Meshell Ndegeocello at Tonic

In my twenties, I forced myself to experience a lot of very highbrow avant-garde music: free jazz, experimental electronica, and various combinations thereof. One such experience was a show at Tonic. I forget who was on the bill exactly, but it included Susie Ibarra and various other downtown luminaries. The group was ad hoc and clearly had never played together before. Their freeform improvisation was colorful and interesting, but tough to get an emotional hold on.

During the second set, Meshell Ndegeocello showed up, and the band invited her to sit in. She sat onstage with her bass for a minute or two, just listening to all the atonal noise swirling around her. Then she started playing a simple G minor funk groove, quietly but insistently. One by one, the other musicians locked into it, until the whole group was actually playing together, not just at the same time, but together. It was the best show I ever saw at Tonic. It also made me realize that the best musicians play stuff that makes sense.

Ira Newborn and BB King

My favorite class at NYU this semester is Scoring For Film and Multimedia with Ira Newborn. Ira is a cynical curmudgeon — think Larry David with a beard — but he’s really passionate about music. He came up in the blues and funk world before moving into orchestral music. A student in the class had written something really far out and atonal, and it reminded Ira of a story. He had written an atonal piece, and he wanted BB King to play on it for some reason. So he brought BB in and didn’t explain the piece at all or show him a chart, just had him just play whatever he felt like. BB laid down straightforward blues on A7, and Ira said that it tied the whole piece together.

Miles Davis and Bitches Brew

About seventeen minutes into “Pharoah’s Dance,” Miles enters with a short repetitive funk theme. You can hear the swirling chaos gradually coalesce around him into a nice groove.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you’re an adventurous and avant garde musician or composer, don’t be afraid to feel the funk. Leave hostility to wards the listener back in the fifties where it belongs. Your music is stronger when you take the risk of inviting the audience in to feel your feelings.

Carmen McRae was a good friend of Monk’s, and for my tastes, she sings this song better than anyone. Her tart, unsentimental intellect matches Monk’s own approach to music perfectly. Here she is performing “Round Midnight” in 1962.

Monk wrote his biggest hit back in the late 1930s, but he didn’t have a recording contract at the time and couldn’t get anyone else interested. A few years later, however, his luck changed. His friend Bud Powell was playing piano in a band led by former Ellington Orchestra trumpet star Cootie Williams. Powell convinced Williams to record “Round Midnight” in 1944.

The record made an impact, and “Round Midnight” became Cootie Williams’ theme song. Other musicians became interested in the tune as well. Dizzy Gillespie did a recording in 1947, for which he wrote his own distinctive intro and ending.

Monk himself liked Dizzy’s intro and ending so much that he promptly began including them in his own performances of his tune.

Later in 1947, Monk finally got to record his tune for the first time.

Much as I love Monk’s own playing, this recording is an awkward one, with a lame-sounding film noir arrangement in the horns. Fortunately, Monk recorded “Round Midnight” many more times over the course of his life. He tended to play it quite a bit faster and more abstractly than other interpreters. Here’s a live version from sometime in the sixties.

Monk’s best recordings of the tune were solo piano versions. My favorite is the one on The Composer, which sadly isn’t available on YouTube. The one on Thelonious Himself is good too.

The definitive version of “Round Midnight” is the one by Miles Davis, as recorded on his 1957 album ‘Round About Midnight (a widely used alternate name for the tune.)

Miles honed this arrangement in performances for years before finally recording it. He plays Dizzy’s intro on muted trumpet, in a severely stripped-down form. His take on the melody is similarly minimalist, using many fewer notes than the original. At the end of the head at 2:40, Miles inserts a whole new section of his own invention, a shout chorus that jumps unexpectedly into major tonality, played on unmuted trumpet. The shout chorus sets up John Coltrane’s assertive and energetic tenor sax solo. Then Miles brings the mood back down with his muted take on Dizzy’s ending. This recording was a jukebox hit in black neighborhoods, and it went a long way toward cementing Miles’ iconic status in the jazz world. If you had to explain jazz to a visitor from outer space, you could do worse than this recording.

