Daniel Rosenberg reviews Jazz and Justice: Racism and the Political Economy of the Music by Gerald Horne.
Capitalism turns art into product, which is put on the shelf with other products. Here you have something that is really precious, that really mirrors the human experience, it speaks to the human experience, the emotional experience. It should be respected, but it’s not. Once jazz moved from creative music to product, it lost its place, jazz lost its stature, its identity. As soon as capitalism enters the equation, there’s no caring about the artistic properties that jazz as a music makes available. Capitalism tends to bring out the negative side of the human mind.
— Julian Priester, trombonist
Dr. Gerald Horne, Moores Professor of History at the University of Houston, is well-respected for his research in U.S. and world history. In his seventh decade, his scope stands virtually unmatched: seminal works on slavery and the American Revolution; penetrating books on South African apartheid, Brazil, Japan, the Caribbean, and India; biographies of labor organizer Ferdinand Smith, artist Paul Robeson, screenwriter John Howard Lawson, author Shirley Graham Du Bois, and Communist leaders William L. Patterson and Ben Davis. Insofar as his research spans the conflicts of capitalism, he contextually turns his attention to the arts. Given the contexts of flammable entrenched racism in U.S. policy and ideology, jazz too needs Horne’s withering criticism of its impacts on musicians.
Professor Horne acknowledges his debt to such previous authors of American jazz as Frank Kofsky, Amiri Baraka, Sidney Finkelstein, Robin Kelley, and Eric Hobsbawm. He also acknowledges the biographies of pianists Thelonious Monk and Bud Powell, and saxophonists Lester Young and Charlie Parker. Among Horne’s wide sources are the recently released tribute by Maxine Gordon to her husband, saxophonist Dexter Gordon, and the Georgetown professor Maurice Jackson’s new volume on jazz in Washington D.C. Both critical and supportive readers of his interpretation must acknowledge the character and magnitude of his sources: first of all the oral histories of hundreds of musicians at the National Museum of American History and the Institute of Jazz Studies at Rutgers. His new book sustains Dr. Horne’s reputation as an indefatigable researcher. He mined the collections of letters of Sonny Rollins, Max Roach, Ross Russell (a record producer with leftwing origins), Dave Brubeck, Erroll Garner, and Willis Conover (the Voice of America’s jazz host). Of special interest is Horne’s use of the Nevada State Gaming Board Records and other primary sources shedding light on organized crime’s impact upon jazz artists.
Each chapter title, taken from a musical composition, album, or concept, denotes a period of jazz from the beginning of the 20th century to the present. Horne argues that that history of jazz was marked not only by its evolving styles but by the forms of racial exploitation and discrimination experienced by Black artists and their various ways of struggling against this racism. The first chapter is thus titled “Original Jelly Roll Blues,” exploring the origins of racism in jazz at its New Orleans foundations. A section named “Hot House,” from a composition by pianist Tadd Dameron, examines the development of racism in the music’s economic system into the 1940s.
Dameron’s “Hot House” by Charlie Parker
A chapter called “Haitian Fight Song” (a piece authored by the politically aware bassist Charles Mingus) shows the resistance to racism by musicians in the decade that followed, which included establishing their own record labels and fighting intensively for proper recognition and compensation. Pianist Billy Taylor’s “I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free” heralds Horne’s attention to the civil rights orientation of numerous artists.
Nina Simone, “I Wish I Knew How it Would Feel to be Free”
“Song for Che” by bassist Charlie Haden (strongly identified with the Left) headlines the chapter illustrating radical criticism of the industry’s powers-that-be.
Charlie Haden, “Song for Che”
Horne shows that the unreliability of work has been a hallmark of the difficult conditions under which jazz musicians live. Many jazz artists had to make living by means other than their art: saxophonist Ike Quebec (taxi driver), pianist Cecil Taylor (restaurant worker), drummer Roy Haynes (whiskey salesman), trombonist J.J. Johnson (post office) and saxophonist Big Nick Nicholas (post office), trumpeter Jimmy Owens (hospital worker). Numerous musicians, such as Gigi Gryce, C.I. Williams and Vi Redd became teachers, not only out of love for education but also by necessity.
Horne submits that while U.S. capitalism produces an insecure environment for all artists, the exigencies of racism cut far more profoundly into the work of African American jazz musicians than others. They were denied exposure, radio airplay, and jukebox access, barred from clubs entirely, or if permitted to perform then only under strictly segregated conditions. The policy prevailed well outside the South. Horne points out that the existence of segregated clubs in California prompted union leader Harry Bridges to lead a campaign against them. Working conditions on the road were especially challenging: finding food, accommodations, relief of thirst, and basic comfort entailed a frustrating, often violent-prone search. Dizzy Gillespie, Charlie Parker, Benny Carter, Miles Davis, and Bud Powell were assaulted, either by audience members or police.
Horne suggests the “candelabra” thesis of jazz evolution and expanse. Sourced in culture-rich New Orleans that had a history of opera as well as popular and music education base, with abundant Cuban, French, Mexican, and African music, jazz migrated along Mississippi River and along train routes to become a national presence. Horne stresses the Cuban contributions to jazz both at the roots and thereafter (as heard in the music of violinist Regina Carter and trumpeters Dizzy Gillespie and Roy Hargrove). He also notes that numerous jazz musicians had Native American cultural roots.
