Liner Notes by Martin Williams
March 1969

The Bags’ Groove – Man I Love date, all of it, collected on a single LP. Miles Davis, Milt Jackson, Thelonious Monk, Percy Heath, and Kenny Clarke, Christmas eve, 1954. That, to to the initiate, is perhaps all that needs to be said.

It is all here: the often fascinating “second” takes; the mistakes (even on some of the “first” takes); the evidence of the bickering disagreements that went on in that studio; and the glories – some of the most brilliant “modern” jazz that ever got recorded, and including moments of genius.

Bags’ Groove is of course Milt Jackson’s blues theme, a very special one which manages to sound earthy, traditional and modern all at once. On “Take 1”, Davis and Jackson, with a bit of part juggling, state that theme beautifully. Davis’ solo – clean, economical, apparently gentle and vocal, but still forceful – is, like much of his best improvising, a memorable chain of linking ideas.

Davis is accompanied only by Heath and Clarke. Each is an exceptional player, of course, but the excellence with which they work together here is also a result of the time they had spent together in the Modern Jazz Quartet.

The contrast of Milt Jackson’s entrance with Monk suddenly behind him is superb, in timing, sonority, and style. Jackson sounds somewhat more conservative here than the other soloists. And Monk accompanies, not with blues changes, but – like an improvising composer-orchestrator of a rare sort – with textures, rhythmic contrasts and complements, a virtual counterpoint of interesting but never interfering ideas.

Monk’s own solo, deceptively simple on the surface perhaps, is one of the greatest moments of recorded jazz. Pianist Dick Katz has written in Jazz Panorama (see below) that “By an ingenious use of space and rhythm, and by carefully controlling a single melodic idea, he builds a tension that is not released until the end of his solo… His sense of structure and his use of extension is very rare indeed. And it sounds good.” André Hodeir speaks, in Toward Jazz (see far below) of the “tremendous pressure” which Monk, in his disjunct phrasing and pregnant silences exerts on his listeners. And Hodeir even singles out the detail of the “shattering” effect in Monk’s first chorus of the F sharp that follows the series of C’s and F’s – “one of the purest moments of beauty in the history of jazz.”

And the solo as a whole is one of the most prophetic I would add. It does not so much link ideas, one to the next, as Davis did, as it airily spins out of itself, out of its own opening phrase – as both Katz and Hodeir indicate. And, although one could readily tick off the number of blues choruses involved, the solo virtually floats above its chord changes and their implied 4-bar phrases, determining its own character as it goes along. Indeed, in 1954, Monk outlined the major tasks of the new jazz of the 1960s.

Bags’ Groove “Take 2” has a less cleanly played “head,” and the contrast can teach a layman something about ensemble playing. Davis seems to be having some saliva problems with his horn but still lifts the performance and keeps his lines swingingly alive. Jackson is as good here as on the other take, I believe. Monk in his solo is, for him, more conventional.

Bemsha Swing was evidently done earlier in the date when Monk was still accompanying Davis, before Davis, who would rather have supportive chord changes behind him, had asked him to lay out during this solos. What does happen is that they get into a kind of musical argument: at one point Davis plays a favorite Monk lick, Monk responds, and for a while they have it out, back and forth.

Jackson plays on his best level. And Monk’s solo, as Dick Katz put it, “Is a fine example of his ability to construct variations on a theme (in this case his own), rather than discard it and build ‘lines’ on the chords…” Monk uses two approaches here: he embellishes and fills out his theme; then he simplifies and abstracts it.

“Take 1” of The Man I Love begins with a fine Jackson introduction, falls into verbal disagreements, with Davis’ finishing it off with his request to engineer Rudy Van Gelder (herewith fulfilled) to “put this on a record, all of it.” Then there is an even better Jackson intro, and the performance begins. Either of Miles Davis’ beautiful, glowing abstractions of this theme might stand with his best and most personal melodic paraphrases, which means with some of the best in jazz history. I do admit, however, that I prefer the second. Jackson takes a break and doubles the tempo and swirls through the changes for two choruses. Monk, his humor with him as always, and his percussive originality much to the fore, undertakes to spread out the main strain of the piece in long meter, get in tempo for the bridge, then stretch it out again for the last 8 bars. It works on the first take (and there is nothing quite like this performance until Monk’s first solo version of I Should Care). It doesn’t work on the second; he stops; Heath and Clarke walk gracefully; and Miles calls Monk back into the bridge. Each performance ends with Davis evoking the original ballad tempo and mood, and the others briefly joining him for the ravishingly abstract conclusion.

Swing Spring is Davis’ little scaler piece, inspired, he has said, by Bud Powell. (It also echoes the “cool” Davis of 1948-50). “You play in that scale and you get an altogether different sound,” he once remarked of Swing Spring. Here he demonstrates it and, once again, we are into the tasks that jazz took up again in the 1960s. Jackson plays in his best straight-ahead, medium-tempo style, with Monk in occasionally brilliant rhythmic contrast behind him. Miles returns (with some minor technical problems) and in his last chorus ends up calling to Monk with (again) one of the pianist’s favorite phrases. More by-play! Monk himself uses a variant of the phrase. Then he airily tries out, in new ways, some of the ideas which, on other occasions, the I Got Rhythm chord changes have suggested to him. Jackson takes a second solo, and at a couple of spots Monk is typically witty behind him.

As I say, some mistakes, some bickering (verbal and musical), choruses of excellence and of brilliance, and moments of genius.

Rare qualities, those last.

—–

Katz, Dick. “Miles Davis.” Jazz Panorama: From the Pages of Jazz Review,
edited by Martin T. Williams, 1962. Da Capo Press, 1979, pp. 169–179.
A review of Prestige 7076, 7109, and 10″ Prestige 196

The artists performing on the recordings considered here have earned the reputations to quality them as “stars,” to use the term employed by the jazz press. Therefore, these albums are all-star collections.

The current concept of all-stars has its origin in the frontier days of bop in the forties. It was not unusual then to find extraordinary talents like Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach, J.J. Johnson, Bud Powell, Al Haig, Miles Davis, Kenny Clarke, Oscar Pettiford, Fats Navarro, Don Byas, Lucky Thompson, Art Blakey, Sonny Stitt, George Wallington, Milt Jackson and Thelonious Monk working together in various combinations. The prewar, prebop emphasis on collective or ensemble playing with its need for group rapport was being replaced by virtuoso solo playing, which reached new heights.

However, because these key figures, particularly Parker and Gillespie, had had extensive big-band experience, their ensemble playing reflected maturity and sensitivity to each other. But their young disciples, deprived of this type of experience that their idols had, often degenerated into a kind of waiting-in-line-to-play type of jazz which is too prevalent, even today.

