The History of Jazz (52 page)
Tristano’s activities shortly after his move to New York in 1946 support this contention. His stellar trio sides for the Keynote label find him alternating between a block chord style built on dense harmonic structures and a more driving linear approach in a bop vein. These devices would serve as the bricks and mortar of Tristano’s mature piano style, and his skill with them was unsurpassed. Many other pianists of the period—notably Milt Buckner and George Shearing—would be celebrated for their “locked hands” chordal style, but none would take it to the daring extremes that Tristano surveyed. It would be hard to find jazz piano recordings from the mid-1940s more drenched in dissonance, more harmonically “out there” than “Atonement” and “I Can’t Get Started,” from Tristano’s 1946–47 Keynote performances. His way of using elongated phrases was equally pathbreaking. One hears strong hints of Powell and Parker in his melodic constructions, but Tristano was even more radical than his contemporaries in his phrasing across the bar lines. The underlying 4/4 pulse is almost totally obliterated in these linear improvisations, hidden under arcane superstructures of melody and rhythm.
These skills made Tristano an ideal bebop pianist, and on a few occasions he performed and recorded with such key modern jazz figures as Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach, and Fats Navarro. But, for the most part, Tristano preferred to make music in the company of his students and disciples. Two of these, Lee Konitz and Warne Marsh, would come to be major jazz figures in their own right. In time, Konitz, like his teacher, would become associated with the cool school in modern jazz. But with the altoist the connection is far more justified. Konitz participated in the influential Miles Davis
Birth of the Cool
sessions, and for many years affected a sweet tone and lyricism that one never heard in Tristano. The relationship between teacher and pupil was often strained, and after the early 1950s the two players mostly went their separate ways, with Konitz serving for a time with the Stan Kenton band and subsequently leading his own combos. In later years, Konitz’s playing took on a rougher edge, and the links with the cool style became less obvious, but his work invariably maintained an integrity and almost ritualistic dedication to the process of improvisation that few of his contemporaries could match. Tenor saxophonist Warne Marsh had already worked as a professional musician for several years before connecting with Tristano around 1947. A technically polished saxophonist with an expansive range, Marsh offered a limpid, smooth tone, at times making his tenor sound like a fraternal twin to Konitz’s alto. Marsh’s melodic conception, however, lingered closer to Tristano’s cerebral remoteness, almost mathematical in its purity, and mostly eschewed the quasi-romanticism with which Konitz briefly flirted. Konitz and Marsh both rank among the most consistently creative improvisers of their generation—and were especially potent when in each other’s company. Examples of this musical chemistry can be found not just on the sessions with Tristano but also in other settings, for example, their artful 1955 collaboration for the Atlantic label and their stunning 1959 sessions with Bill Evans at the Half Note.
Tristano’s 1949 recordings with Konitz and Marsh include some of the most intriguing jazz performances of the period. His 1949 tracks with Konitz for the Prestige label are especially uncompromising. Charlie Parker once suggested that the essence of modern jazz improvisation came from using the higher intervals of the underlying chords. Tristano and Konitz take Parker at his word here—maybe too much so: it almost sounds as if they are avoiding the lower intervals on these tracks. As a result, this music risks giving listeners a queasy, ungrounded sensation, despite its lissome execution. Tristano’s 1949 recordings for Capitol also approach musical vertigo at times, but the playing is more robust, especially in the aptly titled “Wow.” “Intuition” and “Digression” from this period are the first recorded examples in the jazz idiom of completely free-form group improvisation. Four years later, Tristano would again anticipate the later evolution of free jazz with his jarringly atonal work “Descent into the Maelstrom”—although this savage assault on the keyboard could exert no direct influence on the late 1950s avant-garde since it remained unreleased for over two decades.
Even when he pursued more mainstream efforts, Tristano seemed doomed to get caught up in controversy and partisan jazz debates. His 1955 recordings of “Line Up” and “Turkish Mambo” for the Atlantic label employed overdubbing and tape manipulation. Critics complained that Tristano “sped up” the tape of “Line Up,” and the resulting brouhaha prevented many from hearing the riveting brilliance of the improvisation. Played at any speed, it stands out as one of the finest jazz piano performances of the era. In the aftermath, Tristano retreated even more deeply into seclusion. Seven years would elapse before his next Atlantic release,
The New Tristano
, with the pianist now offering unforgiving, untampered solo piano performances of the highest order, including his virtuosic workout on “C Minor Complex.”
