyrotechnics (as in “a spectacular display or performance of artistic or technical skill”: “spectacle”) of much contemporary jazz.

On Sunday morning of the Festival, a bunch of journalists meet for brunch, and one of my favorite people, a local Monterey writer, Beth Peerless, was critical of Norah Jones, and would, after her performance post in the local paper, The Herald,  praise for the 61st Monterey Jazz Festival overall (the truly exquisite programming), a more subdued (charitable) version of what she told me (comparing two different sets: a “The Legacy of Michael Brecker” (a Coversation featuring Randy Brecker, Gil Goldstein, Donny McCaslin, and John Patitucci) to what Norah Jones had to offer. Beth wrote: “The uniqueness of each act and how expertly programmed they were [amplified] the differences that exist in the jazz canon. As an example, following the Brecker tribute to close out the festival on the main stage was Norah Jones’ set with drummer Brian Blade and bassist Christopher Thomas … Her music is restrained and beautiful, her songs sometimes melancholy but nonetheless she’s amassed a huge following that gave her the top billing at this legendary jazz festival … Now some people may feel that she does not represent jazz, but being generous one can say that her music melds jazz, country and pop together with a sensitivity and with a sweet delivery that harkens nostalgia for simpler times. She played many of her hits from the breakthrough debut album, 2002’s Come Away With Me on Blue Note Records, interspersed with some new tunes that had a little more edge. That was nice to hear from her because there are many who would say she can get boring in performance because of the sensual low key vocal delivery and the wistful imagery of her lyrics, song after song. That view has its proponents, but overall her performance was a success and enjoyable for her inimitable style.”

Beth is a fine writer and characterizes Norah Jones’ style well (accurately), although I don’t agree with the ”boring in performance” phrase, nor “she does not represent jazz”—and I’d like to complete my feelings regarding Nora Jones with some thoughts on her as a jazz artist—who does, to my satisfaction, do a handsome job of “melding” that genre with country, and pop, and not just for the sake of “nostalgia for simpler times.”

Here are some photos of Norah Jones (Photo credits: google.com (Amy Sussman/Invision/AP/REX/Shutterstock; https://liveforlivemusic.com; https://the chronicle /blog)

Norah Jones Portrait Session, New York, USA   Nora Jones piano image (2)   Norah Jones The Chronicle image

As someone who writes poetry and is, at present, engaged in setting my poems to original music (an art form: genuine love song—first introduced to the world in 1300 B.C., in Egypt), I like her way with words, however low key or wistful they may be. At her best, she reminds me of my favorite “country” group: the Avette Bros., with their unique blend of sophistication and “down home” storytelling (“Call the Smithsonian, I made a discovery / Life ain’t forever and lunch isn’t free / Loved ones will break your heart with or without you / Turns out we don’t get to know everything.”). Of the songs Jones played and sang that last Sunday night, if you listen carefully, the very familiar “Come Away With Me” offers some apt individual lines (and images): “Come away where they can’t tempt us / With their lies”; “I want to wake up with the rain / Falling on a tin roof /While I’m safe there in your arms.” And from “Sunrise”: “Sunrise, sunrise / Couldn’t tempt us if it tried / ‘Cause the afternoon’s already come and gone … Surprise, surprise / Couldn’t find it in your eyes But I’m sure it’s written all over my face … Never something I could hide / When I see we made it through another day.” From “My Heart Is Full”: “My hands are tied (tied, tied) / I can see (see, see) / People hurting (hurting, hurting) … Are we broken? (broken, broken) / … I will rise (rise, rise) / I am tired / I am strong / I am human / I will listen / My heart is full / My eyes are open / I can see.” And the stark simplicity of these words from “After the Fall”: “Everyday was changing / Only photographs / But life goes on … Out on my own now / And I like the way it feels / You couldn’t come through / And I’m too far gone … After the fall / Do you still want it all?”).