Horne explains how certain cities became virtual training centers for jazz including Memphis, Washington DC, Philadelphia, and others whose vital currents Horne charts thoroughly. He shows how the St. Louis area became a virtual geyser for jazz musicians producing Oliver Lake, Julius Hemphill, Hamiet Blueitt, Miles Davis, Clark Terry, Marvin Horne, Grant Green, C.I. Williams, Jimmy Forrest, Frank Chapman, John Hicks, Ronnie Burrage. Young musicians bid for admission to highly reputed music programs at high schools like Cass Tech in Detroit, DuSable in Chicago. Pittsburgh produced Art Blakey, Stanley Turrentine, Billy Eckstine, Mary Lou Williams, Erroll Garner, Ahmad Jamal, George Benson, and Billy Strayhorn.
A major highlight of the book is Horne’s exposure of the role of organizing crime in the history of jazz. Horne explains the centrality or organized crime in various aspects of U.S. entertainment from night clubs to managers, producers, and record companies). Agents, producers, club owners stole wages, diverted royalties, purloined copyrights. Horne cites the cases of singer Betty Carter, pianist Earl Hines, saxophonist Gigi Gryce.
Gangsters used violence against musicians. “Birdland,” the club named for Charlie Parker, was run by organized crime figures. Jazz venues exhibited a ubiquity of guns, threats and beatings. Clarinetist Woody Herman suffered gunshot wounds while listening to pianist Earl Hines at a club run by Al Capone. Accordingly, some musicians armed themselves. Las Vegas that emerged as a performance space after World War II spurred the growth of performance opportunities but was entirely under the domination of organized crime. Horne does not shrink from appraising another contradictory event: as previously segregated white and African American locals of the American Federation of Musicians merged, the issues most pertinent to black musicians often became obscured, while the union at the same time advanced demands for better conditions.
Organized crime also stood as the chief purveyor of drugs wherever musicians worked. In the capacity of club owners and record executives, gangsters worked upon the time-tested observation that addicts would be easier to manipulate and less likely to challenge unfair conditions. Horne proves the inextricable tie between drug addiction and the political economy of jazz. Dexter Gordon, Miles Davis, Art Blakey, Elvin Jones, and Hank Mobley went to prison. So did saxophonist Gerry Mulligan. Woody Herman’s band was filled with heroin addicts. The line of wasted musicians stretches tragically: Lee Morgan, Sonny Clark, Bobby Timmons, Serge Chaloff, Charlie Parker, Anita O’Day, and on. Horne focuses on three record companies under dubious ownership: Prestige, the “junkies’ label,” paying artists just enough to buy narcotics, thus using drugs as currency; Roulette, controlled by the Genovese criminal enterprise; and Savoy, replete with strong arm tactics.
Violence, threats, and discrimination took a toll on musicians’ health. Pianist Fats Waller drank himself to death. Cheated by record contracts, Gigi Gryce descended into paranoia. Saxophonist Oliver Nelson died of exhaustion. Pilloried by critics (for playing “too fast”) the virtuosic pianist Phineas Newborn retreated into isolation and mental illness. Flutist Hubert Laws recalled that the social pressures of segregation made him physically sick.
Horne returns repeatedly to the abuses faced by female jazz artists. They were taken advantage of by promoters, and were mocked, ridiculed, and harassed by critics and the public. Lena Horne and Billie Holiday drew radical conclusions from such experiences. So did singer Abbey Lincoln, singer-pianist Shirley Horn and singer-saxophonist Vi Redd. Redd performed benefits for Left organizations, including the W.E.B Du Bois Clubs. (Fellow saxophonist John Handy did as well). Witness Redd’s defiant rendition of the lyrics to Charlie Parker’s “Anthropology”:
I hope you see that all of us need urgently To stick together on the family tree Brothers and sisters here on earth And now before it’s too late You better dig what its worth
Vi Redd, “Anthropology”
Horne recounts the denial of jobs to Redd, “having to cope with a never-ending flow of words laced liberally with sexual overtones made by bandmates and fans alike.” The pioneering pianist Mary Lou Williams stuck to her advanced harmonies (exemplified by her “Zodiac Suite”) despite pressures to commercialize and capitulate to racist stereotyping.
Mary Lou Williams, “Taurus” from Zodiac Suite
Many musicians protested segregation and fought for equality. Horne notes a tendency of post-World War II musicians to confront Jim Crow more openly than they had before. However, they had predecessors. Trumpeter Frankie Newton (a Communist), pianist Art Hodes, bandleader Artie Shaw, and singer Billie Holiday opposed segregation and discrimination early on. Such promoters or club owners on the Left as Barney Josephson and Norman Granz refused to segregate venues and performers. The late 40s witnessed a step up in political defiance. Drummer Max Roach, saxophonists Benny Carter and Buddy Collette, pianist Randy Weston, and trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie were among those identifying with Paul Robeson’s and W.E.B. Du Bois’ anti-racist stances. Miles Davis performed at the founding convention of the leftwing Labor Youth League. While some musicians expressed their resistance by turning toward the left, other African American musicians found orthodox Islam appealing. A number, like guitarist Grant Green, later joined the Nation of Islam, which would regular feature jazz performers at weekly events.
In another sign of protest, numerous musicians left the United States in the 1950s and after, continuing a minor theme going back to the 20s. Paris, Tokyo, Stockholm, Copenhagen, Amsterdam beckoned. The roster of musicians leaving included Johnny Griffin, Dexter Gordon, Lucky Thompson, Steve Lacy, Myra Taylor and Abbey Lincoln, Kenny Clarke, and Art Farmer. Horne’s research into this realm is extensive. While other capitalist countries have histories of discrimination and inequality, playing crucial roles in subjugating other nations, they were places where African American and other musicians felt more welcome than in their own country. Max Roach said: “Europeans are more cosmopolitan than people here.” In Japan, observed singer Shirley Horn, “They respect the musician.” Saxophonist Johnny Griffin’s residence in Europe taught him that “the government puts a lot of money into the arts.” “We have to go to other nations for our careers,” Lincoln explained. In France, asserted saxophonist James Moody, “People took you for what you were and they…didn’t discriminate against you.”