Since those eye-popping days, all of the above people have gone their separate ways. Parker and Navarro are dead. Byas has emigrated to Europe. Bud Powell is ill. The others all have emerged as strong individual personalities. Along with some outstanding jazzmen in the idiom more recently, like Sonny Rollins, Kenny Dorham, and later Horace Silver, they all lead their own groups or function mainly as soloists. It gradually became economically unfeasible for them to work together steadily. And as the all-star concept had grown, so had the problems. Things like “prima-donna-ism” appeared, and it rarely worked out. Too many chefs “cooking” at the same time, and the stew will boil over, or worse – the fire will go out.

The albums reviewed here are notable exceptions, musically, an exciting glimpse of future possibilities. And certainly Walkin’, Blue ‘n Boogie, and Bags’ Groove are among the outstanding jazz releases of the past ten years.

Everyone involved in the Bags’ Groove album is an individualist. Miles Davis has an economical, fragile, but powerfully emotional style, devoid of superfluities. His only problem seems to be an occasional technical lapse. Indeed, he remarkably converted his limitations into assets, the true mark of the creator, as opposed to the player who interprets others’ ideas. Much of the same applies to Thelonious Monk, who is truly a “homemade” artist. Milt Jackson is a virtuoso with a relatively symmetrical and less abstract approach. Kenny Clarke revolutionized the concept of rhythm playing. He and Percy Heath, an extremely graceful player, came to the studio already a finely developed team as members of the Modern Jazz Quartet, and this fact turns out to be the cornerstone of the success of these recordings.

The theme of the title tune is a choice example of Jackson’s gift for creating unique, memorable blues melodies. When played properly, as it is here on take 1, it insures the perfect mood and point of departure for the soloists. The balance between trumpet and vibes is very effective and is enhanced by their juggling of the parts. Miles’ solo is near perfect – a beautiful, unfolding set of memorable ideas, each a springboard for the net. His sound or tone has real vocal-like quality of expression. His interpretation of the blues here is deeply convincing, and it is without exaggerated “funk.” He establishes a mood and sustains it. His purported rejection of Monk’s services as an accompanist is irrelevant. The end result is superb. And when Jackson enters with Monk behind him, the contrast is strikingly effective. Milt constructs an impeccable and soulful solo complete with long sustained lines and many interesting effects. Monk’s unorthodox accompaniment hinders Milt not at all – on the contrary – it provides him with just the right color. Curiously, Jackson sounds relatively straight and formal here when contrasted with Monk, whereas in the context of the MJQ he appears more angular with John Lewis‘ more formal style of playing. Monk’s solo on this piece is one of his best on record. By an ingenious use of space and rhythm, and by carefully controlling a single melodic idea, he builds a tension that is not released until the end of his solo. Every drummer could learn from him here. His sense of structure and his use of extension is very rare indeed. And it sounds good. It could be called, almost paradoxically, a series of understatements, boldly stated. Miles returns to stroll another solo, the them returns and the piece ends cleanly. An extraordinary performance by all.

The ensemble in the beginning of take 2 is not as clean. Davis’ solo contains several “pops” which sound like saliva in the horn, and which mar an otherwise fine solo. Also, this version is not as concentrated as take 1, but Jackson’s solo maintains the high level of the first – take your pick. Monk surprises with a completely different solo – different in approach and feeling. Here he is more concerned with playing the piano, less with developing a motif, and is much more extravagant with his ideas. A fine solo, but take 1 was exceptional. During the rest of the take there were obvious technical defects in the performance.

I’m reviewing Bemsha Swing here because it is from the same session as Bags’ Groove. It has a typical Monk melody and harmonization – direct, and with a slightly oriental flavor rhythmically. This performance apparently preceded Bags’ Groove, because Monk plays behind Davis. Miles seems quiet distracted by Monk, and it breaks the continuity of his solo. His discomfort is finally expressed by his quoting a couple of well-known Monk phrases. Monk in turn acknowledges Miles’ sarcasm (or compliment?) and, lo and behold, they end up by playing a duet. Jackson follows Miles for a set of variations on the melody of the same quality as Bags’ Groove.

Note how Monk’s pieces almost demand a constant awareness of the melody; one can’t rely on “running the changes.” Monk’s solo is a fine example of his ability to construct variations on a theme (in this case his own), rather than discard it and build “lines” on the chords as is the style of improvising of the majority of contemporary jazz players. In this respect, Monk resembles such earlier jazzmen as Art Tatum and other “stride” oriented pianists, and horn players – Johnny Hodges, Armstrong, Ben Webster, to mention a few. Miles Davis also has this gift of embellishing an existing melody, but he also utilizes the “running the changes” technique. Sonny Rollins, too, uses both approaches. Virtually all the superior players are never chained by the chord structure of their material. The chords are merely signposts. The sophistication of Monk, Rollins and Davis lies in the fact that after years of “making the changes” they now often only imply them, leaving themselves free to concentrate on other aspects of improvisation, such as expression, rhythm, etc.

In some ways The Man I Love is the most fascinating piece on the date. After a lovely Jackson introduction, Miles unfolds an exceedingly lyrical abstraction of the melody. His use of rhythm and completely original manner of phrasing here should continue to enrich a listener for years. Jackson doubles the tempo with a four-bar break and takes a fine solo which does not quiet sustain interest all the way, probably because of its length. Monk follows with the pièce de résistance by getting carried away with his own self-made obstacle course. He tries to rearrange the melody rhythmically by extending the sequences over a number of bars. However, he gets lost (or so it sounds to me), and comes to an abrupt halt about the twenty-eighth bar or so (long meter). What follows is a model duet between Heath and Clarke which could serve as a lesson in graceful walking for anyone. Along about the fourteenth bar of the bridge, Miles leads Monk back on the track, and he comes roaring in in his best 1947 style. Miles comes in on the heels with a delightful bit and then surprises by quickly jamming a mute into his horn and continuing – an electrifying effect. A return to the original tempo at the bridge halts this discussion between Monk and Miles and piece ends on a note of agreement. This performance would be absolutely impossible to repeat. God bless Thomas Edison. (This ten-inch LP has not yet been transferred to a twelve-inch.)

Airegin (on 7109) is a rhythmically interesting melody by Sonny Rollins. Miles plays more convectively here, possible due to Horace Silver’s presence and style. Davis is extremely sensitive to other players and, consciously or not, adapts himself to prevailing circumstances. His solo here is a little drier and is rather formless by comparison to the others considered here, but his time is perfect. Rollins also almost plays it safe and shows little of what evolved in him not long after this session. Bird’s influence is very strong in this particular solo. However, Rollins does attempt to build a climax. An uncertain return to the theme ends an unrealized performance.

