Most Americans don’t like instrumental music. Just ask any radio station program director, any record label head, Nissan (which threw in the piano after sponsoring two years of the Thelonious Monk Institute gala on network TV) or any of the guys and dolls slouching down today’s mean streets with Walkmans clipped onto their bobbing heads.
Historically speaking, this has created some problems for jazz (current US music market share: under 3 percent). No matter how you slice it, jazz can hardly avoid being labeled a mostly instrumental music. What may be worse, it often insists on making you think. That’s not so bad if you can dance to it–witness the Jazz Age, when Americans apparently liked the idea of jazz best.
And before you bring up Louis Armstrong: Yeah, he revolutionized music by outplaying Gabriel on cornet and reinventing the virtuoso, improvising solo that European classical music had lost, and he did it inside a new, home-grown musical format. But he became every American’s Satchmo only after he opened his mouth to sing.
Even apparent exceptions like Duke Ellington–whose centennial this month has spilled over into the whole year to remind us how widely he should have been loved–really aren’t. Duke wrote hit songs sung endlessly as pop fare by others. For the rest, his elegant charm, his iron will–touring 300-plus days a year for decades, including stops at roller rinks and aquacades–and his nonstop composing on trains and in hotels kept his name out there. Meanwhile, the steady stream of composer’s royalties from his pop hits subsidized his beloved instrument, his orchestra.
Let’s get really heretical. If John Coltrane hadn’t hit with his exotic version of “My Favorite Things,” a Broadway hit that every right-thinking American could hum by the time he tackled it (thanks to Julie Andrews), many folks who know his name but not his revolutionary music wouldn’t know either one. With that tune, Trane was operating very much in the jazz tradition: Take the latest pop music and tweak it, move its parts around, adding jazz’s inevitable irony as it undercuts or toys with pop’s contrived innocence or sleek sophistication. Why is the irony inevitable? Because of jazz’s historical role in our culture as a vehicle for the return of the repressed–even in a time, like now or the Jazz Age, when it’s marketed as a lifestyle choice.
The notion here is that jazz has to sharpen its teeth on its far more successful sibling rivals in pop or risk becoming purely historical art music. The second choice hasn’t exactly worked wonders for the European classical tradition’s, uh, relevance or audience share. (Subtract the Titanic soundtrack from classical sales, and even jazz looks healthy. Of course, subtract Kenny G and all his clones from jazz sales, and jazz looks like the cottage industry it still actually is, lost and usually orphaned inside all those dysfunctional corporate entertainment megafamilies.)
Want more validation? Just ask Miles Davis, Trane’s last boss, who took ditties like “Surrey With the Fringe on Top” and “Someday My Prince Will Come” and bent them with centripetal forces, sculpted them with surgical tools, subjected them to wind-tunnel velocities. Of course, he also crossed the line with 1969’s Bitches Brew (Columbia). Davis had decided (as had many of his contemporaries, moving in different directions in the postwar era) that postbop jazz needed dramatic course corrections and new ideas. He sinned against jazz purists by believing that some of those ideas should come from contemporary rock and pop reimaginers like Jimi Hendrix, Sly Stone, Stevie Wonder, Michael Jackson and Prince. He made Cyndi Lauper’s haunting ballad “Time After Time” a concert staple–and a showstopper.