Archives for 2010

“Yet it is necessary to hope, though hope should always be deluded, for hope itself is happiness, and its frustrations, however frequent, are yet less dreadful than its extinction.”
Samuel Johnson, The Idler, No. 58 (May 16, 1759)

An interview with Erroll Garner:

(This is the latest in a weekly series of arts-related videos that appear in this space each Wednesday.)

I long ago gave up trying to tell jazz musicians, journalists, and bloggers that I have never written, nor do I believe, that “jazz is dead.” You will search this column in vain for the words “dead,” “death,” or “dying.”
Alas, most of the people who commented on what I wrote in The Wall Street Journal last August either didn’t read my original column or misunderstood what it said. I’m not sure into which pigeonhole the founders of the 2010 NYC Undead Jazzfest should be inserted. I am, however, amused to have had an entire jazz festival named after something that the founders of the festival mistakenly believe that I wrote, and I wish them the very best of luck.
In the meantime, I direct your attention to this Village Voice story about Woody Allen’s parallel career as a jazz clarinetist, and in particular to this part of the story:

“If God plays the baddest saxophone solo ever played in the woods, and nobody hears it, did He make a sound?” asks Jazz at Lincoln Center curator Phil Schaap, Charlie Parker audible in the background. Host of the so-themed “Bird Flight” hour on Columbia University’s WKCR radio–and, owing to both its unbroken 29-year weekday run and his inexhaustible scholarship of all jazz, the subject of a lengthy New Yorker profile in 2008–Schaap is a stern critic of the jazz community’s short-sighted direction of its resources. The Juilliard professor maintains that what scant funding remains is being funneled into performance studies while ignoring the substantial problem of how to fill the seats offstage, which is “fool’s gold at best.”
“There’s no audience development–none–in the jazz-education system, yet they’re turning out would-be professionals in the low four figures annually, and it can’t work,” says Schaap, 59. “It’s a train wreck. The jazz community is a shrinking one, and part of this that is most glaring is with the young. If something isn’t done, then the music will be further marginalized to the point where I’m not quite sure how it will survive.”
Indeed, jazz audiences are skewing much older and scarcer than before. A National Endowment for the Arts survey showed that the median age for American adults who attended a jazz concert in 1982 was 29. In 2008, that median age had risen to 46. More alarmingly, the Recording Industry Association of America reported jazz sales to make up just 1.1 percent of all music sales in 2008 (the most current available stats), a precipitous drop from the decade high of 3.4 percent in 2001.
The overarching implication: Jazz is showing a dangerous lack of renewability with future generations, and what is not heard is not preserved. New York, while still a slightly stronger jazz microcosm than the country at large, exhibits the same warning signs: a shrinking number of venues, a lack of mainstream exposure to entice new audiences, and a splintered community of performers fighting stylistically among themselves. Clearly, the jazz community here is worried; many participants have a fatalistic spin Woody Allen could appreciate.
“I think jazz in general is about to die off,” says Spike Wilner, owner of Small’s jazz club in the West Village and himself a traditional-leaning stride pianist. “The most important thing is: You don’t have, at all, the venues you used to have….Young audiences aren’t exposed to jazz early on anymore when there’s no place for them to discover it. Where are they gonna discover jazz? It’s not taught in their schools; you’re not able to find it on the radio. They’re not gonna stumble upon it.”

Sound familiar? It should. I can’t tell you how many jazz musicians of all ages–many of them famous–have said exactly the same things to me.
Not surprisingly, my Wall Street Journal column goes unmentioned in the Village Voice story. Nevertheless, the whole piece is worth reading.

“No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

…about a photograph purporting to be of the young Louis Armstrong, please send your e-mail a second time. I inadvertently deleted it from my mailbox before replying and no longer have your return address. Apologies!

From a letter to Annabella Milbanke, the to-be Lady Byron, written in 1815:

I thank you very much for your suggestions on Religion – but I must tell you at the hazard of losing whatever good opinion your gentleness may have bestowed upon me – that it is a source from which I never did – & I believe never can derive comfort… why I came here – I know not – where I shall go it is useless to enquire – in the midst of myriads of the living & the dead worlds – stars – systems – infinity – why should I be anxious about an atom?

It is muggy in Asheville. Thunderstorms daily. This weekend we bought a bag of birdseed for the birdfeeder in the backyard. The birdfeeder’s been there since we moved in; a super-ugly structure, like a miniature, maroonish Brady Bunch house stuck on a high narrow pole, cemented into place. We scraped off seven years of cobwebs and filled it. About two hours later, a squirrel climbed up it, the pole broke, and the birdfeeder, seed and squirrel came tumbling down. Squirrel last seen riding off into the sunset, belching Eastern songbird mix.
My other weekend purchase was two books, Louise Glück’s Wild Iris and David Lipsky’s book about David Foster Wallace, Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself. Here’s a bit of Glück for you, from one of her “Matins” poems, middle removed:

I see it is with you as with the birches:
I am not to speak to you
in the personal way. Much
has passed between us. Or
was it always only
on the one side?
…
… I might as well go on
addressing the birches,
as in my former life: let them
do their worst, let them
bury me with the Romantics,
their pointed yellow leaves
falling and covering me.

“All I know for sure is that so far as I have been able to determine, nothing you can possibly imagine is impossible. Somebody’s doing it or is going to do it. That goes for the good as well as the bad.”
James A. Michener, Tales of the South Pacific