As for her range of musical “effects,” or genres, I feel it goes well beyond melding just jazz, country and pop—it embraces the world (after all, she is the daughter of Ravi Shankar and American concert producer Sue Jones)—and does so in the most subtle manner (a host of global licks and tricks tucked away among the surface “simplicity” or accessibility). In his book, Playing Changes: Jazz for the New Century, author Nate Chinen traces the full extent of Norah Jones’ background, or training—and the extent of accomplishment and awards it’s led to. She began with jazz piano at Booker T. Washington High School for the Performing and Visual Arts in Dallas, Texas, and continued musical studies at the University of North Texas: this “before finding a niche in the roots-minded but non-purist singer-songwriter hub on Manhatten’s Lower East Side,” Chinen adding, “But it took a few years before her identity was fully in place.” When he first heard her, in 2001, she was “a soul-styled guest on a Charlie Hunter [“widely considered the authority on the seven and eight – string guitar”] gig.” Her debut album (Come Away With Me) was released on Blue Note “to the consternation of some jazz partisans who augured the early stirrings of a more crossover-minded direction for the label. This wasn’t an unreasonable takeaway. To some degree it was even true.”

However, at the 45th Grammys, at the tender age of twenty-three, Norah Jones “swept five categories, including Album of the Year, Best New Artist, and Record of the Year.” (A wire photograph depicted an “iconic image”: “newcomer Norah Jones with an armload of awards.”). When Blue Note offered a collaboration concert to celebrate its 75th anniversary, she was found among such grand jazz company as host Jason Moran, Wayne Shorter, and Anthony Braxton. In his book, Nate Chinen sites Esperanza Spaulding as “a spiritual successor to Norah Jones … Jones was another singer-songwriter who’d parlayed her sterling jazz education into a mainstream musical career”—but I’ll take Jones over Spaulding (who I do admire immensely as an instrumentalist, as a bassist) any day as a songwriter, for in the latter area, I find Spaulding pretentious—a bit presumptuous in her ambition.

My journalist friend Dan Ourllette (who conducts the popular DownBeat Blindfold Test at the Monterey Jazz Festival) has written a book about Bruce Lundvall (Playing by Ear: Bruce Lundvall), the legendary music executive who “discovered” Norah Jones (along with Herbie Hancock, Willie Nelson, Bobby Mcferrin, Cassandra Wilson, Kurt Elling, and Wynton Marsalis—to name just a few “top-tier musicians of our time”), and, with regard to Jones, Lyndvall has this to say about signing her in 2001 (when she was “just an aspiring 21-year-old who was waiting tables in New York and gigging in the East Village with jazz and pop bands”): “That was a lucky day,” adding, “You’d have to be tone deaf not to hear that voice … Norah is such a great talent. She has a signature voice that’s not like anyone else. People ask me where to find another Norah Jones. And I say, I want to find another original. That’s the answer. Real artists have careers; some aren’t artists, but more marketing confections or acts. Some may have hits, but they tend to have shorter careers. Real artists have a long-term career and a long-term vision.”

When Lundvall heard her sing “Spring Can Really Hang You Up the Most” on a demo, he “went nuts.” He asked how long she’d known the song, telling her, “I love it. I can tell you love it too.” He asked her who was playing piano.” “Me,” she answered. And Lundvall said, “ Get yourself an attorney.” “I intended to sign her right then,” he recalls, in retrospect.” Dan Ouellette ends his chapter, “Testifying: Finding Norah Jones”: “Truly an original … [She] cast a luminous spell that Bruce recognized upon first hearing her sing. With top-hit radio at that time dominated by pomposity and frenetic electronic beats, Norah offered an elegant alternative that was an alluring melding of country, blues, folk and jazz. And underlying her ‘moody little record’ [Come Away With Me] as she told one writer, was an overriding sensibility of integrity. There was nothing presumptuous or pretentious about Norah’s goals: create strong, honest songs without a game plan ro become a star manufacturing sure-fire hit-bound material. That pretty much sums up Bruce’s philosophy to follow his intuition … Norah’s commercial appeal has backed this up. All told, all of her solo albums have sold close to 50 million copies worldwide.”

But that’s not what drew me to her, and kept me there throughout her set that Sunday night. Given the extent of manipulation—emotional (fake feeling, like “fake news,” calculation of and compromise on what’s truly felt, and experienced); and otherwise: smoke screen and light-assisted glitter, dance-saturated overproduction–in the music world today, I’m hesitant to even mention the word “sincerity”; but in Norah Jones, I hear a voice to which that word applies, along with another favorite word of mine just now (given the state of affairs in the world in general): “stillness,” in the sense of Buddhist “mindfulness,” awareness of what is still genuinely meaningful, the “problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing [and music] because only that is worth writing [and singing] about, worth the agony and the sweat.” (William Faulkner’s Nobel Prize Acceptance speech). She still sings herself, what she truly IS as a human being—and the effect is “beyond category” (of genre).