Every jazz singer has attempted “Round Midnight” at one point or another. To pick one of many great versions, here’s Ella Fitzgerald, accompanied by Oscar Peterson.

As do most singers, Ella omits the intro and ending. The most complete vocal version, and maybe the most beautiful, is by Carmen McRae again, from her highly recommended 1988 album Carmen Sings Monk.

Everything’s here: all the sections, with the melody as written and also as interpreted by Dizzy Gillespie, all with lyrics. This, as far as I’m concerned, is the last word on “Round Midnight” — at least until the next evolution.

Hip-hop might point the way forward. The intro to Luchi De Jesus‘ recording of “Round Midnight” is sampled in “A Friend” by KRS-One.

Want to try playing “Round Midnight” yourself? It’s well worth it, you’ll learn a lot about music that way. The problem is finding a decent chart. Be warned that some of the chords in the infamous Real Book version are wrong, and it also omits Dizzy’s intro and ending. A more accurate transcription can be found in Hal Leonard’s lovingly rendered Thelonious Monk Fake Book, but that chart also leaves out the intro and ending. When I did the tune with my former jazz group, I decided to just transcribe the missing sections myself. Feel free to download my chart here.

Any crucial versions I missed? Leave them in the comments.

First of all, here’s the original version from Snow White.

Once you’ve got the tune in your head, listen to the Miles Davis recording.

The extended intro section uses a pedal point, which just means that bassist Paul Chambers plays the same note over and over. The pedal point creates a feeling of floating suspense. Drummer Jimmy Cobb plays gentle waltz time with his brushes: one-and-two-and-three-and, one-and-two-and-three-and. (Most jazz tunes are in four-four time, so each bar would be one-and-two-and-three-and-four-and.) Pianist Wynton Kelly plays some improvised figures based mostly on arpeggios, broken-up chords.

At 0:40, Miles Davis enters, playing the melody on muted trumpet. Even though he interprets the tune’s timing very loosely and adds some ornaments of his own, you should have no trouble singing the words along with him. This section is called the head, and as is the case with a lot of jazz tunes, it’s thirty-two bars long. Here’s the chart, if you’re a music reader.

At 1:17, Miles begins his solo. Over the same thirty-two bar form of the original song, he improvises a new melody. He chooses his notes spontaneously, but not randomly — the solo has to make sense against the song’s chords as they go by. You can keep track of the form by continuing to sing the words. As you do, hear how Miles’ playing interacts with the original melody. Miles is famous for his dark and moody style, and for his unhurried pacing. He plays fewer notes than his virtuosic sidemen, using frequent silences. You can hear him going back and forth between a tuneful style that refers back to the melody and a more abstract approach, choosing notes that form patterns for their own sake, sometimes rubbing tensely against the chords.

Each pass through the form of the song is called a chorus. Miles plays three choruses — you can sing the words three times over his solo. At 2:26, Miles ends his second chorus with a funky repetitive riff on one note. At 3:05, the end of the third chorus, he reiterates this one-note riff and extends it, allowing it to spill over past the end of the form with a nonchalance that’s typical Miles.

At 3:11, there’s a more energetic feeling in the drums as Jimmy Cobb switches from the soft-sounding brushes to the louder and more percussive sticks, and Hank Mobley begins his tenor saxophone solo. While Hank is an excellent saxophonist, he doesn’t come off on this recording too well — he was new to Miles’ band, and didn’t yet have his feet under him. Also, his softer and more lyrical improvisational style sounds a little schmaltzy compared to Miles’ acidic tone. (In fairness, if you want to hear Hank at his best, check out his classic album Soul Station.) After two choruses, you can hear Hank pause awkwardly at around 4:18, not deliberately like Miles, but out of uncertainty as to what to play next. He finishes his solo lamely, with a banal concluding phrase. This kind of moment is a reminder that improvisation is an intrinsically risky undertaking. Any jazz soloist has to face to possibility of an unsatisfying improvisation, or even a complete trainwreck. The risk of failure (or incomplete success) is exactly what makes jazz the exciting art form that it is.

