Dissin’ Wynton and Other Pretenders

Last week I blogged (I suppose one can’t say ‘wrote’ anymore) about some of my jazz faves.  Yawn, right?  Anyway, continuing the theme, this week I’ll blog about some of my –well, what is the opposite of “favorites” anyway?  Whatever it is, these musicians are it.  Some pretty famous names are on this list of those that I just don’t dig.  For one reason or another, these folks are either underperformers, overrated, or artistically stale. You listening, Wynton? 

Trumpet:  Let’s start right at the top of the list with Wynton Marsalis, certainly among my least favorites.  Pompous, arrogant, pseudo-intellectual, an artistic and cultural bore:   ok, I suppose I could live with that (probably not), if only the man would make some noteworthy music.  Bouncing from record label to record label (does that tell you something), he has made a string of eminently forgettable records.  You say he won a Pulitzer Prize (for “Blood on the Fields”—a title as portentous as the music)?  That should tell you that awards are rarely, if ever, consonant with the actual achievement.  They are usually given to satisfy some cultural or political need; they hardly ever correlate with enduring artistic worth.  Frankly, if Wynton’s name was not attached to the product, most of his albums would be considered no more than run-of-the mill bebop.  Indeed, most of the albums would likely not have been made or released.  His large-scale works are bloated, turgid, and preening to be viewed as major musical achievements—perhaps on the premise that if it goes on endlessly, it must be important.  Every generation has its self-appointed arbiter of taste. (And every arbiter has his or her sycophantic mouthpiece, viz, Stanley Crouch).  Wynton’s is ours, unfortunately.  Fortunately, such folks eventually fade and are forgotten, for “there is no there, there.”  Time has its way of sorting out the pretenders.  Want to hear great jazz trumpet?  Grab some Lee Morgan albums.

Tenor saxophone:  My relationship with Joe Lovano is like Charlie Brown’s relationship with Lucy holding the football.  Just when CB thinks he is going to make a solid connection, Lucy pulls the ball away.  Every time I think, ‘OK, here’s a great Lovano album’, Lovano pulls back, and I’m left swinging at air. Lovano’s work is a demonstration of competence, not brilliance.   I’m still rather astounded to find Lovano wearing the mantle of the great Blue Note tenor tradition:  Hank Mobley, Dexter Gordon, Wayne Shorter, Joe Henderson, et al.  It tells me what diminished times we live in.  Not that Joe is bad; he’s competently good, but remember, the enemy of the great is not the bad, but merely the good.

Piano:  I hate to speak ill of the dead, but, unfortunately, Oscar Peterson’s massive discography will be clogging the used LP racks for a long time.  I once characterized OP as the jazz pianist for people who don’t really like jazz.  I certainly got a lot of grief for it, but I stand with that assessment.  OP suffers from the same malady as Wynton:  an overabundance of technique (of a kind anyway), which lead them into substituting superficial virtuosity for musical thought.  I heard OP’s version of Bobby Timmon’s “Moanin’” recently; thrumming and hammering the keyboard, using a tempo that eviscerated every nuance and blues sensibility  from the piece, I thought:  hmmm, a typical OP performance.  Jazz has been called the “sound of surprise.”  The problem with OP is that he rarely, if ever, surprises. 

Drums:  Jeff “Tain” Watts, a Wynton protégé, has a cool nickname and a hugely inflated reputation.  I’ve heard him on record, and I’ve seen him in concert (with the increasingly pretentious Jason Moran).  Tain is a Big Banger. That is, he hits the drums as hard as possible, without regard to nuance, ensemble, or musical sense. Unfortunately, he is the foremost of a current crop of jazz drummers, who think that raising the roof is the way to go to make a name for themselves.  Recommendation:  go back and listen to Max Roach, Roy Haynes, and, if you want to know how to do loud right, Art Blakey. 

Well, I was going to take on the legend of Duke Ellington, but I think that’s enough for today.  In a world of puffery, PR flackery, record industry self-serving hype, and sycophants (see Crouch), it’s important that for new art and great art to thrive, one must always question.