Oleo is a very good Parker-style melody, reminiscent of Moose the Mooche and other compositions based on one of the points of departure of so much jazz: I Got Rhythm. Davis and Rollins state the theme cleanly and with conviction. What distinguishes this performance is the intelligent work of the rhythm section. Only Heath supports the front line until Silver and Clarke enter at the bridge. During the solos, Silver plays only the bridges. The pattern is repeated on the last chorus, except that Clarke remains in. This device proves extremely effective and was and is used with variations by Miles in the subsequent working groups – but “strolling” in its various forms is, of course, as old as jazz. Miles makes effective use of a mute here and thereby previews his current style. (The device even became a commercial asset when he combined it with some of Ahmad Jamal‘s ideas about playing rhythmically in “two.”) This solo is beautifully integrated and concentrated – with delicious time and taste. Miles’ playing is elegant – I can think of no better word for it. Sonny Rollins is thoughtful and straightforward in his variations – almost as if he were reviewing and reminding himself what he had absorbed before embarking on the daring course he is on now. He seems a bit uncomfortable with Clarke’s pure, even and unbroken cymbal line, so Kenny obliges on Rollins’ second chorus by emphasizing the second and fourth beats – and does it tastefully and unobtrusively. Silver follows Sonny with a typical solo… percussive and with a powerful beat. However, his ideas sound overstated – at least in comparison to Rollins and Miles in this context. Kenny Clarke is superb on this piece. He truly accompanies each soloist as to enhance the feeling each is trying to project. He has a beautiful cymbal sound, and propels a warm, very strong pulse, without ever being too loud. His sense of dynamics and volume is acute. Notice how he switches to brushes behind Silver, and how he prepares each soloist. He wields his sticks and brushes like a painter, making sure there are no superfluous strokes. He has the kind of emotional radar that Sid Catlett had – a genuine warmth and musical sensitivity to anticipate the music. Percy Heath’s line is satisfying, his sound is very distinctive, and he has wonderful beat. He works well with Clarke. Oleo is by far the best performance on the date.

I don’t see the point in releasing both takes of But Not for Me. For celebrated performances the documentary value of such releases is real, but in this case, neither take is up to the standard of the rest of the date. This song is not the type that readily lends itself to the kind of perfunctory interpretation evidenced here. Miles respects the melody and embellishes it carefully – and he would have been even more effective in a more sensitive setting. Rollins sounds like one of his imitators here, a good solo, but not up to his usual standard. Silver makes a very good entrance on the break and he develops it nicely, but is out of character with the song. His percussive, so-called angular style seem to clash with Miles’ particular brand of lyricism in this type of song. His strong individuality, which makes him an important jazzman, works against him here, because he bathes Rollins and Davis in an all-pervading percussive atmosphere. One might say, “But what about Monk? – he’s percussive and rough, too.” I think it’s important to remember that Monk’s redesigning of a song is so complete that he establishes his own point of reference. And his role above with Miles and Jackson was mainly that of a soloist – his accompaniments were usually behind Jackson – not Davis. Note also that in Oleo Silver plays only on the bridges, leaving Miles and Sonny free to create their own moods. Silver’s style is not unorthodox enough to create his own point of reference – in order words, his conception is not “far out” enough for him to escape comparison with some other so-called mainstream pianists, and a few of them would be more compatible with the various subtleties in Miles Davis’ playing, particularly on ballads. The content of Silver’s playing often fits well, but his manner of playing is not always right for Davis. In the last chorus here, played by Miles, the rhythm is undistinguished, and the ending is rather sloppy.

Take 2 is taken at a slower tempo, as if Miles sensed this would help lessen the harshness, and it does somewhat. Miles’ solo is characteristic and a moving melodic statement. Rollins is less successful and sounds a little indifferent. Silver does not match his solo on take 1; but he accompanies intelligently though with the same hardness. The rest of the take is uneventful, and releasing both takes has the effect of heightening the defects in each and dulling their good points.

Doxy is a light, spiritual-like sixteen-bar melody by Rollins state in “two” by Miles and Sonny in unison. This piece comes off rather well and in this instance Horace fits like a glove – this type of piece is his forte and he has written similar ones himself. After an informal, almost casual, solo by Davis, Rollins constructs a very straightforward line completely in character with his tune. It’s fascinating to see how Rollins has absorbed the elements he used at this stage of his development (1954) into the much broader palette he utilizes now. Silver’s solo is typical of the many he has recorded in this vein.

Walkin’ and its companion Blue ‘n Boogie are acknowledged to be classics. To me they represent a sort of summing up of what happened musically to the players involved during the preceding ten years (1944-54). It’s as if all agreed to get together to discuss on their instruments what they had learned or unlearned, what elements of bop they had retained or discarded. An amazing seminar took place.

If this seems a sentimental idea, think of the countless recorded jam sessions where nothing was discussed – musically or verbally – and results in the players mumbling to themselves on their horns (and knees). Relatively little of the jazz being played today qualifies as art, mostly because the level of communication is so low – between the players and between the player and listener. Much of it resembles sport – even to its terminology – but that question needs an essay of its own.

This record is artistic and of lasting value.

The main theme of Walkin’ is unusually strong, and the use of the flatted fifths and the way they resolve should remain as a particularly good example which one could point to twenty years from now to illustrate that otherwise much overworked device. It is played in unison – and this particular combination of sonorities, trumpet-tenor-trombone, sounds good and feels good because of the specific players involved.

Miles’ solo is as good as any he has recorded, before or since. His sound ideas and execution, and the feeling he projects, are prime examples of his art. Every idea that Miles states here is clearly formed and will remain with the listener afterwards. (How many times have you listened to a long, “exciting,” jet-propelled “cooking” solo and gone away without being able to recalled a single thing the man played?) Johnson’s solo is also superior, but it is slightly marred by intonation trouble, perhaps due to a “cold” horn – I am judging this by J.J.’s own very high standards. But he sounds completely at ease in this setting and his playing is convincing. Lucky Thompson shows his wonderful sense of structure in a beautifully formed solo, which also demonstrates how he has absorbed some of Ben Webster’s ability to build to a dramatic climax. He is helped when the other horn backs him with the theme. Silver’s solo contribution is overshadowed by his role as an accompanist. He provides a series of variations behind each soloist that creates a moving backdrop – and just the right feeling. Heath and Clarke are superb.