Frustrated by the violations of composer’s copyright and the wholesale theft of royalties, a number of players endeavored to start their own record companies or otherwise exert control over the music. Among these pioneers were Gigi Gryce, Charles Mingus (who with Roach set up Debut Records) and Charles Tolliver (who started Strata-East Records). Some musicians became openly involved in civil rights actions and organizations. Notable among them were Miles Davis, Sonny Rollins, Charles Mingus, and Oscar Brown, Jr. Charlie Parker performed at a benefit for Smith Act victim and Harlem hero Ben Davis. He also signed the Left-initiated anti-nuke Stockholm Peace Appeal. Mingus wrote “Fables of Faubus,” a torrid attack on Arkansas’ segregationist governor.
Charles Mingus, “Fables of Faubus”
Rollins issued his “Freedom Suite,” Max Roach and Abbey Lincoln the “Freedom Now Suite,” Art Blakey “The Freedom Rider.” Black musicians were not alone in taking political stands. Horne points out that that the white pianist Marian McPartland and white bassist Charlie Haden were outspoken critics of Jim Crow. The case of pianist Dave Brubeck was especially interesting, since he endangered his own successful career by refusing to change the make-up of his racially diverse band and refusing to accept offers to perform in segregated venues.
In the 60s and 70s, jazz artists gave benefit concerts for the imprisoned Angela Davis and Black Panthers. Trumpeters Lee Morgan and Don Cherry publicized their admiration for Davis; Morgan and pianist Herbie Hancock dedicated music to her. Charlie Haden, saxophonist Archie Shepp and Max Roach participated in Communist party festivals in Portugal, Italy, and France.
Jazz and Justice: Racism and the Political Economy of the Music by Gerald Horne. New York: Monthly Review Press, 2019. $27. Pp 456. This article first appeared in Marxism-Leninism Today.
Dan Rosenberg offers an appreciation of Sidney Finkelstein, who died on 14 January 1974.
Out Jumped Sidney
The Marxist cultural critic Sidney Finkelstein lived in a suitcase in my mother’s closet. My parents never used the suitcase in question for travel. When I was around 13, in 1966, I asked my father what the deal was with this suitcase. He put it on the big bed and opened it up, and out jumped several hundred pamphlets, booklets, and magazines, with materials by Finkelstein among them. They were all publications of the Communist Party USA, to which my parents, along with Finkelstein, belonged. Having worn red diapers all my life I was not completely taken by surprise, but my dad went on to explain that during the McCarthy period of the 1950s, (coinciding with my infancy) we had gone underground.
My parents lived a secret existence on the recommendation of the Party in the face of potential fascism. And my mother and father had cleaned out many of their books, while locking up the remainder in the green suitcase, which remained in hiding for more than ten years.
Encounters with Jazz
Upon Sidney’s release from the suitcase, I was able to read his articles on the arts and proceeded to acquire at last his fundamental book on jazz: Jazz: A People’s Music. Sidney came out of the suitcase in the form of articles written for a magazine once called Masses & Mainstream and then Mainstream. My eyes rested first on one with an orange cover. Finkelstein had the headlining article: “Jazz: National Expression or International Folk Music.” It appeared in 1960. That was the year I had begun studying the drums under the percussionist Roger “Montego Joe” Sanders in Brooklyn, from whom I learned a bit about improvising. [I learned a little later that he worked with Nina Simone, and much later that he recorded with Max Roach].
After the Beatles appeared in the U.S. in 1964, I went hunting across the radio dial in search of as much of their music as possible. When I could not find it on the AM stations, I turned in frustration to the ones on FM. This became an adventure culminating in two jazz stations at the far end, reception fading in and out although they were right there in New York City where I lived: WRVR and WLIB-FM. On the latter, I encountered the pianist Billy Taylor one afternoon as I struggled with my maths homework. He was the station’s most illustrious disc jockey, and he explained and taught between the records. In time, I found “Just Jazz with Ed Beach” on WRVR, featuring two and four-hour programmes on particular musicians, with Beach’s puns in the interludes. The names then appeared to me for the first time: Coleman Hawkins, Sonny Rollins, John Coltrane, Lee Morgan, Art Blakey, Freddie Hubbard, Hank Mobley. I never abandoned the Beatles, but more often I lived on the edge of the FM dial. In the same year I read Sidney’s article on jazz in Mainstream, my dad took me to see Duke Ellington at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.
Around and about the Left movement in New York City, I certainly had heard of Sidney Finkelstein. My piano teacher knew him well, and spoke of him often when I mentioned my growing interest in jazz. Her appraisal in 1966 was a mixture of admiration and pity. He could have done so much, could have gone so far with his knowledge in a more tolerant society. She thought of him as simply brilliant, but spoke rather snidely of the fact that he could not play an instrument. She described to me his hands and fingers: fat, she said. Ungainly. Clumsy, cumbersome, too thick for the delicacy of piano fingering. She went on about her friend Sidney: he lacked style, and was a bit crude. I did not think much about this. I did not know him yet. Besides, she wasn’t such a great teacher.
Meantime, I slowly made my way through the bushel of Finkelstein articles now free of underground existence. In a piece “How Art Began” (1954), Finkelstein discussed how early societies imaged their existences through artistic expression: pottery, increasingly embellished, for storage of food, water, and seeds; cave paintings, in depiction of the rituals of the hunt; burial tombs with carvings, portraits, and sculpture, culminating in pyramids; dances reflecting the rhythms of work, the gods, birth and death. Nothing arises from people more naturally than art, wrote Finkelstein. But in exploitive societies, the “ruling class sees only itself as human,” impacting the acceptable forms and depictions. Nevertheless, working and lower class populations find “ways and means to express in art the humanity of the ruled, the ‘nobodies.’”
