Jazz and the Ambiguity of Influence, Pt. 22: The Great American Songbook

I. What Makes It Great

When you are in the autumn of your years, you get more and more sympathetic to the spoken aside tossed off by Van Morrison on his stupendous live double-LP of 1974, Too Late to Stop Now: "Now for the best, later for the garbage," said Van. At danger of becoming one of those people who only listen to Mozart and Bach and Dvorak and Beethoven and Schubert since everything else, especially anything new, is just inferior, I spend an inordinate amount of time listening to jazz versions of what are called the "standards," the timeless songs from the Golden Age of American songwriting, otherwise known as the Great American Songbook. I'm on Apple Music and am continually building a playlist of standards, with more than 1300 songs now. I mix vocal cuts with purely instrumental ones. Sonny Rollins and Dexter Gordon might stretch out for some involved investigations followed by Billie Holiday or Carmen McRae stripping things down to their essence. (A quick digression: I keep seeing articles about how people are leaving Spotify because their "feed" and algorithms are continually dumbing down their tunes toward some mass mediocre common denominator of pop sounds. But why don't you just create your own library?)

So what I get this way is nonstop melodic invention and lyrical ingenuity, which fit together with a form of perfection that suggests the presence of a divine, higher order -- on earth as it is in heaven. We might say that the mode of transcendence inherent in the composition of the songs themselves is Platonic. Then, in performance, Dionysian modes of transcendence are added. First, when jazz players expand on and stretch out the melody, we experience the mode of transcendence that results from fearless spontaneity. Alternately, when singers and players invest the song with deep, deep emotion we are liberated from overreliance on the intellect to perceive truth and beauty. 

The question always is: why are these "songs with legs"? Why do they never get stale and why are they so adaptable? One reason is that most of the songs were composed when jazz and pop music were largely one and the same. There are syncopations built in, which may be subtle when a song is performed "straight," but which may heat up and blossom when the player really wants to swing it. Think of songs like "Witchcraft" or "Where or When." And the chord progressions and melodies themselves are such that while they are pleasing in and of themselves (inviting one to raise one's own voice in song) they also contain within themselves the seeds for endless variations. A given phrase or passage which embodies perfection nevertheless also is pregnant with potential variations. When these remain "unspoken," the song contains a certain subdued power. When a singer or player is so inclined they can introduce new extensions and inventions that elicit endless joy and fascination. 

And then there are the words. I'm what you would call a formalist, that is, I derive deep pleasure from studying and internalizing the craft of a given set of masterful lyrics. For starters, the vast majority of the rhymes are exact rhymes and often multi-syllabic. These require that extra degree of cleverness, which in this context is not faint but rather high praise. Perhaps this is counterintuitive, since one might think that only that which is profound is that which will stand the test of time. Yet, that which is felicitous, that which is graceful, also lives for the ages -- well, at least among those of us with a certain disposition. Now, near rhymes can have their own charm. The whole genre of rap is built on these, with resonance emerging from the performers insinuation and inflection, but that is different form of lyrical artistry. With the great standards, the lyrics also feature devices such as assonance, alliteration, and internal rhyming. A great example is "Come Fly With Me," written for Sinatra by Van Heusen and Cahn. Their employment of these devices is nearly over the top, but just edges in on the side of great fun, especially with a great singer doing the interpreting. One last thought here. My one caveat about the Great American Songbook is that most of the songs are songs of interpersonal romance, creating a limitation of subject matter that threatens to consign the entire body work to the category of "minor art form." I've gone back and forth on this, but now come down of the side of full art form, without reservation. One measure of this stature is the richness of the body of work and how powerfully it triggers thought and reflection. Here are a few that have arisen during my listening.

II. Ten Thoughts on Listening to the Great American Songbook 

1. So interesting to consider at this point in time the aesthetic processes involved with creating the body of work based on these American "standards." In a great many cases you have Jewish immigrants of the early 20th century drawing on African-American idioms and rhythms to create Broadway show tunes that then received their most profound expression through the interpretations of jazz musicians, black and white. Which of the great composers were Jewish? A partial list reads like a roll call of giants: Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, George and Ira Gershwin, Harold Arlen, Richard Rodgers, Oscar Hammerstein, Lorenz Hart. Then you have significant composers of a later generation such as Burt Bacharach and Stephen Sondheim. Unbelievable really. I certainly do not know why this was. We do know that the New York City of late 19th, early 20th century New York was the melting pot to end all melting pots, and that there was tremendous amount of unruly activity and ambition. Something essential to the American spirit helped to make the Great American Songbook what it is.