One could listen to all of Tristano’s commercial recordings in a few hours. Much of his best work was captured on amateur recordings that, like “Descent into the Maelstrom,” were not issued for many years. Several of Tristano’s outstanding performances with Lee Konitz made in 1955 at the SingSong Room of the Confucius Restaurant were issued by Atlantic in 1956, but many other equally compelling tracks from this engagement were kept off the market until the 1970s. Other live sessions—from the Half Note, Birdland, the UJPO Hall in Toronto, or Tristano’s 1965 visit to Europe—are seldom heard, but deserve consideration as vital parts of Tristano’s legacy. In addition, the pianist made many recordings at home, and these too provide telling glimpses of a major musical mind that often saved its most creative moments for private consumption. All in all, these constitute an important body of work, rich with implications for the future of jazz. However, at the time of Lennie Tristano’s death from a heart attack, on November 18, 1978, only one of his records was in print (and that one available only as an import from Japan). The passing years have seen a renewed interest in Tristano’s music and a greater availability of his recordings. But the posthumous reverence awarded to many other— and lesser—figures from the past has been granted to him in only the smallest doses. However, few jazz artists of his day embraced the tenets of modernism with greater fervor, or anticipated the later evolution of the music with greater insight.
These three stylists—Bud Powell, Thelonious Monk, Lennie Tristano—may have redefined the role of the piano in modern jazz, but their music was distinctly unsuitable for the mass market of the 1950s. The listeners who still enjoyed Count Basie or Duke Ellington found little sustenance in the dissonant harmonies of a Monk, the unrelenting energy of a Powell, the serpentine melody lines of a Tristano. It was left to other pianists—Oscar Peterson, Nat Cole, George Shearing, Ahmad Jamal, Dave Brubeck, Erroll Garner—to develop a broader following for contemporary jazz piano. Despite their differences, these six keyboard artists were consummate performers, skilled at smoothing the rough edges of modern jazz piano and extending its appeal. Critics were often ill at ease with the success enjoyed by these crossover artists. But, though occasional compromises may have been necessary to achieve this commercial viability, these pianists retained the respect and admiration of most jazz fans. And with good reason. Except for Cole, who ultimately abandoned the world of jazz piano for an immensely successful career as a popular vocalist, these musicians mostly remained true to their jazz roots. And even their most popular crossover hits—Brubeck’s “Take Five,” Jamal’s “Poinciana,” Peterson’s
West Side Story
, Garner’s
Concert by the Sea
—also merited praise as first-rate creative works.
Throughout his career, Oscar Peterson wore the heavy mantle of being cited as heir and successor to Art Tatum as the greatest virtuoso of modern jazz piano. This is a daunting and dubious honor, akin to being known as the fastest gunslinger in a town of trigger-happy rivals. But Peterson’s command of the keyboard was beyond reproach and established him as the most famous among the handful of post-Tatum jazz players—including Phineas Newborn, Dorothy Donegan, Adam Makowicz, Friedrich Gulda, Jessica Williams—who successfully channeled the techniques of the concert hall into a mainstream jazz piano sound. Yet the comparisons with Tatum should stop there. Peterson’s music only occasionally betrayed Tatum’s thickly textured two-handed style, instead tending toward the forward-driving linear attack associated with Powell. And unlike either Tatum or Powell, Peterson gave highest priority to maintaining the rhythmic momentum of the music, what jazz players simply call “swing.”
The Will to Swing
was the name Gene Lees gave to his book on Oscar Peterson, and few titles could have been more apt. Peterson stood out as one of the hardest swinging pianists of his generation, and though his rhythmic phrasing may have lacked the subtlety of a Parker or Tristano, it possessed a visceral appeal that only the stodgiest critics could deny.
Peterson had established a modest reputation in his native Montreal before being discovered by Norman Granz in 1949. That same year, Granz featured Peterson at a much-publicized Carnegie Hall concert, and the impresario continued to play an important role in guiding Peterson’s career in later years. Peterson served as an unofficial house pianist for Granz’s various record companies and concert promotions, and in that capacity accompanied many of the leading jazz players who were active in the postwar years, including Louis Armstrong, Charlie Parker, Lester Young, Billie Holiday, Count Basie, Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Getz, Ben Webster, Ella Fitzgerald, and Benny Carter. Yet Peterson, unlike Tatum, could be a surprisingly self-effacing accompanist, and his best work typically came when leading his own trio or working as a solo pianist. His
The Trio
recording for Pablo,
Night Train
for Verve, and
My Favorite Instrument
for MPS are excellent, representative recordings of his music. Peterson also occasionally attempted extended works, the best-known of which is his
Canadiana Suite
. Peterson maintained his popularity through the various revolutions and passing fashions of the jazz scene, and though a 1993 stroke compromised the agility of his left hand, he returned to the keyboard after a two-year hiatus and continued performing until shortly before his death in 2007.
