Abdullah Ibrahim In The 1960s: How The Famous Pianist Began To Shape An African Jazz Sound

BY STEPHANIE VOS

POST0DOCTORAL FELLOW

STELLENBOSCH UNIVERSTY

The 1960s is a significant era in Abdullah Ibrahim’s story. It’s a time when the South African master’s international career as a jazz pianist was gradually established and he laid the foundations for the signature sound that is recognised today as people reflect on his passing.

He is best remembered for evoking soundscapes that are recognisably South African: harmonisations of church hymns, Cape Town’s ghoema rhythms and Islamic calls to prayer. His delivery in performance was characterised by a sophisticated simplicity and spaciousness.

This musical turn is mimicked by a spiritual one that culminated in his conversion to Islam and name change from Dollar Brand to Abdullah Ibrahim in 1968.

The World of Dollar Brand was a series of articles that Ibrahim wrote and published in the Cape Herald newspaper in 1968 and 1969. They reveal some of his travails and musical developments after he had gone into exile in Europe in 1962.

As I outline in my study of South African jazz artists and exile, to call this time exile for Ibrahim is perhaps a misnomer. He and his wife, jazz artist and activist Sathima Bea Benjamin, returned to South Africa from July 1968 to May 1969, and again in 1970 and 1974.

As South Africa became remote as a physical presence, however, it gained presence in the poetics of Ibrahim’s sound and discourse. These early years of his absence from South Africa present the lesser known corners of his musical career.

Yet through his music, writing and interviews of this time we can trace how Ibrahim imagined and contructed Africa musically, negotiating an African-rooted sense of identity.

The ‘exile’ years

Born in Cape Town in 1934, Adolph Johannes (Dollar) Brand had been a prolific pianist in the nightclub circuit in South Africa since he was 17 years old.

By the time he and Benjamin left South Africa in 1962, he had a solid reputation. He had collaborated on South Africa’s first bebop record, the Jazz Epistles’ Verse 1, with South African jazz luminaries like Kippie Moeketsi, Hugh Masekela and Jonas Gwangwa.

In her biography, Benjamin recalls the couple were “literally starving for lack of opportunities” in a time of white minority rule and apartheid. A state of emergency declared after the Sharpeville Massacre of 1960 stifled the South African jazz scene. With the help of a personal friend, Paul Meyer, Ibrahim and Benjamin left for Zurich.

They arrived in the bitter cold of a Swiss winter to a room infested with bedbugs, and struggled to find work. Ibrahim wrote in the Cape Herald that his initial point of contact in Zurich was Club Africana, but they found his music “too modern”. He finally “managed to strike the right note” with the club’s managers – implying some form of musical compromise on his part – and secured a residency for four and a half months a year with fellow South Africans Johnny Gertze on bass and Makaya Ntshoko on drums.

Despite these adversities, this was a time of great development in Ibrahim’s sound. He put in intensive hours of piano practice, even turning to physical exercise to “sustain a long period of two-handed attack”. He honed his skills as a solo performer, and changed his approach to composition:

A lot of the (mostly American-derived) forms I had been working with in South Africa had become restrictive. I moulded new pieces which allowed me unfettered freedom and improvisation … lots of rhythmic patterns using the pulse … as the foundation.

Ibrahim’s early compositions The Stride, Machopi or Bra Joe From Kilimanjaro are examples of this sound.

The focus on pulse (the steady, smallest beats of music) as opposed to beats organised into metre (typically blocks of two, three or four beats that form a steady, repeating pattern, for example ONE two three ONE two three) signals that Ibrahim’s ear was trained on African modes of organising sound.

Cyclical repetitions of short riffs in the bass provide the structure of the piece, with the right hand freely improvising over it. This short cycle is a hallmark of many African musical traditions.

An encounter with Duke Ellington

A key event of Ibrahim’s time in Zurich was his encounter with US jazz star Duke Ellington in 1963. The story is well-known. Ellington was performing in Zurich and Benjamin convinced him to come and listen to a set of the Dollar Brand Trio. Clearly impressed, Ellington invited Benjamin and Brand to record with him in Paris a few weeks later.

This resulted in two albums: Duke Ellington presents the Dollar Brand Trio (1964), and Benjamin’s A Morning in Paris (only released in 1997). Ellington’s endorsement undoubtedly opened doors for Ibrahim, though it would be several years before his career took off.

brahim’s travels between 1962 and 1965 reveal the difficulties of securing a living. He performed at European festivals and did residencies. Stints from 1963 to 1965 at Jazzhus Montmartre in Copenhagen resulted in the live recording released as Anatomy of a South African Village (1965) and Round Midnight at the Montmartre (only released in 1988).

Here some of his “new forms” are audible. After a period in London, Ibrahim and Benjamin moved to New York in 1965. The city became their home for the next four decades.

A solo concert

Ibrahim played his first solo concert in the famed Carnegie Hall on 10 October 1965, launching him into the New York jazz scene in a symbolically significant way.

The concert was largely self-arranged, which struck the pianist as remarkably similar to his concert arrangement efforts when he was still in South Africa.

In this concert, his preference for solo piano performance is already noticeable. In the Cape Herald he observed:


The usual line-up of bass and drums was becoming too restricted and it was quite difficult to find a bass player who could play the fast figures I wanted.

These were difficult years for Ibrahim. Despite generous assistance from the Ellingtons, he could find no work. He poured himself into practice, studying scores, remarking:

The solo piano form was beginning to take shape.
Conversion to Islam

Ibrahim and Benjamin returned to South Africa for 10 months in 1968 and 1969. It was during this time that Dollar Brand converted to Islam. Ibrahim recounts a period of cleansing and spiritual exploration that led to his conversion.

