A couple of weeks ago I was in a shop leafing through a low pile of jazz LPs. It contained the usual selection of Magenta Haze and misplaced Klaus Wunderlich, but nothing I wanted. A man pushed an album across to me and said “That was in the wrong pile. It should be with jazz.” The record he referred to was “Dixieland Dance Party” by Eddie Condon, starring such luminescent names as Rex Stewart, Bud Freeman, Cutty Cuthsall and George Wetling (Quote: suggested personnel Unquote).
“I’ve never considered Eddie Condon as Dixieland, though,” the donor added. I leapt in with both feet splayed. “I don’t know. I always think of Condon and Dixieland together, although perhaps he rather leaned towards Chicago.”
What utter bosh I speak sometimes! Where did that comment come from? I’ve always been a Condon fan, ever since I read his book “We Called it Music” about five decades ago. I think I can say that Eddie played wonderful Dixieland jazz, but I’m not sure he was actually Dixieland. It’s a little like saying Jeremy Clarkson is an oaf because he behaves like one from time to time.
We chatted for a few minutes. The man obviously suffers from withdrawal symptoms caused by a dearth of people willing to talk about jazz. It turned out he was a member of Ken Colyer’s club in Great Newport Street, London, as was I in the middle 60s. Whenever I went there the club was virtually empty beyond 1am and yet almost everybody I know claims to have been a member. The place should have been heaving every night. Of course, those were in the days before jazz became an art form.
Those for whom that amorphous entity ‘the arts’ is a way of life forget one simple fact: the word ‘art’ is derived from the same root as artificial, artifice and artisan. When jazz became an art form, it began to leak the quiddity of the music. If you doubt the truth of this, review some of the old Steve Race presented BBC2 jazz nights and take a look at the implacable and statuesque bodies of the audience. And some of the musicians went so far up their own backsides I’m surprised they managed to walk off the stage.
What appealed to me about this album of Eddie Condon is that it contained the word ‘dance.’ It’s purely symbolic because I can’t dance; my four left feet keep colliding with my five right. But the inclusion of the word, especially linked to ‘party’, takes jazz back to where I’m convinced it started – out of a desire to make people dance.
Much of today’s jazz is sweet, melodic and anal. It seems to be only the old Dixielanders going out to enjoy themselves and being bothered to actually entertain the audience. Others seek deep meaning in their art and turn inwards, thus losing the precious link between instrumentalist and listener. Here’s a philosophical question: if a jazz musician plays an instrument but there is no audience to listen to it, does he still make a sound? Perhaps the question should add a corollary: if they hear sound, do they care?
My many records, CDs and downloads include cherished albums by Charles Mingus, Ornette Coleman, Wynton Marsalis, Joe Harriot, Don Rendell, Sonny Rollins, Gerry Mulligan, Art Pepper, Cannonball Adderley, Art Blakey and loads more proponents of jazz from a wide range of genres. So I’m not actually the mouldy fig I probably seem.
But I do wish there were less (should that be fewer?) bollocks talked and written about the subject. And on that note, I’ll heed my own wishes. After all, what do I know?
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