He wrote on architecture, film, literature, painting, and poetry, and more than once on Shakespeare. I had difficulty understanding everything. Mainstream and Masses & Mainstream possessed an impressive board of editors, to which Sidney belonged from the outset in 1948. Screenwriters like John Howard Lawson, writers like Lloyd Brown, Howard Fast, Phillip Bonosky, Jesus Colon, Barbara Giles, and Shirley Graham, artists like Hugo Gellert, scholars like W.E.B. Du Bois, Herbert Aptheker, and Annette Rubenstein. Paul Robeson’s name was always on the masthead.
Most were in or close to the Communist Party. Party members on the magazine belonged to the same Party club or branch of people working in the field of culture. Blacklisted journal full-timers were not among those who went underground but instead worked as open Communists, including Sidney. Masses & Mainstream started as a fairly appealing and large-format left-wing journal (taking off from the widely circulated but defunct New Masses), but the Cold War and anti-Communist persecutions beat it down into the narrower Mainstream.
My parents rebuilt their book collection even before they took the magazines out of the suitcase, but they owned none of Sidney’s books. Later I acquired Realism in Art, How Music Expresses Ideas, Art and Society, Existentialism and Alienation in American Literature, Sense & Nonsense of McLuhan, and Composer and Nation. I showed a deft hand in obtaining books, sometimes without the knowledge of their owners. But in my mid-teens, Jazz: A People’s Music was the one I wanted. My aunt had a substantial collection of old jazz records, given by her father: a good deal of Billie Holiday, Benny Goodman, and Teddy Wilson. She had a four-album set of Louis Armstrong, also Duke Ellington’s Masterpieces by Ellington. Of these, she made a present to me in 1970. And when I was about to leave her house with the record-laden shopping bags, she gave me Jazz: A People’s Music. It appears that she was not the only one who made a present of it.
Back home, I studied it like the Bible. To this day, I am surprised that so few jazz historians and observers have mentioned his book. Then again, it was written in Cold War times. The well-known jazz critic Martin Williams certainly knew of Finkelstein, but told me in 1985 that he found it laughable for Marxists to write about jazz. His guffaw was instructive. Of those who commented favorably or drew upon the book, most were on or close to the Left: Francis Newton (the British historian E.J. Hobsbawm), Frank Kofsky, Amiri Baraka, and Ross Russell stood out. In his biography of Charlie Parker, Russell referred to Sidney as “a recluse,” “tough and hardboiled,” and “proletarian.”
I was soon thrilled to learn that Finkelstein would be coming to our house to lead a discussion on culture, sponsored by my parents’ Party club. I determined to obtain his autograph on the sacred day, which was a Friday in December 1970. The crowd was already sitting in our living and dining rooms when he arrived. I had been clutching the holy book all night, and I came running when he rang the bell. He entered the house and I was rendered speechless with fright. I quickly gave Jazz: A People’s Music to my brother Jesse and whispered that he should get Sidney to sign it for me. Sidney happily complied but autographed it “To Jesse with regards,” an everlasting humiliation whose ink is sadly still visible.
Jazz: A People’s Music
Finkelstein published his book on jazz in 1948. He dedicated it to the birth of modern Israel, which took place that year. There had as yet been no wars between Israel and the Arab states. Finkelstein hoped that Jews and Arabs might live together peacefully. Finkelstein’s subtitle, A People’s Music, reflected his belief that African-Americans were its initiators and developers. The belittling, ignoring, ridiculing, stereotyping, and commercializing of jazz, in his view, belonged to the overall oppression of African-Americans. Supporting, appreciating, teaching, listening, and exploring the theories and accomplishments of jazz musicians were on the other hand part and parcel of fighting for equality. Leftwing artist Jules Halfant supplied illustrations for Finkelstein’s book. As Art Director of Vanguard Records during Finkelstein’s later years, Halfant hired Sidney to write liner notes. Sidney often gave Joan Baez and other Vanguard LPs to his friends. When I knew Halfant, he was on the board of a progressive Jewish children’s school in Brooklyn, which one of my brothers attended.
At the time Jazz: A People’s Music was published Finkelstein held to the Communist Party’s view that the African-American people in the United States were an oppressed nation. U.S. Communists particularly applied the thesis to the contiguous areas of black majority or near majority in a region of Southern states, strongholds of slavery a century before. Their espousal of “self-determination” shared certain characteristics with anti-colonial movements in Asia and Africa.
Finkelstein’s first chapter is one of the clearest outlines of the emergence of a field of music. He asserts, “This genuine creation within jazz is an imposing production, the most important and lasting body of music yet produced in the United States.” Thanks to the best in jazz (for he saw the influences of commercialism and branding), “our age will be respected in the future.” But jazz stemmed from many influences, thus assimilating old elements into a “wholly new music.” Since its main innovators came from “the most exploited people among us,” Finkelstein was not surprised that by its white evaluators “it is called…‘barbaric.’” Significant achievement lay in their incorporation of African musical styles, “European hymn tunes, French folk songs, Spanish songs and dances, mountain songs and dances which were transplanted growths from Europe.”
The Black Belt, 1936
It was above all “a fresh and new musical creation” of the “Negro people.” And, wrote Finkelstein in 1948, they constituted “a group within America, a nation within a nation.” Bringing together the Marxist criteria, he observed that African-Americans, “bound together by their common economic life and struggle…have built up a history, tradition, and cultural life of their own, along with a growing sense of their own nationhood.” U.S. Communists would eventually abrogate the nationhood theory in the face of crucial socio-economic developments. But they nonetheless maintained the conviction that the fight for black equality was indeed a “national question” central to the rights of all working people.