Next comes Wynton Kelly’s piano solo, at 4:26. As in his intro, Wynton plays a lot of arpeggios, short fragments that call and respond to each other. Wynton sounds a lot more relaxed and on his game than Hank Mobley, no surprise since he was a veteran Miles Davis sideman. Wynton gets a chorus and a half, and at 5:24, Miles takes over, restating the second half of the melody. Then there’s a short interlude, using the same pedal point as the intro. This reiteration of the head and intro mid-song is an unusual structural move. Miles is setting the stage for the tune’s dramatic climax, the entrance of John Coltrane.

A little back story is helpful here. Coltrane had played tenor sax in Miles’ regular group on and off through the second half of the 1950s. Together, the two of them created some of the best and most famous recordings in jazz history, including Round About Midnight, Milestones and Kind Of Blue. (Go buy them! You won’t regret it.) At the time of the “Prince” recording session, Coltrane had recently left Miles to lead his own staggeringly great band, but he happened to be visiting the studio that day, so Miles invited him to sit in.

What you’re hearing at 5:52 is Coltrane playing with zero preparation, just sight-reading the chord chart. That may sound impressive, but it’s actually pretty common for jazz recording sessions. What you should be impressed by is the effortless intensity and power of Coltrane’s improvisation. His solo gradually builds in complexity until by the start of the second chorus, he’s playing doubletime, cramming twice as many notes into each measure as the pulse of the tune would suggest. His lines twist and spiral with a complexity unmatched by anyone else in jazz at that time.

It isn’t just his technical ability that makes Coltrane great. Even at speed, his note choices all make emotional sense, and his lines have a rock-solid melodic structure to them. If you slow Coltrane’s solos down, they become quite tuneful, even catchy. It’s one thing to be able to throw a lot of notes around; it’s a lot more rare to have all those notes tell a compelling story. The “Prince” solo is just a taste of Coltrane’s firehose-like stream of brilliant ideas, cut short by his untimely death only six years later.

After a short interlude, Miles plays the head out, the final statement of the melody. Usually the head out is identical to the head, but in this case, Miles just plays the first half of it. Then there’s an outtro, much the same as the intro, a piano groove over the pedal point in the bass. Wynton Kelly plays more freely than he did on the intro, using darker and crunchier harmonies, probably inspired by Coltrane. Finally, the tune winds to a spontaneous close, by a hand signal or eye contact among the players. You can hear that Jimmy Cobb doesn’t quite land in the same spot as everyone else, he carries over a few extra beats. Then someone in the room makes a mysterious “pop” sound with their mouth, and the tune is over.

Most mainstream jazz recordings follow this same basic sequence of events, called the head-solos-head form. The band plays the melody, with or without an intro. Then different musicians play solos on the melody’s form and chord progression. Finally, the whole band plays the melody again and the tune ends. There are infinite variations on this basic structure. You can get a taste for them just by listening to different versions of “Someday My Prince Will Come,” which has been recorded many times by jazz musicians over the years. Miles himself was inspired by Dave Brubeck’s 1957 recording, which is faster and doesn’t have the moody pedal-point interludes.

I chose this example specifically because it’s a well-known song to most of you reading this. Jazz is harder to understand now than it was back in the 40s and 50s because the repertoire is based around songs that were popular then but are esoteric now. Miles’ repertoire in the fifties and early sixties would have mostly been as familiar to his audience as “Prince.” Listeners would have been able to mentally sing along to just about everything, making all of Miles’ intellectual abstractions easier to parse. Jazz was still commercial music then, and when jazz musicians wrote their own tunes, they had a tendency to be as melodic and catchy as showtunes and standards — Miles’ own compositions of the period, like “So What” and “All Blues,” are about as catchy and hooky as music gets.