Many of the things said above apply to Blue ‘n Boogie. The controlled intensity contained both in solo and ensemble is remarkable. The Gillespie theme remains as fresh as it did when first recorded in 1945 – a real tribute to his talent. Miles’ solo in this instance is less introspective and more extroverted – compatible with the forceful playing of the rhythm section. His variations are more elaborate, and his agile use of neighboring tones and chromatic scale passages is very effective. Also, he contrasts these with the wider spaced intervals and diatonic ideas he often favors to insure variety. Miles’ spelling out of triads and general diatonic approach is reminiscent of early and middle Armstrong. Further, his precise, split-second sense of timing and swing are not unlike those of that early master. Each is a master of economy – few, if any of their notes are superfluous. Of course, there the comparison stops. The feelings and conception each projects couldn’t be more different – for obvious reasons – age being one and Miles’ much larger musical vocabulary being another. It appears that Freddy Webster also influenced Miles, especially in regard to sound or tone quality. J.J. Johnson’s solo is good, but unfortunately intonation still seems a problem here. That he conquers this distraction and creates a moving solo is an indication of his stature. Many letter trombonists would have collapsed in a pile of clinkers. Lucky Thompson doesn’t match his solo on Walkin’, and sounds a little forced at times, but he maintains his taste, control, and sense of melody nevertheless. The figures played by Davis and Johnson behind Lucky’s solo are a kind of anthology in themselves. Horace Silver’s solo is rather tense, if exciting, and his accompaniment is once again peerless. Clarke and Heath couldn’t have been better.

The record date was an important one and provides fresh insights with each rehearing.

The date of the reverse of 7076 is a different matter. Davis and the rhythm section are in good form, but saxophonist Davey Schildkraut, a very gifted but erratic player, sounds ill at ease, and there is a lack of rapport between the two horns. The session is notable mainly as a superb example of Kenny Clarke’s brushwork.

Solar opens with a nice Davis melody stated by him alone with the rhythm section. His variation is nice, but indifferent in comparison to his work on many other records. Schildkraut’s alto solo is characterized by a lonely, but pure and beautiful sound. His ideas are interesting, but not integrated, and here he lacks authority. After a fair Silver piano solo, Miles returns to stroll a chorus before ending the piece. A rather aimless performance.

You Don’t Know What Love Is begins with a beautiful, muted Davis solo rendition of this poignant song. Miles concentrates on probing the melody and again demonstrates his unique interpretive gift. I would have preferred a more legato accompaniment than Silver plays here. Schildkraut does not play on this track.

Love Me or Leave Me is played at a fast tempo. Very good Horace Silver solo kicked off a sloppily played figure by the horns. Pretty good Miles, but Schildkraut has his troubles. His ideas are quite disconnected – it’s hard to determine is his lagging behind is intentional toying with the meter or inability to keep up with the precise, almost anticipated articulation of the beat by the rhythm section. Silver relieves him to churn out another two choruses.

In summing up it should be emphasized that the unifying element in all the sessions reviewed here is Kenny Clarke. He literally holds them together and at the same time animates each player as few, if any, other drummers could. With playing of this caliber on the part of the horns, any lesser drummer would have destroyed these performances almost entirely. The other gratifying factor in these recordings is a total lack of the tricks and “hip” devices that have marred the work of some recent groups (such as trying to make a small band sound like a big one). There is musical honesty here and by and large a mutual respect among the players all too rare these days.

—–

Hodeir, André. “Monk or the Misunderstanding.” Toward Jazz,
edited by Christopher W. White, 1962. Da Capo Press, 1976, pp. 156-177
A quite technical look at where Monk was at musically in the early 60s

Nietzsche provided a subtitle for his book. It is: “A Book for Everyone and No-one.” “For Everyone” does not, of course, mean for each one in the sense of just anybody. “For Everyone” refers to every person insofar as he is truly human and to the degree that he is reflective of the root of his being. “… and No-one” means not for those curiosity seekers who gather from everywhere, intoxicate themselves with isolated bits and passages taken out of context, and become dizzy from the book’s language, half-singing, half-shouting, often lofty and occasionally flat – instead of committing themselves to the train of thought which is seeking here its verbal expression. – Martin Heidegger

The world of jazz is a stage on which it matters less what the actors say than the way they say it. Conviction, rather than creative genius, is the key to success, whether it be the artificial – or simulated – conviction of a rock ’n’ roll star, the sincere conviction of the crack rhythm and blues expert, or the absolute conviction of a musician who has only his conviction. For the crowd’s need to be convinced is the nose by which it is most easily led. The millions of addlepates who cheered Hitler on the eve of the second World War were expressing and sharing an absolute conviction; many of them died before they could realize that their enthusiasm reflected nothing more than abysmal feeblemindedness.

In other words, it matters little that you have nothing to say, so long as you say it ardently and artfully. The best method of convincing an audience whose average mental age is under twelve is to comply with that norm yourself. If you happen to have the intellect and sensibility of an adult – even those of a backward adult – a shadow of a doubt, something resembling a conscience is likely to creep into your mind and that will be the end of your capacity for expression. If ever you lag behind your audience for a fraction of a second they will slip from your grasp and pass judgment on you. In that fraction of a second they will see how ridiculous you are; never again will you be able to restore the sacred ties that held them at your mercy.

Conviction, then, is essential on both sides of the footlights, as is that clear-cut propensity for intellectual vacuity which, as everyone knows, is the most obvious sign of acute musical gifts. So now the stage is set; the curtain is ready to rise on a play the plot of which must, of course, be “simple and direct.” This is the magic recipe which jazz critics have been using for the past thirty years to designate, for the benefit of admiring crowds, the ne plus ultra in jazz. But tradition grows richer with the passing years. In highly cultured periods such as ours, new concepts may be brought to light, and indeed, today that prime aesthetic virtue, facileness, has found a place among the basic values. In order for music to be good it must be simple to understand; after all, is it not meant to be enjoyed by the greater number? There are, however, a few counts which still leave room for improvement. For example, judging by their audience-participation reactions, newcomers to jazz seem to be having greater and greater difficulty assimilating certain rhythmic elements; the afterbeat, in particular, seems to constitute an insoluble problem for them. May I therefore suggest that we simplify jazz rhythms, which are definitely becoming too complicated. By doing away with the afterbeat, by rehabilitating the Sousa approach to accentuation, jazz would unquestionably win over those thousands of men and women of all ages who, like the characters in the Grand Illusion or Céline’s Bardamu, are fascinated by military bands. Moreover, that perplexity which sometimes besets the lone hand clapper in a side balcony would give way, for the greater good of public morals, to the joys of unanimity fully achieved at last. One! Two! One! Two! What could be more simple and direct than this language, so dear to the heart of every true-blue Frenchman?

Have the pleasures of irony led me astray from reality? I wish this were so. I wish that a hideous march in the form of a blues had never been cheered by a large crowd, satisfied at last in its craving to identify, if only for a moment, its own national folklore with the highly touted music of the Negro. On the other hand, I hope that a particularly respectful salvo of applause will one day greet the presence on a Parisian stage of such a true artist as Thelonious Monk.