Finkelstein explained that jazz is both simple and intricate, containing group, individual, social and reciprocal components. He objected strenuously to biased assertions of the “subconscious,” natural,” and indeed “primitive” attributes of jazz improvising. On the contrary, “jazz is a flow of emotion in music guided by the most conscious skill, taste, artistry, and intelligence.” The notion that “musicians who can’t read notes” create jazz tends to cheapen the integrity of improvisation. His extended treatment of the magnificent Duke Ellington is a comprehensive argument for the intelligence at the core of jazz. More than anyone else, submits Finkelstein, Ellington’s “handling of instrumental sound, …power of melody, …rightness of harmony and interweaving of melodic lines…made many products of the conservatories seem, by comparison, mechanical and bloodless.” Ellington’s “unity and variety” often appeared through three movements of a composition: “an opening theme, which is actually a group of two or three melodies, and is antiphonal from the very first bars.” This “A” section of a piece might be played twice. The “B” which followed was “frequently the section where the blues enter, often treated as a series of solos or duets.” The closing reiteration of “A” always contained “a new harmonic twist, a cadence of instrumental reply, rounding out the performance like the classical ‘coda.’”
Finkelstein made many of the same points on jazz complexity in his other writings on music. The same year that Jazz: A People’s Music came out he published “What About Bebop” in the September Masses & Mainstream. Here he discussed the latest genre in greater detail than in the book. He defended the startling new sound, whose beacon was Charlie Parker, as in full keeping with the “constant experiment and change” characteristic of the “main line of jazz.” He showed its constituent past, the blues and the music of Kansas City and the Southwest epitomized by Count Basie and Lester Young. He pointed out that a certain “bitterness” came through this particularly “witty” music marked by “unresolved dissonances, chromatic notes, common chords with raised or lowered notes.” It demanded “musical tight-rope walking” and “the most knowing musicianship.” Finkelstein reminded his readers that bebop again revealed “the pre-eminence of the Negro musician in every new development of jazz.”
His bebop article welcomed the other heralds of the new style: trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie, drummers Max Roach and Art Blakey, saxophonists Wardell Gray, Dexter Gordon, and Lucky Thompson, pianists Thelonious Monk and Tadd Dameron, trombonist J.J. Johnson. In another venue, Finkelstein warned: “Always in jazz, each innovation that found a public was immediately vulgarized, commercialized, and imitated by white musicians who made far more money than the genuine black originators.” Elsewhere he added that black jazz musicians faced pressures not to remain creative: “to clown, to play a role dictated by managers, agents, and sensation-mongers.” Moreover “powerful commercial music houses” would rather the artist “plug” or “put over” the “songs they want to make into hits.” And in “Jazz: National Expression or International Folk Music” (mentioned above), he took issue with his fellow Communist E.J. Hobsbawm for failing to appreciate the crucial role of African-Americans in shaping jazz, to which he devoted the entire final chapter of his history of classical music, Composer and Nation.
A Master Class with Finkelstein
On the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend 1971, about a month before my 18th birthday, I went over to Sidney Finkelstein’s house. He had just moved to our neighborhood. I brought Jazz: A People’s Music with me. While at college that Fall I had made careful notes about music I wished to explore and discuss with him. Although my earliest jazz discoveries included the musicians most eminent when I was a teenager, particularly John Coltrane, my focus on this day was the tenor saxophonist Young and the alto saxophonist Parker. I especially wanted to listen to Young’s recordings with Count Basie from the 1930s.
True, I had picked up a Basie album in one of the record stores in the town of State College, Pennsylvania, but it dated from the 1940s band that had Lucky Thompson on tenor. I would come to respect Thompson as a superior musician and composer, but at the time I was set on deepening my understanding of Young, and his disciple Parker. Finkelstein remarked that Count Basie “was strong in the one point where [Duke] Ellington had been comparatively weak. Ellington had never made much of the solo tenor sax…” This point may have been truer when Sidney’s Jazz was published (though at the same time he recognized the importance of tenorist Ben Webster to Ellington), but Ellington would make much greater use of tenor soloists in later years, especially Paul Gonsalves. In any case, I wanted to hear the Basie sound with Young, which Sidney described so evocatively: the opening spare piano on so many pieces, the powerful bass and rhythm guitar, the drummer Jo Jones’ mastery of the high-hat, and the powerful riffs behind and in between the soloists.
Sidney opened up the door and let me in. It was a sprawling house. A burly fellow, he drew me into his living room, which contained built-in bookcases on every wall. Perhaps he had more upstairs. I was envious, books were packed like commuters struggling to breathe on the subway, floor to ceiling. My one-time neighbor, the great Puerto Rican Communist writer Jesús Colón, who had been an editor with Sidney of Masses & Mainstream, had had a similar set-up. But Jesús had lived in an apartment, towering his books in the hallways.
Sidney shelved his records similarly, in the dining room: all the walls were covered, even above the windows. He filed them by type: classical, folk, jazz, blues. Within each, he classified them by period and genre. At the end of each shelf, he attached a sign to guide his searches. The majority of his records were 78 RPMs, no surprise considering that this format had characterized music releases for most of his life. We had some 78s at home as well. From Sidney’s records, the root of the “album” concept was pretty obvious: a collection of songs, like a collection of photos. Here were a number of Teddy Wilson’s records with Billie Holiday and Lester Young, in a hardcover binder containing ten 78s, with two songs apiece. Over there were Benny Goodman sets, with Lionel Hampton, Gene Krupa, and Wilson. Like books, the spines of the binders held the titles.