2. Speaking of Irving Berlin, he really was the person who set the whole grand project in motion. With "Alexander's Ragtime Band," released at the very early date of 1911, he translated the more complex ragtime compositions of Scott Joplin and others into brief, direct, singable, popular form. More than that, with his tagline, "Come on along, come on along," he boiled syncopation down to its essence, helping mainstream America to begin to "get rhythm," sparking a dance craze and initiating a process that is still unfolding as our culture as a whole continues to get "blacker" by degrees. His greatest song arguably is "Blue Skies," but my favorite is "Always," which has been covered dozens or even hundreds of time: "Days may not be fair always / "That's when I'll be there always / Not for just an hour / Not for just a day / Not for just a year / But always".

3. Sometimes it seems like the definitive version of damn near every standard was delivered by Billie Holiday in the 30s. Once she performed it, that was that. Game over. You're not going to do better. But why? Her interpretations were simple; she just sang the song straight through once with no improvisational extensions or intricate variations on the melody. I think it was that her phrasing was impeccable and always, always swinging. I believe I read that she was inspired by Louis Armstrong in this regard. As a bonus, each track is filled out with improvisations from the greatest jazz musicians of the time, including her alter ego, the saxophonist Lester Young. The performances glow and groove, and reside in a state of grace where wrong -- no, I mean less than perfect -- notes and choices just aren't possible. Long story short, her Columbia recordings from the 30s constitute one of the great bodies of work in 20th century American music. A personal favorite from her Columbia work is "It's Like Reaching for the Moon." 

3. With her Songbook series of the 50s and early 60s, Ella Fitzgerald nearly matched Holiday's achievement. No, why qualify it? These are definitive in their own way, and absolutely essential. She performs the core repertoire of all the great composers, and her voice is in top form: crystalline, gorgeous, and swinging. An aside: One thing I find interesting about the great 50s cover versions is that these songs were not old at the time. They may seem that way to us from our vantage point, but when Sinatra and everyone else performed them in the post-war years, they were for the most part less than 20 years old! Now that I'm getting up there I can see that that makes them virtually contemporaneous. I guess the advent of rock at first made them seem "outdated," but it didn't take too long, maybe a couple decades, for everyone to get over that silly notion. My favorite songbook from Ella is her Harold Arlen collection. Perhaps not as well known as the other giants of the genre, Arlen in many ways may be the best, not least because his compositions are so well suited to swinging. Which is why the Arlen songbook is probably the most jazz-oriented of all Ella's songbooks. The hip arrangements by Billy May are key to this. It opens with "Blues In the Night" and closes with "Over the Rainbow," my vote for greatest standard of them all. Play Ella's version at my funeral! In between are nothing but gems: "My Shining Hour," "Stormy Weather," "It's Only a Paper Moon," and on and on and on. Among the many lyricists Arlen worked with, let's give a shout out to the incomparable Johnny Mercer.

4. I have awarded Brazil's Antonio Carlos Jobim honorary membership in the fellowship of composers of American standards. There probably isn't a jazz musician living or dead who hasn't recorded at least one Jobim tune. I am quite partial to Sinatra's Jobim record from the 60s, performed with Jobim himself on board. Fave Jobim tunes include "Triste" ("sad is to live in solitude"), "Dindi," and "Wave." Of course, it was Stan Getz, above all, who flourished with the bossa nova and samba sound, and he was instrumental in popularizing it in the US. 

5. Speaking of "Dindi," Boz Scaggs does a superb version on his standards record of 2008, Speak Low. This recording falls in that category of pop and rock singers with excellent chops that try their hand at the Songbook. Speak Low is a strong entry in this category. I'm not going to diss Rod Stewart's efforts in this arena because I haven't given them a real chance. Dipped in a little but didn't click with it, but I'm willing to try again. Willie Nelson has done some very good work with the standards, which isn't a surprise since he is also a master of phrasing, something that even Miles Davis admired, himself no shoddy interpreter of the classics, most notably, perhaps, "My Funny Valentine." The big surprise for me in this category was how good James Taylor's somewhat-recent American Standard is. Wisely, James doesn't try to swing, but instead turns each song into a, well, James Taylor song. The standout is "Moon River," which upon hearing you would assume he wrote, and which renders other renditions redundant, at least in my opinion. His version is more direct than the lushly orchestrated versions from people like easy listening icons Andy Williams and Johnny Mathis. (Read my reflection on Taylor's "Moon River" here.)