Now Monk is neither simple nor direct, he does not always say what he has to say as well as he might and the things he has to say are subtle, seldom easy to grasp, and not at all meant for the enjoyment of the greater number; his rhythmic notions go far beyond that afterbeat which some find so elusive, and yet, by one of those paradoxes common to jazz, if ever we are lucky enough to hear him in Paris, he will probably reap the same wild cheers that have marked recent performances by great, not-so-great, and mediocre jazzmen alike. I’ll even bet he has a good box office take.

Only yesterday Monk was a has-been, a half-forgotten page in the history of jazz. Today he is an established value, with a label and a price tag. A single article was all it took for everyone in France to grasp the significance of the new Messiah, and it wasn’t even a real article, just a hasty discussion over the tape recorder of Jazz Hot. The next day everyone swore by Monk and Monk alone. Not so long ago he couldn’t even find work and now he is vying with seaside charmers and Granz’s circus stand-bys for the top berths on opinion polls. The musician who once terrified us all no longer seems to disturb a soul. He has been tamed, classified, and given his niche in that eclectic Museum of Great Jazzmen which admits such a variety of species, from Fats Domino to Stan Kenton. Only a man like Miles Davis has the courage to fear Monk: “I like the way he plays, but I can’t stand behind him. He doesn’t give you any support.”

Thelonious Monk is not a great classic, one of those musicians who, like Armstrong or Parker, attracts impressive crowds of disciples. Monk is a man alone, disturbing and incomplete. In the eyes of history he may be on the wrong track; but this, perhaps, is what most endears him to me. He is the solitary man who, when he looks back, does not see his fellow travelers – who doesn’t even know if he has fellow travelers. A few years ago, I thought his example would be irresistible; today I am not so sure. The enticements of facileness, the sense of security that lies in numbers, the love of success and the cult of the dollar may, in the end, prove stronger than the strange aesthetic vertigo which a few people experience on hearing some of Monk’s fiery outbursts.

Monk may not have gone far enough yet. His music may not yet be sufficiently well-developed to exert any lasting influence on the majority of musicians. One wonders how much attention the young jazzmen of the forties would have paid to Charlie Parker had his music not been so thoroughly accomplished. Moreover, the desire for change is not nearly so widespread now as at the end of the war. The situation today is more like that of 1940 than of 1945. But then perhaps the contrary is true. Perhaps Monk, without even realizing it, has already gone too far on the path he has chosen; for it is a path which must inevitably lead to that complete divorce between jazz and popular music prefigured, I feel, in the shocks periodically inflicted on jazz by the few artists who have managed to divert it from its original course (and these shocks have been increasingly violent: the Bird was a less “popular” musician than Lester, Lester less than the Duke, and the Duke less than Armstrong). If this hypothesis is correct, we may expect to see any attempts to propagate Monk’s conceptions thwarted by a powerful inertia on the part of both public and musicians. Monk is fashionable now; let him make the most of it! Before long he may again be as neglected as he was on his first visit to France, for there is reason to fear that his present success is based on a sad misunderstanding.

Snobbery does not in itself explain Monk’s popularity, which is fairly limited in any case. True, his music probably does provide the snob with almost as good an opportunity for intellectual bullying as the Modern Jazz Quartet’s. John Lewis fans like to refer to Vivaldi, Monk’s may drop the name of Webern. But there undeniably exist music lovers who are sincerely fond of his work, for Monk has that power of conviction without which, as we have seen, it is impossible to crash the gates of success; his is certainly not as great as that of an Erroll Garner or even a Horace Silver, but he does have it. And even those who confess that Monk’s music disagrees with them have to admit that it does not leave them indifferent. Moreover, his music may benefit by the aura of strangeness created by the scintillation of a thousand bizarre details which add color to the clear-cut structures of a basically traditional language. If Monk’s music were no more than the alloy of bizarreness and security which many think it is, it would seem insignificant indeed alongside that mad, delirious tempest that the Bird, in his greatest moments, sent sweeping across the valleys of jazz. The Monk craze cannot last unless it be strengthened by the difficult exploration of the real Monk. Is such a thing conceivable? Each of us must provide his own answer to this question in the light of his personal experience. Not to mention the sense of dread that the outwardly rather monstrous appearance of Monk’s world inspired in me for so long, I found that in order to begin to grasp its deeper meanings I first had to come up with solutions, and, above all, come to grips with problems similar to those suggested in his work.

For there is something else.

Monsieur Dumesnil would be very surprised to learn that a semiliterate Negro is capable of conveying, through a musical idiom which he would peremptorily regard as highly primitive, beautiful ideas that are both thoroughly musical and truly modern, ideas which his favorite composers, whose “achievements” he periodically hails with that leveling pen of his – I am referring to men like Florent Schmitt and Henri Tomasi – would be quite incapable of even conceiving.

“Ideas that are modern and musical”; does this mean that Monk is not a true jazzman? After all, the true jazzman is not supposed to overstep the bounds of his art, venturing onto the arid steppes of serious music or, worse still, the glacial plains of the twelve-tone row. But here we may rest assured, for no twelve-tone sirens have lured Monk away from jazz. He probably doesn’t even know that such music exists. I can safely say that the gradual development of his language has been the result of intuition and intuition alone. Those who debate as to whether or not this language is still part of jazz are simply quarreling over words, and I prefer not to join them. I feel that although Monk’s sonority and his system of attacks and intensities are highly personal, they are definitely in the tradition of jazz. Even his opponents acknowledge the rhythmic precision of his playing and the great power of the swing he produces. It is rather hard to apply the word “funky” to Thelonious’s music and for this reason some may deny that he is a great blues musician. I do not agree, however; I feel that on the contrary, his stroke of genius consists precisely in having applied a fresh treatment to the blues theme, making a renewal of its inner structures possible without any distortion of its style (always perfectly intact in his music).

The fact that this true jazzman and eminent blues musician, whose improvisations are free of any academic formalism, should display such overt concern with form per se, ought to provide the reader with food for thought. Contrary to the belief of certain naïve observers who prefer to deny the existence of aesthetic problems rather than come to grips with them, jazz is not generated spontaneously. It is the work of human beings, of a special kind of human being called the artist. Now the nature of the artist, in contrast with that of the mere musician, amateur or professional, is to be dissatisfied. This feeling of dissatisfaction is a basic, permanent, and inexorable force in the artist, compelling him to upset the equilibrium achieved by his creative predecessors (and sometimes, in the case of the very great, by the artist himself). The truth of the matter, as seen by any objective historian, is that jazz, born during the decline of Western civilization, has made contact with that extraordinary concept of musical form which made it possible for Western music – or at least its masterworks – to rise above all the art forms of any known civilization. This is where one may expect the stalwart champions of “pleasurable music” to arch their backs and bare their claws. For is not this notion of form the beginning of the end? If jazz is that happy, fun-making music they love and which satisfies their appetites, then anyone who isn’t satisfied is wrong. Monk is wrong. In the eyes of these people, who do not feel that the absence of form is a deficiency, the very idea of form is necessarily parasitic. Its entrance into the world of jazz constitutes the rift in the lute. But the worst is yet to come, since the existence of form calls for someone to organize it, someone who thinks music, in other words, that personification of evil, the composer!

