CUNY: Sweet Love, Bitter

His name is Eagle and he plays the alto saxophone. Does that sound like any real-life jazz musician? A musical titan with a drug habit approaching the superhuman, Ritchie “The Eagle” Stokes is indeed patterned after bebop innovator Charlie “Bird” Parker in Herbert Danska’s Sweet Love, Bitter, one of the better cinematic treatments of the jazz life, which screens this week on CUNY’s City Cinematheque.

The parallels between Stokes and Parker are even greater in John A. Williams’ novel Night Song, on which Danska’s film is based. At one point we meet a former Stokes sideman who has made good in a big way. With his flashy car and elegant clothing, it hardly seems a stretch to consider Miles Davis the inspiration for the character named Yards Brown.

While his ex-sideman might be on the way up, Stokes is bottoming out, both in Williams’ novel and Danska’s film. However, he is not alone. Mourning the death of his wife, former college professor David Hillary’s goal is to literally drink himself to death. To facilitate this plan, he hocks his wedding ring, but in the process meets an African-American man pawning his sax.

As a fan of jazz in general, and Stokes in particular, Hillary is all too willing to let the Eagle show him the ropes of binge-drinking for the down-and-out set. A quick learner, he and Eagle are nearly whisked off to the drunk-tank, but for the intercession of Keel, Stokes’ self-appointed minder.

The African-American Keel hires the depressed white professor to work in his downtown coffee-house, setting up an unusual racial dynamic for 1967. Further complicating their relationship, Hillary finds himself attracted to Della, Keel’s white lover. In between pointed comments about race, Hillary and Keel try to corral the self-destructive Eagle, often finding him at the home of Candy, a white admirer seemingly inspired by the Baroness Pannonica de Koenigswarter, the jazz patron at whose home the real Parker died. (Bitter however, seems to posit a presumably fictional sexual aspect to their relationship.)

In his first screen role, Dick Gregory looks scarily dissipated as Stokes. Though Eagle can be playful, Gregory plays it straight, creating quite a tragic portrait. Also making his screen debut, Robert Hooks (the original Mr. T in Trouble Man) brings legitimate intensity to a standout supporting performance. However, though Don Murray’s Hillary is supposed to be a fish out of water, his stiffness seems excessively wooden at times.

Music is critical to a film about tortured musical genius, and in this case Bitter delivers the goods. Jazz pianist Mal Waldron’s moody bop soundtrack perfectly fits its characters, with George Coleman eloquently ghosting Eagle’s alto. Bitter was Waldron’s second film score, but it would be his first soundtrack album. While he composed themes for Shirley Clarke’s Cool World and is heard performing them with Dizzy Gillespie in the actual film, Gillespie would record the soundtrack album with his regular working group, including Kenny Barron in the piano chair.

Bitter is a jazz film that gets the jazz right. It hasn’t always worked out that way. Danska’s sympathetic direction and Waldron’s passionate music make the film work even for the most discriminating jazz audiences. It screens on CUNY-TV 75 at 9:00 this Saturday and Sunday. While it seems like most of City Cinematheque’s post-screening commentators are more miss than hit, Danska, who should have plenty of insight to offer, will discuss the film with the program host.

Rhythm: a Novel

Rhythm: a Novel
By Robin Meloy Goldsby
Bass Lion Publishing

For many jazz musicians, music is the family business. For instance, Chico O’Farill, Ellis Marsalis, Duke Ellington, Art Blakey, Jackie McLean, and John Coltrane all had children who followed in their footsteps. Add to their ranks the fictional example of Latin jazz percussionist Helen Bowman, whose daughter Jane finds her place in the world as a funk drummer in Rhythm (book trailer here), a new novel by Robin Meloy Goldsby, the author of Piano Girl, an entertaining and often hilarious memoir of her career as the house pianist in Manhattan’s big Midtown hotels.

Goldsby is still a snappy writer who infuses her work with verve and energy, but there are not as many laughs in Rhythm due to the heartbreaks life has in store for Jane Bowman. At thirteen, Jane loses her mother in a freak night-club fire, which understandably leaves deep scars. Due to the circumstances surrounding the tragedy, the young musician also feels partly responsible for her mother’s death. It is not logical, but intense emotions rarely are.

At first, music is the only outlet for the young drummer’s grief, but she refuses to play with other musicians or perform in public. The turning point in her development comes with the arrival of Olivia Blue, a music therapist who recruits Bowman for her R&B band at the Allegheny Gatehouse School for disadvantaged boys. Drawing insight from her own psychic scars, Blue helps Jane process her pain and reclaim the music she loves. At first a mentor, she eventually becomes her step-mother as well. Breaking the chain of abuse becomes a major theme of Rhythm, and for a while it does appear Blue has escaped her own tragic past. However, Goldsby has a symmetrical bombshell to drop late in the book and deftly weaves in the horrific events of 9-11 shortly thereafter.