But thousands of LPs took up one side of the dining room. I do not know how Sidney could get the ones from the upper reaches. I did not notice a ladder enabling him to do so, or to pluck a book from the thin atmosphere by the ceiling. I’m sure he had a way. I had told Sidney over the phone of my concentration on Young and Parker. In the most extreme Brooklyn accent I had ever heard, he confirmed the goal of our session. While he went over to the stacks of 78s, I browsed his long-playing records. Sidney knew where the desired 78s were, so I did not have much time. He had one shelf with the modern jazz names with which I had become initiated into jazz. I remember in living color: Sonny Rollins’ Saxophone Colossus, Charles Mingus’ Pithecanthropus Erectus, John Coltrane’s Giant Steps, and Ornette Coleman’s The Shape of Jazz to Come, an elite representation for sure.
Young and Parker
Sidney came back to the record player with a stack of albums of 78s. We began with “Lester Leaps In,” went then to “Dickie’s Dream” and “One O’ Clock Jump” (on which Young played the second tenor solo).....
.....and on to “Lester Leaps Again,” all with Basie. This was the first time I heard what Finkelstein had described as Lester Young’s “cloudier” tone on the tenor (contrasting nicely with the growl of his bandmate Herschel Evans), airy, lagging the beat, over and above the just plain cool rhythm section. I could not imagine a more effective platform for improvisation than Basie. “Setting the tone” was putting it mildly, cool, laid-back, but jumping. Finkelstein would start and stop the records to point things out to me, to suggest other songs to hear, to show contrast and dynamics. I recall that he was easy to talk to, unpretentious. Some of the other intellectuals in Communist circles were on the contrary quite stuck up.
My head was full. He asked if I wanted some tea. To me, tea was only something I drank when I was sick. I would have it on a tray with a thousand pounds of sugar, and drink it with a spoon. I said sure, and he disappeared into the kitchen. I listened to more music, and glanced again at the wall with LPs. Soon he returned, with tea, sugar, and a spoon. Though quite healthy, I was able to drink the stuff as accustomed. I asked if we might turn our attention to Charlie Parker. He walked over to the appropriately marked section of 78s and took down a few albums. In his book, he had emphasized “Slam Slam Blues,” “Congo Blues,” “Get Happy,” “Hallelujah,” “Ornithology,” “Buzzy,” and “Parker’s sick, nerve-wracked ‘Lover Man,’ made when he was at the point of collapse.” (Parker suffered a nervous breakdown in 1946). These were the pieces I wanted to hear.
To be sure, I was no perfect stranger to Parker. I had an LP of his called “Now’s the Time,” from the early 1950s. One of the 78s given me by my aunt was “Sweet Georgia Brown” from a 1946 concert. But I felt a need to seriously build up my appreciation of musicians before Coltrane, and to see how developments evolved. Sidney meanwhile asked if I wanted a ham and cheese sandwich. A fussy eater, I was no fan of ham, but said yes. I figured Sidney did not have much else in the refrigerator. It is possible that Ross Russell’s reference to Sidney, quoted above, as a “recluse” was accurate. Sidney put on the first 78, with “Hallelujah” on one side, with phenomenal solos by Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. The riff at the end was explosive. It was interesting to me that the pianist and tenor sax player were the relatively more “traditional” Teddy Wilson and Flip Phillips, respectively.
Finkelstein showed me that while jazz styles were distinct, they borrowed from and coexisted with older ones. We chomped and listened. He turned the record over. Parker continued. We heard “Congo Blues” (with another powerful closing riff and a sweeping solo by Wilson) and “Get Happy.” Eventually, during “Ornithology,”.....
....Sidney pointed out that it was based on another song called “How High the Moon,” an example of which he promptly withdrew from one of the shelves.
After this we listened to Parker’s “Buzzy.” We talked only between songs and between musicians. My tea got cold. I had been there three and a half hours. We had begun to tire. Wrapping up the lesson, I asked Sidney if I might borrow several LP albums to tape-record. I didn’t want to appear too greedy, so I narrowed my request to Coleman Hawkins’ The Hawk Flies High, a collection of Charlie Parker’s performances on the Dial record label (highlighted by “Cool Blues”), Charles Mingus’ Pithecanthropus Erectus, and Ben Webster’s Soulville. My stereo equipment at home was barely primitive. I would place a tape-recorder in front of the speakers of my record player. The resultant cassettes included my brothers laughing, my parents calling me down for dinner, arguments, and slamming doors. But I would have the music in any case.
However, this was only the first of our jazz conversations. About a month later, Sidney came over to my house for a meeting of the local Communist Party club, of which my parents were leaders. I brought down the albums I’d borrowed, and also had him listen to John Coltrane’s piece “Olé,” which was based on the melody of an anti-fascist song of the Spanish Civil War, “El Quinto Regimiento.” Finkelstein loved the extended performance, which featured Coltrane on soprano saxophone, Eric Dolphy on flute, and Freddie Hubbard on trumpet, all pacesetters.
And thereafter, whenever I saw Sidney, whether at a neighborhood political activity, a meeting, a demonstration, or a celebration, we talked about jazz.
I remember when Sidney passed away. I heard about it from my mother. I had actually seen him the summer before, at a petition drive on one of the main thoroughfares. He looked alright, but didn’t stay. But in early 1974, my mother told me that he wasn’t answering his phone or his doorbell. No one knew what had happened. The sense of concern extended to his lifelong friends Phillip Bonosky and Herbert Aptheker. Those closest to him did not know if he had a family. There was no one else to call. Finally, some of the club members were able to get into his house. He lay sprawled in a corner against a wall, beneath a column of books. He had had a stroke.