I am not afraid of being contradicted on this point, I know that I will be, and loudly so. When conservative critics are out to combat a new idea they invariably find ten musicians (and not necessarily bad ones) to defend their theories. This time we may expect them to find a hundred, for the subject is an important one. I will not lose any sleep over this, however, since even a hundred musicians who are blind to the necessity of form cannot prevent the existence of a Thelonious Monk. However, in order to forestall a useless flood of well-meaning protest, I must be more explicit. When I say that the absence from jazz of a certain dimension that I call form is a deficiency, I do not mean that jazz is now entirely devoid of form, but that form does not play a vital, active role in it.

The pioneers of jazz borrowed from Occidental folk music a sense of symmetry and the principle of regularly recurring structures. With these ideas as a starting point, jazz, like every other form of music inspired by Occidental folklore, grew up according to a fixed, stereotyped, formal principle which stopped developing almost entirely once jazz ceased to be folk music. In the meantime, the notions of symmetry and continuity in musical discourse were being destroyed by Debussy, Schönberg, Stravinsky, and Webern, and replaced, in the works of the major contemporary composers – Barraqué, Boulez, Stockhausen – by a completely different conception. If a twelve-tone score like Séquence or Le Marteau sans Maître bears as little resemblance to a classical symphony as a Klee abstraction does to a Corot landscape, it is because the world of music is now based on the notions of asymmetry and discontinuity. Thelonious Monk is to be hailed as the first jazzman who has had a feeling for specifically modern aesthetic values.

The danger threatening the author of an article like this – which is not meant to be one of those “surveys” conducted at a respectful distance but a very personal essay, an attempt at “subjective” analysis – lies in the fact that he is constantly tempted to alter the course of reality, insidiously shaping it in the image of his own wishes. I must continually guard against painting an ideal picture of Monk; it would be as unfaithful and as inadequate as the portrait for everyday use which we have already rejected. Monk constitutes a splendid promise in the world of jazz; we must not make of him a false Messiah.

Monk, as I have already said, is incomplete, and must be taken as he is. How could I seriously claim to see his work in its ultimate perfection? Do I have the right to look over his shoulders, to look into the future with his eyes – for would they even be his eyes? Would they not be mine, jaded by their contact with contemporary art, hampered by a cultural background which, in this particular struggle for insight, may not be the right weapon? These scruples may seem out of place, yet the reader had to be informed of them, for they constitute the very substance of the form of commitment I have chosen. If critical analysis is to be regarded as a creative act, then it must be conducted with that same rigor which characterizes, I feel, the work of art. In a field where pure speculation can so easily assume the guise of established truth, we cannot legitimately tolerate any retreat into the realm of imagination.

Monk has occasionally disappointed me. Not that I have ever regarded him as more advanced than he actually is; it’s just that no one can be expected to maintain those positions of extreme tension which define the creative act. Is there any man, any artist, brave enough to hold out against the tremendous weight of the tradition from which he sprang and the pressure of the milieu to which he belongs? Then too, it is just possible that what I take for a yielding on his part is actually a sign of renewed effort. Those ballads that Monk, in the solitude of his apartment, plays over and over again may be leading him through secret channels toward some unexpected explosion. Close though he may seem to the origins of jazz – “I sound a little like James P. Johnson,” he says, not without a touch of irony – we suddenly find his tremendous shadow stretching out across those ill-defined regions where the stride piano is but a memory and where the notion of steady tempo, which is at the very root of jazz, seems to have vanished.

It is not hard to see why I am so fascinated by his remarkable I Should Care on the record called Thelonious Himself. It consists of a series of impulses which disregard the bar line completely, pulverize the musical tissue and yet preserve intact that “jazz feeling” which so readily evaporates in the smoke of a Tatum introduction. These elongations of musical time, presented here in a “non-tempo” context, are probably the direct descendants of those “in tempo” elongations to which his famous solo in The Man I Love (with Miles Davis) had already accustomed us. Is it so unreasonable to think that they exist as a function of a second, underlying tempo, imperceptible to us but which Monk hears in all the complexity of its relationships with the figures he is playing?

One may wonder what remains of the theme of I Should Care after this acid bath, and, in fact of the ballad in general, considered as an essential element of jazz sensibility. Personally, I am delighted at this transmutation, which is in keeping with the breath of fresh air brought to jazz, in my opinion, by his own original themes. Will Monk’s concepts abolish at long last those “standards” with which every great jazzman since Armstrong has carried on an exhausting and, despite an occasional victory, perfectly fruitless struggle?

Will he supply the Lester Youngs and Charlie Parkers of the future with new themes that will constitute a loftier challenge to their talents? Yet hardly has this hope been uttered, than Monk himself dashes it by rehashing a theme as insignificant as Just a Gigolo (though, again, this may not be the retreat that it seems, but simply one more assault on that fortress where great treasures lay hidden).

Are we dealing with the return of the prodigal child, exhausted by his travels, or the obstinate – though perhaps hopeless – labor of the gold digger who never says die? This is the only alternative to be deduced from Monk’s constant and disconcerting seesaw motion. For it goes without saying that I refuse to accept the intermediate hypothesis, whereby a man who has upset the very fundamentals of the jazz repertory is really satisfied with these degradingly insipid popular songs. If this were true he would have followed the examples of Garner and Tatum and sought a wider choice of melodies for, as it has often been remarked, his is unprecedentedly narrow. In recording sessions and public performances, as well as in his own practice periods, Monk plays the same pieces over and over again. We may find his choice of tunes surprising, not so his desire to limit himself, for it is one of the most characteristic channels of expression for his basic feeling of dissatisfaction.

It is Monk who first introduced a sense of musical time into jazz; the interest of this new dimension does not, however, lie solely in its foreshadowing the destruction of a thematic lore to which the vast majority of jazzmen – and their public, as well – still seem very much attached. Of course, this battle is worth waging – and winning. Some may miss But Not for Me or April in Paris the way others will miss Honeysuckle Rose; their sentimental attachment to a tradition blinds them to the fact that these very tunes are the most damning evidence against that tradition. The real problem, however, is situated on a higher plane; the repertory question is merely a necessary, though attenuated reflection of that problem, which is to determine whether or not form – I haven’t lost sight of it – can become an active ingredient of the jazzman’s poetic universe. Musical time is one of the two main props sustaining this notion of form; the other is musical space. And Monk has revolutionized musical space as much as musical time.