If you want to listen to jazz now, you’re at a big disadvantage. Without knowing all those pop standards and showtunes, the improvisation based on them will just sound like random strings of notes. I had a much easier time getting into jazz through tunes like “So What” than through standards. Contemporary musicians are playing abstractions of references to abstractions to references to songs that were popular sixty, seventy or even eighty years ago. It’s left to the listener to supply all the historical context. The best way to approach the music is to start on familiar territory with a tune you know and like, and check out how different artists approach it. Miles and Coltrane are great people to investigate, because they liked playing corny pop songs that are still in wide circulation, and because nearly everything they did was so awesome. Happy listening.

Harry Truman played classical piano.

Richard Nixon played classical piano too, and even composed a bit.

Condoleeza Rice has pro-quality classical chops. Don’t miss her appearance on 30 Rock.

Former federal reserve chairman Alan Greenspan attended Juilliard and played professional alto sax and clarinet in the Woody Herman band before going into finance. Unfortunately, I can’t find a video.

Of course, there’s Bill Clinton and his famous sax solo.

Mike Huckabee plays respectable rock bass. Here he is playing with Def Leppard, don’t miss.

Finally, who could forget former Attorney General and singer-songwriter John Ashcroft? Awful though he is, the song is weirdly catchy.

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Composition
Duke Ellington – “Concerto For Cootie”

Blues feeling
Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers – “Moanin’”

Romance
Count Basie – “Lil Darlin’”

Effortless virtuosity
Clifford Brown and Max Roach – “Joy Spring”

Reinterpreting pop music
Miles Davis – “Someday My Prince Will Come”

Funk
Herbie Hancock – “Fat Albert Rotunda”

Soul-searching and inner flight
John Coltrane – “Venus”

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The “groove” becomes generalized to any good rhythm, passage, or entire piece of music; “grooving” means making music well, and the adjective “groovy” follows.

From the Online Etymology Dictionary:

1937, Amer.Eng., in slang sense of “first-rate, excellent;” from jazz slang phrase in the groove (1932) “performing well (without grandstanding)”

The generalized sense of “groovy” meaning “cool” might be kind of dated, but among musicians the groove remains a term of art. For example, see my post on how to groove.

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Jazz was popular when it was intimately connected to popular culture. In the early-middle part of the twentieth century, jazz was popular culture. The last significant jazz work to really communicate with pop music was “Rockit” by Herbie Hancock.

That song was informed by hip-hop and electronica, but it also gave something back — a generation of hip-hop turntablists all point to it as a central inspiration. Jazz since then has mostly tried to ignore pop culture entirely, or comment on it condescendingly.

Most jazz being produced now isn’t popular because it isn’t that good. It’s plenty complex and intellectual, but complexity isn’t coextensive with quality. People don’t listen to music to be dazzled by technique unless they’re in music school. It’s a rare contemporary jazz musician who can write a melody you’d want to hear more than once, and listening to people run difficult changes is about as interesting as watching them play video games.

In order for jazz to be popular, it needs to humble itself before the major improvisational art form of this generation: hip-hop. Jazz snobs that belittle hip-hop’s simplicity are missing the point. What hip-hop loses in harmony and melody, it more than makes up for in sonic innovation, wordplay, social realism and a sense of fun. Remember when jazz was fun? Remember when you could dance to it? Remember when it spoke to the emotional reality that most people live in? Or any emotional reality? That’s what jazz needs.

Here are two suggested directions for the future:

Verve Remixed

This series produced some excellent electronic music in its own right, brought a bunch of classic recordings to a whole new set of years, and opened a lot of jazz fans’ ears to contemporary music. Quite an achievement! I wish every jazz label would fling the vaults open to remixers, and not just the pros. I remix jazz tunes anyway, but it would be nice to have the labels’ blessing, rather than having to watch my back for lawsuits.

Reggie Watts

Even though he’s supposedly a comedian, Reggie Watts comes closer to the real spirit of jazz than any contemporary jazz musician I can think of. His songs are completely improvised, but rather than sounding like free-jazz mush, they’re tightly structured, catchy and funny. Instead of trying to sound like it’s still 1959, I wish more jazz musicians could live in the present culture like Reggie does.