He died soon after, at 64. My teenage mind had played tricks on me back when we’d gotten together two years earlier: I’d thought he was ancient. Young folks are susceptible to vague calculations of advanced age. I may have known him, but I clearly did not know much about him. A New York Times obituary was bare bones. However, his personal papers at the University of Massachusetts show the scope of his work and career. He had two master’s degrees, including one earned when in his 40s. The notorious House Committee on Un-American Activities obliged him to testify in 1957 upon the subject of his Party membership (banned under the Smith Act). His reviews of culture had begun at several well-established papers prior to the Cold War. He had worked for the U.S. Post Office, before serving in the military during World War II. His second master’s thesis was on Picasso. A background note supplied by the University of Massachusetts library observes that he was the Communist Party’s “leading musical and cultural theoretician.” It calls Jazz: A People’s Music his “most famous” book.
I wonder how famous Finkelstein was and is. His books exerted a pull beyond the Left, but certainly did not draw the attention they merited when he was alive. Jazz: A People’s Music is now 70 years old. It remains in a second printing with a marvelous preface by Professor Geoffrey Jacques of the University of California at Santa Barbara, who traces many of the jazz developments after 1948 and places Finkelstein in historical context. Hundreds of works on jazz, many quite perceptive, have filled the genre’s shelves in the past seven decades. But Sidney’s is a foundational text. Analyses of jazz and society will therefore run aground if they fail to consult Jazz: A People’s Music.
Dan Rosenberg's writings include New Orleans Dockworkers: Race, Labor, and Unionism, Racism, Dissent and Asian Americans, Underground Communists in the McCarthy Period, and Between Mission and Market: The Freshman Year in a Corporate Age.
Greg Godels traces John Coltrane's revolutionary music against its 60s background of class conflict and Black liberation struggles.
John Coltrane died fifty years ago this past July. In 1967, his death, like his music, passed largely unnoticed by most people. Today, his name is part of music lore in the same way that Louis Armstrong and Charlie Parker are recognized by even those who haven't heard more than a few notes of their music. But in the 1960s, Coltrane's music was almost never heard on commercial radio or television, seldom offered on public air waves, and known by only a coterie of extremely passionate followers.
I was part of that group of devoted travelers on the Coltrane journey. His death hit me harder than the loss of almost anyone but my closest friends and relatives. His music shaped my sensibilities perhaps as much as anything in my formative years. Coltrane had that effect on many of his most committed followers. Were we a cult? Perhaps. But I would prefer to believe we were the fortunate few who had his music as an emotional, social, and intellectual influence, a powerful force shaping our worldview.
By the mid-1950s, Coltrane had risen to some prominence as a leading voice on tenor saxophone in African American improvisational music. Many saw Sonny Rollins, an extraordinarily lyrical player, as the only tenor rival among the generation of players spawned by the Bebop movement. Coltrane's more harmonically complex, urgent, and multi-note style could be seen as the culmination of the sophisticated innovators of New York-centered musicians like C. Parker and J. B. Gillespie of the 1940s. This mid-1950s current was often characterized as "Hard Bop."
Coltrane's work with Miles Davis and Thelonious Monk further shaped his music, particularly Monk's unconventionality and jarring dissonances. Coltrane's final collaborations with Davis, as exemplified by the monumental Milestones recording, began to free him from the now confining Hard Bop strictures. At the same time, Coltrane's departure from Hard Hop, his assumption of leadership of his own group, and his search for a new approach brought intense interest and critical controversy in the so-called "jazz" community.
The jazz community occupied a unique niche in US cultural life. Never part of the popular music mainstream, except as an ersatz white imitation in the time of institutionalized racial segregation, African American improvisational music nonetheless captured the attention of bohemian artists and intellectuals. Its outré status only made it more appealing to them.
The left of the 1930s and 1940s embraced the music as well. Its stature as a unique product of the Black experience fit well with the left's fight for racial justice. The embrace was reciprocated by musicians attracted to the left's - particularly the Communist left's - commitment to the fight against racism. Some musicians of the era were Communists, many were close to the Communists, or supporters of the Communists.
With the Cold War repression of Communism, labor, and the left, jazz became for some the expression of rebelliousness and the rejection of US values without challenging the fundamentals of capitalist economic relations and the skewed power relations that ensue. 1950s writers, ranging from Jack Kerouac to Norman Mailer, found coded subversion in the modern jazz of the time: as "outlaw" music, jazz escaped the fear-driven cultural conformity of the 1950s. (Popular, mass-appeal, urban rhythm and blues enjoyed a somewhat similar status at the time, but because of its growing broad appeal, it was swiftly sanitized into insipid rock and roll.)
It was near the end of the most extreme period of anti-Communist hysteria, the closing days of McCarthyism, the waning of thoughtless conformity, when Coltrane found his voice. Even more significantly, Coltrane set out on his journey while the social unrest of the civil rights movement reached a boiling point with demonstrations, sit-ins, voter registration, and freedom rides. It was at this time that he began to press harmonic boundaries, solo length and form, and rely more upon vocal effects in his music.
While this period of Coltrane's development is often associated with the formation of his "classical" quartet, it is really the collaboration with alto saxophone/bass and clarinet/flute player Eric Dolphy in the latter half of 1961 that propelled Coltrane forward on the sonic searches of the next six years. The last Atlantic recording Olé, especially the title composition with its references to El Quinto Regimiento, and the live Village Vanguard sessions exhibit the taut, urgent, intense-energy playing that characterized all of Coltrane's subsequent music except for balladic or elegiac works. Dolphy's icy, rhythmically accented, speech-like voice goaded Coltrane beyond his clean, pure tone and to more guttural, extra-musical effects and edgy solos.