6. Back to jazz, as I mentioned up top, the tenor titans Dexter Gordon and Sonny Rollins reliably offer authoritative interpretations of the standards, especially the great ballads. Each displays a firm and unwavering tone, and they both improvise like they are composing in real time. I recommend Gordon's "Darn That Dream" and Rollins' "You Don't Know What Love Is." Both men come out of the lineage of Coleman Hawkins, whose improvisation on "Body and Soul" from 1939 is considered one of the greatest moments in jazz history. Just as that performance was a game changer, so too was Coltrane's "My Favorite Things." Here he took the fun ditty from The Sound of Music and engaged in an epic extrapolation melding inner and outer space. Oh, and Coltrane's tone when playing ballads is supremely affecting; he certainly could do more than just ascend into the stratosphere. Great jazz performances of the standard are endless, but let me just conclude here with one more favorite: Lee Morgan's "You Go To My Head" from his 1965 Blue Note follow up to The Sidewinder, The Gigolo. Here his improvisation channels the pure, lyric spirit of my main man, Clifford Brown. Priceless, timeless. Wait! One more: Louis Armstrong performing "Stardust" in the early 30s. Pops takes one of the great melodies of the songbook, flattens out the majestic rising and falling melody, adds audacious staggered phrasing, and somehow makes the tune more songful than when it started. 

7. Let's talk more melodies. All standards have great melodies. But which really stand out? Which ones are divinely, supremely felicitous? Well, here are some arbitrary call outs: "Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered," "Angel Eyes" and Everything Happens to Me" (both by Matt Dennis), "Skylark," "Over the Rainbow," "Easy Living," My One and Only Love," "You're Nearer." This last one has some of the greatest lyrics, too, attaining a level of pure spirituality ("You're nearer than the winter to the fall is / Nearer than the ivy to the wall is"). Which songs are best suited for swinging? How about "Where or When"? "Fly Me to the Moon"? "Witchcraft"? "There Will Never Be Another You"? 

9. One great thing about my standards project has been digging deep into the history of the music and getting to know certain artists better in the process. First and foremost, the pianist Errol Garner. He was a very popular mid-century performer, crossing over from jazz into popular music, especially with songs like "Misty," which he wrote and offered many definitive performances of. I think he was considered sort of a cocktail pianist, you know, doing the kind of thing that works in piano bars. This is because he didn't mind including lots of flourishes and runs that sort of embody that expansive and lush feeling you get a couple drinks in. The thing is, these were just a part of his arsenal. Basically he comes across as someone who could translate any idea into the keyboard instantaneously. The spirit of invention presides. He could work crazy variations effortlessly. So he was both fun to listen to and a true and complex artist.

10. Let's wrap up with a tribute to the singers. I've already discussed Billie and Ella, two of the Mt. Rushmore of female jazz singers. The other two (in my estimation) are Carmen McCrae and Sarah Vaughan. I prefer later McCrae, from the 70s and 80s, when she achieved a nearly absurd level of gravitas. She imparts meaning into every syllable. Check out 1972's double LP called, simply, The Great American Songbook. The hard-swinging band includes the jazz giants Jimmy Rowles on piano and Joe Pass on guitar. One fun thing is that it includes several neo-standards from the 60s, and not just from the Golden Age. A particular standout is her patient and profound take on Leon Russell's "A Song for You." Sarah Vaughan is known for her operatic tone and range, best in evidence on her version of Sondheim's "Send in the Clowns," which renders all other versions superfluous. Top contemporary female singers include Dianne Reeves, Karrie Allyson, and Tierney Sutton. Among the men, we must reference the two giants of the form: Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. I won't say that they were "perfectionists," since that implies soulless nit-picking. But their vocal performances are always peerless. In Sinatra's case, it is the naturalistic phrasing that stands out; for Bennett, his tone. I recommend Sinatra at the Sands with the Count Basie band (with arrangements by Quincy Jones) and the Bennett duet performances with pianist Bill Evans. With no big band or orchestra to hide behind, the players and the songs alike are presented in their fullest glory.