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Miles Davis was at his wildest and most experimental in his forties. That decade of his life starts with the Miles Smiles band (Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, Ron Carter and Tony Williams) and extends into his electric funk period. The music that he was playing at age 49 on Agharta and Pangaea is the most intense he ever made, though it’s not to everyone’s taste.

I saw Max Roach perform a couple of times when he was in his seventies, and he was tremendous. At one of the shows, he did an encore solo piece on just a hi-hat, and you wouldn’t believe how much music he got out of it.

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The Facebook page lists about eleven billion examples of The Lick. Here are some of my favorites.

Miles Davis, “Two Bass Hit” — John Coltrane plays it at 1:15 and 1:39.

John Coltrane, “Impressions” — listen at 3:11.

Coltrane again, “On Green Dolphin Street,” at 1:32.

Freddie Hubbard playing “A Love Supreme” at a Coltrane tribute concert — 0:16.

Sonny Rollins on Miles Davis’ “It’s Only A Paper Moon” at 2:25.

Sonny Rollins, “John S” at 1:51.

Grant Green, “Nomad” — Bobby Hutcherson plays The Lick at 4:12, 4:46 and 4:53.

Charles Mingus, “Peggy’s Blue Skylight” — Joe Gardner at 1:34.

The Lick doesn’t just belong to jazz. Stravinsky uses it in “The Fire Bird” — listen at 14:43.

The Lick is a pop and rock staple too. Player uses a variant of it in “Baby Come Back” — listen at 0:13.

Santana plays yet another variant in “Oye Como Va” — listen at 0:17.

Akon sings The Lick right at the beginning of “Just A Man.”

Here’s a side-by-side comparison of four versions of The Lick, all transposed to A minor for clarity.

These few variations on The Lick only hint at the richness of explosive diversity you can find on the Facebook page. The Lick is one of those musical memes, like the Amen break or the “Egyptian” melody, that can adapt itself to a seemingly limitless variety of circumstances. There’s a lot of debate on FB about whether a given phrase counts as The Lick or not, since many of the examples stretch the time or alter the pitches, or both. These debates are a lot like the ones biologists get into around taxonomic issues, whether a given fossil is a dinosaur or a bird. The Lick mutates and evolves exactly like a gene in a population of organisms. You can think of The Lick as being like a single gene that codes for a single protein, functioning as part of a larger musical genome, a tune or a solo.

We come down hard on artists who use cliches too much, and praise others for originality. But if iconoclastic musicians on the level of Coltrane use The Lick so heavily, how bad can cliches be? Too much originality is an obstacle to creating emotionally resonant music. Coltrane’s last albums were by far his most original — you’re not going to hear too many cliches on Ascension or Sun Ship. But I find those albums challenging at best, and most people find them unbearable. Coltrane’s best art is based on familiar materials — showtunes, folk music, the blues. The best art doesn’t avoid cliches; it owns them, personalizes them and transforms them. I say, long live The Lick.

Ellington’s Peer Gynt suite is also pretty wonderful.

This one has inspired some remixing from me.

Django Reinhardt has a swinging take on Bach.

Everybody and their mother has taken a crack at Satie’s First Gymnopedie. Here’s Eddie Daniels’ version.

Oliver Nelson does a version of Aaron Copland’s “Hoe-Down.”

Miles Davis does a mostly straight-ahead reading of Joaquín Rodrigo’s “Concierto de Aranjuez.”

Chick Corea also quotes this piece at the beginning of “Spain.”

Wayne Shorter does Sibelius’ “Valse Triste.”

I’m especially partial to Eumir Deodato’s “Also Sprach Zarathustra.”

Uri Caine has done some very adventurous readings of Bach, Mozart and Mahler. Here’s his take on Mahler’s Symphony No.2 Resurrection – Andante moderato.

There are a lot of jazz tunes that quote or otherwise derive from classical pieces. Most famously, Miles Davis’ “So What” and John Coltrane’s “Impressions” both draw on Morton Gould’s Pavanne.

As always, hit me in the comments if you feel I missed something critical.

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