Despite the frequent comparisons with Tatum, Peterson’s piano style suggests an even greater debt to Nat King Cole. Cole’s appealing work as a vocalist eventually came to overshadow his prowess as a jazz pianist, but during the 1940s and 1950s, his keyboard approach was widely admired and emulated on the jazz scene. Like Peterson, Cole embraced a style that represented a middle ground between swing and bop. His intricate improvised lines, rapidfire runs, and right-hand-oriented attack were in keeping with the dominant piano style of the postwar years, but Cole’s sense of phrasing remained rooted in the ground beat, and at times looked back to the earlier style of Earl Hines (to whom Cole had closely listened during his formative years in Chicago). In essence, Cole preferred to dance comfortably over the beat, rather than challenge it head on in the manner of Powell or Monk. This sense of relaxed swing was furthered by Cole’s decision to lead a drummerless trio featuring piano, bass, and guitar. In his trio performances, as well as in his memorable recordings with Lester Young and his work with Norman Granz’s various Jazz at the Philharmonic touring bands, Cole established himself as one of the most polished jazz pianists of the day. His incomparable singing, promoted almost to the exclusion of his piano work in later years, veered increasingly outside the jazz realm, but still revealed an exemplary sense of phrasing and clarity of expression with roots in Cole’s keyboard approach.
London-born George Shearing emigrated to the United States in 1947, at the height of the bebop movement. At his best, Shearing rates praise as an inventive, technically adept pianist with a keen ear and sure sense of swing. However, Shearing’s most popular recordings found him leading a quintet where his ambitions were modest. In this setting, he tended to favor a pared-down style employing block chords, reminiscent of Milt Buckner or, at times, of a keyboard translation of the sound of the Glenn Miller saxophone section; vibraphone and guitar were typically used to reinforce the melody line. The resulting “Shearing sound,” as it came to be known, was tasteful and inoffensive—but hardly measured the full depth of the pianist’s talent. There were, in fact, many Shearing sounds. In time, he proved capable of playing classical concertos with symphony orchestras or of creating his own orchestral sounds as a solo pianist, sometimes letting loose with stunning impromptu variations, for example, reworking his piece “Lullaby of Birdland” first in the style of Rachmaninoff, next à la Waller or Debussy, never flagging as he moved through the paces. Much of Shearing’s most creative work was recorded after his sixtieth birthday, when he came across as especially effective in a duo setting, or in collaboration with vocalist Mel Tormé. If musicians were evaluated on native talent and raw potential, rather than on their actual body of recordings, Shearing would undoubtedly rank as one of the finest artists of his generation. As it stands, much of his recorded output only hints at the depth of his musicality.
Shearing’s contemporary Erroll Garner also developed a wide following during the 1950s, reaching such heights of fame that in 1958 impresario Sol Hurok, a major force in concert music, made an unprecedented move into the jazz field to represent him. Of all the pianists discussed here, Garner displayed the loosest ties to the bebop idiom (despite having recorded and performed with Charlie Parker during Bird’s West Coast period). In fact, it is difficult to pigeonhole Garner as a member of any school. His style was deeply personal, sometimes cranky, never pedestrian. He fought against the constraints of the instrument: at times making the piano sound like a guitar, with his trademark four-to-a-bar strumming chords, or like a drum, employing offbeat bombs in the manner of an Art Blakey, or even like a harp, unleashing Lisztian arpeggios accompanied by a counterpoint of grunts and groans from above. His introductions were pieces in themselves, likely to veer off in any number of directions before honing in on the song in question. His technique was formidable, but so unorthodox that few noticed how difficult his music actually was to perform. His dynamic range was unsurpassed, and nothing delighted him more than moving from a whisper to a roar—then back to a whisper. Just as impressive was his sense of time. In Zeno’s paradox, Garner could just as well have been the tortoise as mighty Achilles, given how skillfully he could lag several paces behind the beat with a lazy, catch-as-catch-can swing, or charge ahead with all caution thrown to the wind.
