Jazz and the Ambiguity of Influence, Part 10: Armstrong and the Sculptural Tradition
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Chuck Berry said he liked jazz except for when they try to play it too darn fast. I tend to agree. I'm not opposed to fast and agitated jazz, but I find that that sort of thing is better live when you can give yourself to it, immerse yourself in the energy. Think Coltrane's "sheets of sound." If you get on that wavelength it becomes a meditation that stretches the mind. If you don't get on the wavelength, though, the sheets of sound become a wall of sound that keeps you out. The art of playing fast while still keeping it melodic and engaging is not common but neither is it uncommon. The subject of my previous post, Clifford Brown, was someone who clearly could. The inventor of fast and fleet horn playing, Charlie Parker, was always engaging and melodic. But it's easier said than done.
I would say that of all the great jazz figures, none were more concerned with inviting the listener in than Louis Armstrong, who no doubt was unequivocal in his agreement with Berry's sentiment. There was plenty of space in his playing, which enabled him to place clearly articulated shapes in dynamic relation with one another, ramping up the swing and momentum and high spirits in the process. I've listened to a lot of Armstrong over the last few years, and have come to the conclusion that he didn't play what are called "runs" at all. Never. Though he did have this thing he did where he played what sounds like five notes over three beats, or something like that. Instead, for movement across tones he employed half-valve lip slurs, bending notes to a remarkable degree, something which, as a former trumpet player, I can attest is very difficult to do. It takes serious chops. Note bending is something that is now most associated with electric guitar playing, especially in the blues playing of someone like Albert King. But Armstrong was a blues man himself, so that makes sense. Let's call him a blues sculptor.
In truth, most pre-bop players were sculptural; it's just that Armstrong had the most developed and confident sound, and because of his popularity he had the biggest reach. What I want to explore now is how the sculptural sound exemplified by Pops translated into the post-be-bop world. Ironically, one of his premier disciples in the new world of jazz was one Miles Dewey Davis. Where Armstrong was the joyful, crowd-pleasing entertainer, Davis was the brooding anti-entertainer, which actually produced its own charisma. But Miles cared about what Louis did, which is making sure solos are clearly designed, with well-defined forms carved out of space and time. Earlier in the year I was reading a book that collected all of Miles's appearances in Downbeat magazine. In one of the blindfold tests, he was played a Clifford Brown recording and actually found something to critique, which was that he felt Brownie should leave more space and put more focus on swinging. To reiterate, I believe Brown actually succeeded brilliantly with his virtuosic, sometimes maximal style, but Miles's point is well-taken. None of Brownie's spectacular runs were gratuitous, so he wasn't hiding behind technique. But many people do. By choosing fewer notes and leaving more space, Miles simultaneously grooved and made you think.
Another favorite of mine in the later sculptural tradition is tenor saxophonist Dexter Gordon. Listening to him, you really get the sense he was composing in real time, with every note and pattern well considered. What usually happens in jazz soloing is that after the main melody finishes, the soloist launches into a different register, playing lots of fast runs and complex patterns. In other words, it's always clear that the melody is here and the solo is there. What Gordon often does is continue with the relative sparseness of the melody, extending it by continuing to use the whole and half tones and spaces that characterize tunes more than improvisations. In other words, it's often the case that you go, wait, is he soloing or is that the song? When he does start to get more verbose and virtuosic it kind of sneaks up on you. He does come out of be bop after all, and he gets "wordier" than Armstrong ever would have. He also works with harmonic extensions that Armstrong would have rejected as overly intellectual or too far from the blues. That part of Gordon's sound derives more from Coleman Hawkins. But I still contend that, as champions of the sculptural tradition, Gordon and Pops have plenty that connects them.
The Jazz and the Ambiguity of Influence Series
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