As Marcus J. Moore wrote about her latest album, Day Breaks: “Armed with that voice—a wry, simmering inflection—the Texas native has proven she can sing anything, and sound natural doing so, no matter where the road has taken her … Day Breaks is especially sparse, a no-frills record that fades into the background without much fuss. It seems to reflect the singer’s personal and professional comfort, that—after 15 years as a signed artist with more than 50 million records sold—Jones doesn’t need to adhere to industry pressures to remain relevant. Whereas some artists revert to their best-received work as a way to reignite past glory, Day Breaks feels like the logical next step for a singer who’s done just about everything there is to do musically. This one isn’t a barn-burner, but it’s not supposed to be.”

Thank you, Norah Jones, for remaining true to yourself—and for bringing so much genuine pleasure and appreciation to those who heard and saw you Sunday night at the Monterey Jazz Festival.

To return to Nate Chinen, and his book Playing Changes: Jazz for the New Century, which he concludes with some thought s on where jazz “is going”: “As long as people have been talking about jazz, they’ve been talking about where it’s going. The conversation rests on presumptions of forward progress and collective striving. But while some musicians have embraced the premise, others refused to play along. A well-meaning interviewer once asked Thelonious Monk where he thought jazz was going, and the pianist replied, “I don’t know where it’s doing. Maybe it’s going to hell. You can’t make anything go anywhere. It just happens.”

I agree with Nate Chinen (looking back on my claim in The Istanbul Turkey Showcase interview, when asked “Why is jazz still cool?” “Because that’s its nature. Jazz is cool in and of itself”—no matter what “history” may attempt to claim (“Jazz is dead”; “The audience for it is getting too old, or dead”; et cetera). “Those who are faithful to the art form don’t just like it, they love it, with a passion.”)—I agree with Chenin that “There is no way of prognosticating jazz’s future. Or even its precise trajectory, because the art form doesn’t adhere to a linear axis.” It just IS. Given the “spirit of multiplicity that now prevails,” I agree with Chenin when he says of “the present moment and its endless possibilities … Progress is almost beside the point. The music will flow and fluctuate, keep going. And where to? Anywhere. It just happens.”

I’m not going to apologize for enjoying what I wrote about Norah Jones (the 61st Monterey Jazz Festival’s last act) as much as I have, or at some length; but I do plan, in my next blog post, to do justice to much of the excellent music I heard over the weekend. I would like, here and now, to introduce you to two other performances I much admired on the first (Friday, September 21) night: the Hristo Vitchev Quartet (Hristo Vitchev, guitar; Jasnam Daya Singh, piano; Dan Robbins, Bass; Mike Shannon) and the Jan Ira Bloom Quartet (the leader on soprano sax; Dawn Clement, piano; Mark Hellas, bass; Bobby Previte, drums).

Here are photos of Hristo Vitchev, Jasnam Daya Singh, and Jane Ira Bloom (Photo credits: Broadbandguitar.com; Linkedin; http://www.nypl.org)

Hristo Vitchev   Jasnan Daya Singh 2   Jane Ira Bloom

I was not all that familiar with 37-year-old Bulgaria-born (but now based in San Francisco) Hristo Vitchev (“one of the newest and most innovative voices in modern jazz guitar,” an artist who “combines elements of classical, modern jazz, folk, and avant-garde sonic hues in his music”), but I have known Brazilian-born Jasnam Daya Singh for some time, for he performed for years in Monterey as Weber Iago—and we had a chance at this year’s Festival to renew our friendship. And I have written about Dan Robbins and Mike Shannon in the past, and previewed the group’s excellent recent CD Of Light and Shadows—so I was eager to hear them “live.” Their set met all of my expectations—and I’ll describe it as best I can in the next blog.

I will also write about Jane Ira Bloom, whose work I was familiar with (I have her recordings), and she emerged as one of the weekend’s “super stars,” I feel: Her Friday night set with her quartet—and her superb set on Saturday night with pianist Fred Hersch (their duo on “Time After Time” sent writer Andy Gilbert into an ecstatic trance, and me too! Followed by a exquisite “There’s a Place for Us.”). And I have many other excellent performances I witnessed at the 61st Monterey Jazz Festival to write about … in my next Bill’s Blog.

Be with you then.