Let’s look at Monk’s accompanying technique. Is Miles Davis right in saying that he doesn’t give the soloists any support? Would it not be more accurate to say that he gives them a new kind of support, which jars with the more traditional notions of Miles, but which might be capable of stimulating the improvisational gifts of a less self-assured soloist? Referring to his collaboration with Monk at the Five Spot, John Coltrane has said: “I learned a lot with him. … It’s another great experience.” If we are to believe Bobby Jaspar, who says that Monk and Coltrane “attained the highest summits of jazz expression,” the two musicians must have gotten along fairly well. Personally, however, I must admit that I have never heard any soloist (except perhaps Milt Jackson) who wasn’t bothered to some extent by Monk’s approach; nor can I easily conceive of a soloist to whom Monk’s accompaniment would be indispensable in the way that Roach’s was to Parker.

Indeed, Monk brings to his accompaniment a concept of discontinuous musical space, which I have yet to find in the playing of either Coltrane or Rollins. Making the most of the piano’s specific qualities, he has built his accompanying style on a system of isolated or contiguous note-groups which contrast with one another through sudden changes of register. The mountains he pushes up, the valleys he hollows out cannot, of course, pass unnoticed. Yet Monk is not trying to show off or create an illusion of orchestral accompaniment. Even while seeking to free himself of the soloist, Monk’s ultimate goal is to exalt him anew by enveloping his melody with an aura of polyphony. The assistance given soloists by the discreet vigilance of the traditional accompanist, whose only concern is to clarify tricky harmonic passages, always results in a pedantic formal subservience; because of their close interrelationship, both parts are subjected to the strict rules of a hierarchical system which allows for no value inversions whatsoever. Thus, ever since the end of the New Orleans era, improvised jazz has deliberately confined itself within very narrow limits, the very limits from which even Italian opera, despite its formal poverty, managed to escape from time to time: accompanied melody considered as the only possible form of musical discourse. Monk’s sudden jumps from one register to the next constitute a far more drastic attempt at transcendency than previous devices (such as that of dividing a chorus into shared four-bar sequences the way modern jazzmen do). The soloist’s supremacy has been challenged at last but Monk has gone even further than that; his technique restores to jazz that polyphonic fabric that was once so important, through the new notion of discontinuity. This twofold contribution may greatly complicate the task of future soloists, but jazzmen have already shown that they were capable of rising to challenges of this sort.

Similarly, while this conception of accompaniment implies a promotion of the accompanist, it also makes great demands on the musician who accepts it. Continual changes of register do not automatically make one a genius; these changes must be the expression of an interior vision which must, in turn, derive from a keen insight into musical space and time. Ten years of mediocre row music have taught us that discontinuity can, at times, be nothing better than an alibi for incoherence. If Monk’s conceptions win out, it will be much more difficult to be a good accompanist in the future. Monk himself is a great accompanist – or more precisely a great background organizer. He has a marvelous gift for measuring the weight of a given dissonance and the density of a given attack in order to combine and place them at that precise point in musical space where their impact will be most effective, relative to the length of time he intends to hold the note and, above all, to the length of the surrounding silences – in other words in function of a subtle spacetime relationship which no jazzman before him, not even Parker, had ever experienced in all its urgent beauty.

Once this is established, it matters little that Monk is not, as some say, a great harmonist, in the usual sense. Anyone who is bent on destroying all those insipid ballads with their attractive chords must agree to abandon most of that harmonic cast-off. The pretty passing chord with its Ravel-like savor nearly killed jazz; I say let it die, and good riddance! Monk is accused of depersonalizing the chord; I say more power to him. He is also accused of establishing, in his own themes, a system of extreme dissonances, which is likely to invade jazz as a whole. This may be so, but it may also be the only condition under which he can rejuvenate the conflict of tension and repose, shifted by him from the domain of harmony to that of registers.

Though by and large Monk’s solos are less daring than his accompaniments, occasionally they are far more so. The solo idiom enables him to play a dominant role in the form of the collective work, shaping it in terms of that basic choice between symmetrical and asymmetrical structures. Prior to Monk, Charlie Parker had already brought a certain melodic and rhythmic discontinuity to jazz, but in order for this idea to have germinated in his work the Bird would have had to reconsider his highly traditional approach to the set pattern. Such a reappraisal would undoubtedly have led him to a new form of structural equilibrium. Within more modest limits, Gerry Mulligan did have the courage to transgress this basic notion of the set pattern, but his innovation belongs to the composer’s rather than the improviser’s domain; it was probably more accidental than deliberate, and did not deeply affect the basic substance of a musical vision still governed by the notions of symmetry and continuity.

If one examines separately Parker’s discontinuity and Mulligan’s unorthodox patterns, Monk may seem less advanced than they, but this is a mere optical illusion. Only in Monk’s music do asymmetry and discontinuity enhance one another, thereby assuming their full, symbiotic significance. This symbiosis is highlighted successively by each of the other components of a language which, though not yet thoroughly coherent, is nevertheless sufficiently well-formed to have already given us glimpses of the role that formal abstraction can play in jazz (as in the Bags’ Groove solo).

The principle underlying Monk’s chief structural contribution is one of brilliant simplicity. The incorporation of shifting, asymmetrical structures into a symmetrical type of fixed “combo” structure constitutes an obvious, though partial, solution to the problem of form in jazz – so obvious in fact that I am surprised no one ever thought of it before. Monk made no attempt to escape from the closed circle of the twelve bar chorus; he simply reorganized it along less baldly “rational” lines. In other words, he has done for jazz structures what two generations of musicians before him had done for jazz rhythms. There is a very fine analogy here between, on the one hand, the play of rhythmic tension and repose stemming from the arrangement of figures and stresses with respect to a permanent tempo, and, on the other, that formally static – or kinematic – situation resulting from the symmetrical or asymmetrical balance of a set of secondary structures within a fixed primary structure. Compared with the rhythmic concepts of Chick Webb, those of Kenny Clarke constituted a decisive step toward asymmetry and discontinuity; this forward leap created a gap which has been filled at last by Monk’s comparable advance on the level of form.

True, this is only a partial solution to the problem; the structural conflict devised by Monk does not suffice to establish the over-all formal unity of a piece. Other than the style, the only unifying elements in his music are unity of tempo and key, a unified range of timbres and an over-all sequential framework; these constitute a foundation that is far too weak to sustain that deep, inner life-beat which we know to be the highest and most secret form of musical expression.

The chief problem facing the creative jazzman today is, to my mind, that of capping the piecemeal unity that has been achieved on the structural level with a true, organic unity.

There are two ways – and it would seem, only two – of reaching this still distant goal. One may be called thematic; it implies a constant effort on the part of the improviser to remain in contact with the original theme, as he infers from each new variation a whole set of fresh material intimately related to both the theme itself and the various transformations it will have undergone on the way. According to a recent essay by Gunther Schuller, Sonny Rollins has succeeded in making important progress in this field (which Monk has not disdained to prospect, either).