Just as the civil rights movement was pressing the limits of liberal tolerance in the early 1960s, the music of John Coltrane was distressing the staid ears of many in the jazz establishment, particularly some of the Downbeat critics who saw the Coltrane/Dolphy collaboration as "anti-jazz."
With the support of ABC-Paramount/Impulse Record's Bob Thiele, Coltrane was able to continue his quest over the next five-plus years, pressing further and further into uncharted musical territory. There were occasional pauses around more conventional material (ballads, Johnny Hartman, Duke Ellington). Whether the pauses were moments of respite or imposed by the record company for commercial reasons is unimportant - the journey continued.
The 1965 record release, A Love Supreme, is considered by many to be both Coltrane's most complete, satisfying work and a definitive statement of his overarching spiritual commitment. It certainly was uncommonly popular. Its accessibility is owed to its more restrained religiosity, its reverence. The intensity is there, but contained by a purposeful piety.
But it was only a brief summation before a return to exploration. Months after the A Love Supreme release, Coltrane appeared at the first-and-only Downbeat Jazz Festival in Chicago (my first-and-only experience of Coltrane live), performing with the fiery tenor saxophonist Archie Shepp. An audience expecting to hear the reassuring chants and soaring, but contained cries of A Love Supreme were sorely disappointed. Coltrane was off on further adventures; more than a few boos could be heard.
The remaining two years of Coltrane's life continued the journey. The music was exciting, but challenging to those willing to invest and listen carefully. Coltrane's generous promotion of less well-known musicians was commendable, but often came at a cost. The young tenor saxophone player, Pharoah Sanders, brought piercing, dramatic effects to the music that, over time, grew shallow and repetitive. And while replacement Rashied Ali was a superb "free" drummer, he never seemed to create the sonic tension that the inimitable Elvin Jones did with Coltrane. All great music trades on emotional tension and release; Jones and Coltrane achieved that collectively more than any other musicians of the era.
Similarly, pianist McCoy Tyner of the "classical" quartet owned a powerful left hand that provided the harmonic bottom, the complex, percussive figures that, with Jones' pressing drums, propelled Coltrane's exploitations. His replacement by the earnest Alice Coltrane added color, but lost propulsion. But Coltrane's last phase remains a study in change and risks. The music was always unsettled and unsettling.
The Meaning of Coltrane
John Coltrane's music was revolutionary. Not in the sense that it delivered an overtly revolutionary message, but in the sense that it reflected a time of substantial social change, an era of revolutionary ferment and possibility. Because instrumental music is non-propositional, absent a coherent message, it can only be revolutionary in an emotional sense. And it was the emotions of the time that Coltrane's music captures and conveys, in much of the way that some of Beethoven's music captures and reflects emotionally his hopes and perceptions of the early nineteenth-century social changes.
Certainly, some of his song titles reveal that Coltrane was in touch with the liberating currents of his time. References to Africa and its new-found freedom abound in these original titles: Liberia, Africa, and Dahomey Dance. And awareness of the Black liberation struggle is evidenced by Song of the Underground Railroad, Reverend King and the poignant response to the Birmingham bombing, Alabama.
It does not diminish Coltrane's revolutionary character to note the consciously and explicitly nationalist, Marxist-influenced work of a contemporary artist like Archie Shepp, especially since it was Coltrane's sponsorship that launched Shepp before a larger audience.
Coltrane challenged the bar, cabaret, club "ghetto" to which African American music had been relegated. Unlike "serious" music, Black music was demeaned as an accompaniment to drinking, dancing, and conversation. Earlier, musicians had sought to challenge this image, but none as successfully as Coltrane. His lengthy solos, studies in complexity and demanding intense concentration from his audience, effectively killed the drink-selling business and transformed appearances into concerts. His music began to substantially change the material status of African American performers from that of entertainers to that of artists.
Other jazz musicians evolved or drew upon other genres to refresh their music - Caribbean music, African music, Brazilian music, rock, klezmer, etc. Coltrane did as well. But no one persistently and intensely pressed beyond the boundaries of convention and tradition as did Coltrane; he relentlessly sought the "new." Anything seemed possible. His journey carefully tracked the moment. In the early 1960s, with McCarthyism receding, and enduring institutional segregation under assault, everything seemed possible to a young generation in the US. Of course, that sense of the possible was dashed in the closing years of the decade by war, assassination, and violent repression. Arguably, it has never been recovered.
Coltrane's performing demeanor, absent the banter or clowning expected of jazz musicians, his professionalism, and his intensity of purpose addressed stigmas of class and race. African American music as presented by Coltrane, and by others who followed, established the music as more than "race" entertainment for the masses. His music reflected and reinforced the growing self-confidence and self-esteem of Black people in the US.
It would be a mistake to see Coltrane as a leader of the movements of his time, as an indispensable spark for change. Vulgar Marxists like Frank Kofsky tried to portray him in just this way, as a Black nationalist icon. Coltrane politely rejected this characterization without rejecting the politics of Black liberation or its various leaders.
Instead, we should see the Coltrane phenomenon as a reflection of the promising politics of the time. Thoughtful jazz writers like Marxists Sydney Finkelstein and 'Francis Newton' (Eric Hobsbawn) pioneered the study of the music through the perspectives of class, race, and historical moment, as did a later-generation writer, Black nationalist-turned-Marxist Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka. They interpreted the Blues, early jazz, Swing, and Bebop as the product of the conjunction of race relations, class divisions, and the historical conditions informing artistic production.
We should see Coltrane's quest for freedom from the social, economic, and musical strictures that he had inherited as a similar product, a product of a time when Black and white people in the US believed with fervor that they were on a quest for a different, more just world. Sadly, in the US, we have struggled to return to that quest and our largely decadent culture reflects that fact.
Greg Godels has also written under the nom de plume of Zoltan Zigedy.