Goldsby has a distinct talent for conveying the life of a musician, which is not surprising given her own experience. After recovering as best she can, Jane pursues a career that places her in the drummer’s chair of S.O.S., a talented all-women funk band trapped in the purgatory of novelty bookings, and backing up Bobby Angel, an R&B singer on the cusp of superstardom. There she learns at least one important life lesson: “Never, ever eat anything while you’re being filmed.” (p. 224) Jane gets this learning experience courtesy of an unflattering plate of mashed potatoes and gravy, but her musician friend takes mischievous glee in a similar experience with more suggestive food. Ah yes, life on the road.

All of Goldsby’s details about the gigging life of a professional musician ring with authenticity, and suggest both familiarity and affection for the sort of James Brown-inspired funk and soul Jane’s bands play. Often the dialogues zings in Rhythm, but the stresses and tribulations Jane endures regularly tempers the overall mood of the book. I guess that’s life, which for Jane is deeply entwined with music. As in Piano Girl, Goldsby again demonstrates she is one of the best at expressing the intangibles of music in the harsh black-and-white of the printed page. Believe me, it is not an easy thing to do.

Horne’s Blues

Shades of Blue
By Bill Moody
Poisoned Pen Press

The fictional jazz sleuth Evan Horne plays piano. His creator, novelist Bill Moody, is a drummer. Since the Horne mysteries are written in the first person, I have sort of inadvertently conflated the two, despite their different instruments. However, given the relentless personal drama befalling Horne in his latest installment, Shades of Blue, one hopes the series, or at least this particular entry, is not particularly autobiographical.

In past books, Horne has reluctantly solved historic mysteries related to the music, while rebuilding a once promising jazz career nearly cut short by an auto accident. Each has essentially stood alone, but Horne’s personal life has formed a continuous storyline throughout the series. At this point, I have lost track of Horne’s various former girlfriends. However, notably in the previous book, Looking for Chet Baker, Horne is betrayed by a close friend and recurring character, in a legitimately surprising plot point that Moody deserves credit for. As a result, trust issues hang over Shades and become more pronounced as events unfold.

Horne has a hard time in Shades. Calvin Hughes, his mentor, passes away, leaving his estate to his piano protégé. He also bequeaths Horne some family mysteries, including some hand-written lead sheets that hint that Hughes might have had a hand in writing tunes for the classic Miles Davis sessions, Kind of Blue and Birth of the Cool. Moody here takes inspiration from a real-life controversy (referenced in the novel) between Davis and Bill Evans over the authorship of “Blue in Green” from the former album. Unquestionably the most popular jazz album of all time, Kind of Blue is also a touchstone for Horne as well. Moody writes in his character’s voice:

“But there was something else about Kind of Blue, as if I’d heard this music before I’d even become aware of it. It has sounded familiar the first time I’d listened.” (p. 6)

Within the first few pages, Horne learns of Hughes’s death and his FBI agent girlfriend is wounded in the line of duty, but his trials and tribulations are just beginning. It is not all bad for the musician-sleuth though. He is unexpectedly offered a chance to record on Roy Haynes’ next album, with Ron Carter on bass, both of whom seem really cool in the novel. Moody is strongest when describing the act of creating jazz and his account of the Haynes session is a highlight of the book. Moody lovingly describes their studio time in near magical terms:

“Carter and Haynes poise for my cue and I begin the vamp. For a moment, I’m lost in the dream that Bill Evans played these exact same chords on Kind of Blue in 1959. I nod, feeling Haynes and Carter watching, and we go right into “Rhapsody.” I do three choruses, glance at Carter, who takes two, his beautiful tone singing through the headphones, then two choruses of eight bar exchanges with Haynes. He’s all over the drums but in such a melodic way, it’s always clear where he is in the tune, and more than demonstrating his nickname ‘snap crackle.’” (p. 130)

Moody is always spot-on when writing about the music itself. He has also improved as a crime novelist as the series has progressed. In Shades though, the actual criminal elements feel almost tacked on, as Moody seems much more preoccupied with family mysteries this time around. Those family secrets intersect with enough jazz history to hold the interest the series’ fans (in which I include myself). Evan Horne is a very likeable character, so let us hope he has less drama and more crime (preferably historical) to deal with in the next book.

Twelve O’Clock Tales

Jazz and Twelve O’Clock Tales
By Wanda Coleman
Black Sparrow Books

Jazz and Los Angeles have a lot of history together, but they have always been uneasy fit. While New York has been home to the grittier jazz of hard bop and Blue Note Records, L.A. is best known for the “Cool School.” Yet jazz in many different forms provides the soundtrack for many of the Los Angeles-based stories in Wanda Coleman’s Jazz and Twelve O’Clock Tales, a title which alludes to Billy Strayhorn’s “Lush Life.”

Many of Coleman’s characters live in distressed South Central neighborhoods. By and large, they are just getting by, or beginning to fall behind. However, many are involved in creative endeavors of one kind or another, like a widowed studio musician, a self-centered actor, an aspiring film student, a gospel singer, and a journeyman jazz musician.