I must confess, however, that I cannot share this eminent critic’s enthusiasm for the thematic approach as conceived by Rollins. The large proportion of his solos devoted to ad lib playing compared with the brevity of the thematically connected sections, inclines me to feel that, despite the appreciable results obtained by this outstanding saxophonist in these thematic passages, thematic improvisation is a delusion to be avoided. Several centuries ago this field was opened to the investigations of the individual composer, and I expect that it should remain his domain. The improviser is most likely wasting his time in attempting to appropriate it. A soloist with an extraordinary memory (and a thorough mastery of composition) might conceivably improvise fifteen or twenty choruses and still remain strictly thematic, in other words take account of all the various intermediary situations arising on the way. But in a less utopian perspective, I am afraid that the thematic approach can only sterilize jazzmen’s sense of improvisation. If they are at all concerned with rigor they will gradually be led to “crystallize” their solos, so to speak. Many will probably regard the thematic approach as a mere recipe with which to fill the gaps in their imagination, while the others will behave like the water-carrier who, for lack of a magic rod to strike forth fresh springs along her path, must continually return to the same well.

One may wonder whether a thematic revolution in jazz would have much point today, when the thematic approach is vanishing from serious Western music. I would never claim, of course, that jazz can take a short cut to that arduous, esoteric realm from which the very notion of theme is banished. It is completely unprepared for such a jump, and I do not feel, in any case, that jazz, which is tonal and modal by nature, need seek its salvation in that direction. The search for formal concepts peculiar to jazz is a special problem for which jazzmen must find a special solution. Monk’s solution, though related in some ways to the formal conceptions of serious modern music, is not indebted, for its guiding principle, to any school of music, past or present, which is foreign to jazz; this, I feel, is essential.

His solution seems to have grown out of a number of obsessions which crop up in recordings done during the fall and winter of 1954. The most famous of these – Blue Monk and Bags’ Groove – have a strange kinship; it is as though the first were a prefiguration of the second. Blue Monk contains nearly all the structural elements which were to serve as a basis for the idiom of Bags’ Groove; if it seems less “pure” than the later solo, this is because its structures are not correctly situated with respect to formal space and time. Monk’s solo in Bags’ Groove constitutes, to my knowledge, the first formally perfect solo in the history of jazz. With it was born the notion, to my mind primordial, that a space-time dialectic is possible in jazz, even when it is weighed down by symmetrical superstructures and their rigid, apparently ineradicable, tonal foundations. This unique achievement of Monk’s goes to prove that, above and beyond the traditional “theme and variations” (or rather “sequential variation”) a musical tissue can renew itself indefinitely as it goes along, feeding on its own progression as it leaps from one transformation to the next. This concept, which may be called “open form,” is both thematic and “athematic”; it constitutes an unexpected illustration, through jazz, of the existentialist axiom, “existence precedes essence,” and is admirably suited, by its very nature, to that “spur of the moment” art form which is musical improvisation. Moreover, I am convinced that some of the best choruses of the great improvisers of the past already contained the embryo of a notion which was left to Thelonious Monk to bring to light. The key to this emancipation seems to have lain in his earlier discovery of the catalysing effect that asymmetrical structures can have on symmetrical ones.

This contribution could not, however, lead him directly to that supreme realm of musical form where the very existence of a work of art – a collective work, in any case – is determined. Still, his contribution as a bandleader is very appreciable, if less revolutionary than some of his achievements as a soloist.

Roger Guérin has given us the following description of the formula used by Monk last summer at the Five Spot in almost all the pieces played with his quartet: after the statement of the theme, the tenor would take a great many choruses, accompanied only by bass and drums; then Monk would gradually worm his way into this trio and the increasing density of his accompaniment would rapidly lead the tenor to conclude. Monk would now go into his main solo; after a few choruses, however, his playing would tend to grow gradually sparser until it became the background for a bass solo; the piece would end with a restatement of the theme, preceded only occasionally by a solo on the drums. Compared with the usual succession of choruses, this form, which may be regarded as a jazz equivalent of the “tiling process” first used by Stravinsky in the Rite of Spring (the piano “covering up” the tenor only to be “covered up” by the double bass) represents an immense forward stride. The weakness of this procedure lies in its invariability, for when applied to a group of pieces it becomes a mold and constitutes a reversion to the aesthetic level which Monk had surpassed with such mastery in Bags’ Groove. Monk’s sense of form has not yet been extended to the band per se and though an extraordinary theme writer, and a unique improviser, he may simply not have the means to do so. The realization of the all-encompassing formal concept implicit in his ideas may have to await the intrusion into jazz of that foreign species, the composer.

The scope and gravity of the problems raised in this chapter, the reappraisal of jazz as a whole which they imply, plus my own awareness that I have proposed only very partial solutions to them, make it, I feel, unnecessary for me to enter as deeply as I might into the minor facets of this great musician’s gifts. It is generally agreed that Monk periodically lapses into the errors of his youth, that he resorts to facile piano tricks, and is not a great keyboard technician. But then Art Tatum was a great keyboard technician, and look what he did with his virtuosity! Even that cruel, sarcastic humor of Monk’s, though it has real depth, is, in the last analysis, merely an incidental aspect of his musical temperament.

I like to remember that one of the great composers of our time, a man who can hardly be accused of any indulgence for jazz, once listened to the Bags’ Groove solo with an ear that was more than merely attentive. Disregarding the tiny technical defects, he immediately grasped the meaning of the acute struggle between the disjunct phrasing and those pregnant silences, experiencing the tremendous pressure that Monk exerts on his listeners, as if actually to make them suffer. When the record was over, just one remark was enough to compensate for all the rebuffs that the mediocrities of jazz had made me suffer from his lips; it was made in connection with the F sharp that follows a series of C’s and F’s in Monk’s first chorus, and which, for all its brevity, constitutes one of the purest moments of beauty in the history of jazz. “Shattering,” was my friend’s only comment.

The recorded works of Parker and even Armstrong are probably more substantial and more consistently successful than the erratic and restricted music of Monk; yet there are moments, fleeting though no doubt they are, when Monk rises to summits which neither Armstrong nor Parker, in their records at any rate, ever managed to reach. It is not unthinkable that in the eyes of posterity Monk will be THE jazzman of our time, just as Debussy is now seen to have been THE composer of the period immediately preceding the first World War. I am not in the habit of making predictions, but I will say that I would be deeply happy if this one were to prove correct. It is always possible that Monk himself would not recognize the portrait I have drawn of him here, and that I have merely deepened the misunderstanding that I wished to dispel. Let us hope, however, that beneath an outer skin which to some seems rough and dry, and to others delightfully provocative, I have managed to reach the core of that strange fruit which is the music of Thelonious Monk.