“Jazz at Twelve,” almost the title story, is the only selection which directly addresses the music itself. It uses the occasion of a sideman gig played by veteran drummer Frank Lattimore to foretell future hardships for him, the narrator, and her hero-worshipping husband. Coleman tells the story with frequent asides portending ill winds blowing. For instance she writes:

“What Frank doesn’t know is that there’s another young woman taking notes that night. She’s a reporter for the Times. She is pale, ashen blonde, and of lofty attitude. She will pen a rave review tonight. It’ll run tomorrow. It will praise every member in the Ditzi group … except Frank.” (Ellipsis in Coleman p.20)

While this revelation-in-context motif might be difficult to maintain in a longer work (and would probably get tiresome) in this story it is a very effective story-telling device. Coleman is clearly an accomplished writer. A few of the shorter pieces are too fragmentary for my aesthetic preferences, but they are still quite well written.

Her work also tends to be dark and pessimistic, with the literal death of innocence a recurring theme in this collection. Perhaps the only story ending anywhere near an optimistic note is “My Brain’s Too Tired Too Think,” which shows the benefits of seeking mental help through professional counseling. It does get a bit preachy though, when cataloging the evils of society.

Many of Coleman’s stories end imperfectly for her characters. Ironically, the grimmest might be another music story, “Dunny,” a jaded portrayal of the gospel music industry. The title character has business problems that end badly. He remembers what they told him when he signed with his label:

“You have to appreciate the difference between hard people and bad people. We’re not bad people. Not at all. But sometimes we’re hard.” (p. 139)

Coleman’s stories sometimes bring to mind the work of Raymond Carver. She often writes of common people in desperate situations. In these stories at least, many of her characters take consoling pleasure from music. She is an impressive writer, probably best published in short short-story collections like Twelve, where readers can digest her naturalism in manageable doses.

Nine Fingers

Nine Fingers
By Thom August
Leisure Books mass original

In the past, Chicago jazz has had to cope with the Windy City’s history of mob activity. For instance, the venerable jazz club The Green Mill was once co-owned by Capone enforcer “Machinegun” Jack McGurn. Pseudonymous author Thom August has renewed the association between jazz and Chicago’s organized crime in the new novel, Nine Fingers, the first mass market original to be reviewed here.

Fingers starts with a mob hit that does not make apparent sense. The syndicate’s top assassin, simply known as “the Cleaner,” kills a visiting businessmen and part-time jazz musician as he sits-in with a local ensemble. What appears to be a case of mistaken identity leads to more attacks on the group. It all seems to trace back to a mafia princess, and another visiting musician, mysteriously missing his pinky finger (and supplying the title). Fortunately, the investigating detective in need of career rehabilitation once gigged professionally, allowing him to go undercover with the band.

No real-life musicians make cameo appearances, but August sounds familiar with the lives of working musicians. The chief protagonist of Fingers and one of three perspectives from which the story is told is Vinnie Amatucci, the band’s pianist and business manager. Amatucci shows a talent for meticulous work, like tuning the piano and balancing the sound system before gigs. At one point he ruminates:

“Jo Jones always said that if you can hear the rhythm section of a jazz band it means they’re fucking up. You’re supposed to feel them, unless one of them is soloing. And I believe that. The trumpet and sax are up front, physically, and their sound is supposed to be up front, aurally. That’s the nature of the music.” (p. 66)

Whoever August is, he writes musical details convincingly. Those passages of Fingers reminded me of the jazz mysteries of Bill Moody, but this is much more hardboiled than the Evan Horne novels. The language is saltier and there is considerably more drug use and graphic violence. Particularly gratuitous is a way over-the-top sex scene near the novel’s midpoint which is quite explicit and frankly defies believability within the context of the story. (I won’t quote from it, but the dogs out there can find it starting at p. 184) Unfortunately, August is stuck with the ramifications of that interlude for the remainder of the novel, creating additional issues of credibility in later scenes.

What is believable is his depiction of the dynamics within the combo. The musicians are well delineated characters, like the under-achieving, over-thinking Amatucci. August deserves credit for not making the leader, trumpeter Paul Powell, into another icy stand-in for Miles Davis (which has been done far too often). Instead he is cerebral in interesting ways, and has some nice scenes with Amatucci. August describes one such encounter from the pianist’s perspective, as he approaches the trumpeter practicing long tones:

“I gave him a little nod and he turned back toward the lake, and continued for another few minutes, working steadily up in his register until it must have required a phenomenal effort to hold each note. But each note was like a rounded little pearl, fat and shiny and hard, even the high ones.” (p. 329)

There are some nice moments in Fingers, and there are some ridiculous ones as well. To its credit, jazz is not treated as mere window dressing—rather it plays an important role in the story. Usually jazz related novels are of the depressingly literary variety, which makes Fingers a real change of pace. If it was not twenty degrees outside, it could be described as a good beach read, despite (or because of) an occasional excess. It will be interesting to see how August develops as a hard-boiled jazz novelist, if Fingers spawns a series. After all, he has the music down cold.