It mirrored the technical development in his musical practices, which Ibrahim said in an interview on BBC radio was connected with internal development.

According to a review in the Cape Herald of the first concert he played in Kensington, Cape Town, however, he had left his audience behind in his musical developments. Although the figure that walked onto the stage “was the old scruffy, well-loved Dollar all right”, the reviewer reports that “Dollar began playing for Dollar, way-out stuff started soaring right above the heads of the audience”. The audience whispered, they fidgeted, and then “started shouting ‘Go back to America’.”

Ibrahim had lost his Cape Town audiences by 1968, his music reconnected with them when he returned in 1974. With producer Rashid Vally he recorded one of his best known albums, Mannenberg – is where it’s happening (1974).

In the track Mannenberg the musical short cycle features again, but this time in the familiar form of the marabi pattern, a mainstay of South African jazz since the 1920s, which forms the backbone of this piece.

Coupled with the distinct saxophone timbres of Cape Town musicians Robbie Jansen and Basil Coetzee, these are the sounds that became synonymous with a home that was only available to Ibrahim imaginatively, sonically, after he left the country in 1974 into what became definitive exile.

They will be the soundtrack to a free memorial concert in honour of his passing in Cape Town on 29 June.

Ibrahim’s writing in the Cape Herald is referenced in this article. The anti-apartheid newspaper closed in 1986 and while these articles are available in archives, there isn’t a link to them online.

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Jazz Commentary: John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme” Turns 60 — A Homage

COMPILED BY BILL MARX

“I believe that men are here to grow themselves into the best good that they can be.” – John Coltrane

This year marks the 60th anniversary of the release of John Coltrane’s magisterial album A Love Supreme, which has meant so much to so many. Some of the magazine’s jazz writers wanted to express what the music meant (and still means) to them. Their reactions are below.

ALLEN MICHIE

It was years after I discovered Coltrane’s A Love Supreme that I learned I was listening to part of it all wrong.

I confess I didn’t look too deeply into Coltrane’s “Dear Listeners” letter and the “A Love Supreme” poem included in the album’s gatefold. I knew the music had an intensely spiritual dimension, but I thought I didn’t need to study the fragmented religious catchphrases in the poetry to have a deeper appreciation of it. The words didn’t strike me as being particularly literary or original.

What my eyes skimmed over in Coltrane’s “Dear Listener” letter was the line: “the fourth and last part is a musical narration of the theme, ‘A Love Supreme,’ which is written in the context; it is entitled ‘PSALM.’” My mistake was that I didn’t take this literally.

Coltrane does something in the fourth movement that he had never done before and never did again. I can’t think of another example of it in jazz before that enchanted recording date of December 1964. Coltrane read his poem, syllable by syllable, through his tenor saxophone. You’re supposed to read the poem as you listen to the music. Unlike musicians playing the written melodies to standards, where you can “hear” the familiar lyrics you already know, Coltrane was freely improvising his melodies. He invented and then built his solo around recurring musical motifs structured by recurring phrases in the words, such as “Thank you God.”

It’s not a gimmick. The effect is powerful, and I encourage you to take the time to give it your full attention. For those who sometimes struggle to “get” Coltrane and understand the logic behind what appears to be his chaotic musical approach, this is an excellent place to start.

In order to follow the natural cadences of speech, Coltrane limits the range to the middle of the tenor saxophone to match that of an adult male’s voice. When the voice rises and breaks with emotion, as it does at 2:52 over the lines “Have no fear…believe…thank you God,” you can hear a new level of sincerity of expression, free of cliché or overdramatization. Simple lines like “God is. He always was. He always will be. No matter what…it is God” at 1:14 are expressed as a moment of quiet but uplifting discovery.

As the entire A Love Supreme suite builds to its conclusion, at 5:27, Coltrane’s stately incantation rises to something a human voice would strain to do. It is a disciplined cry, part sorrowful at losing some of our past self, and part ecstatic that a rebirth is underway. “He will remake us…He always has and He always will. It is true—blessed be His name—thank you God.” The music descends to the line “so gently we hardly feel it,” then ascends triumphantly, step by step, through the words “ELATION—ELEGANCE—EXALTATION.”

If you have journeyed with Coltrane this far, the reward is yours as well.

STEVE ELLMAN

John Coltrane had worked the territory before – modality and the blues – but never with such an explicit agenda. What if the music had appeared without its famous title, without the chant of “a love supreme” that surprised so many when they heard it for the first time? But that’s pointless: it is impossible to separate the music of A Love Supreme from its purpose. Coltrane said it was “a humble offering to Him,” and I have always heard it as a seeking, as well – hands and horn uplifted to a non-denominational divine.

“A Love Supreme” is the expression of the first giant step in that musical journey. Coltrane was in good company – the heart of A Love Supreme is like that of Moses on reaching the summit of Mount Horeb; like that of Jesus of Nazareth as John the Baptist was lifting him from the water of the Jordan; like that of Siddhartha Gautama in his final seconds of meditation under the bodhi tree before achieving enlightenment; like that of the prophet Muhammad in the moment the angel Gabriel said, “Recite.”

The search is in Coltrane’s liner notes: “I perceive . . . His OMNIPOTENCE, and of our need for, and dependence on Him. . . . In all ways seek God everyday. . . . No road is an easy one, but they all go back to God. . . . I have seen God. I have seen ungodly . . . He will remake us . . .”

Coltrane revisited A Love Supreme in live performance (notably with Carlos Ward and Pharoah Sanders added as solo voices, in Seattle in October 1965). The original themes and improvisations have been reexamined and reinterpreted by Branford Marsalis’s quartet, by Wynton Marsalis in a large-ensemble version for the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra, by violinist David Balakrishnan for the Turtle Island String Quartet, and by Jeff Scott in his Passion for Bach and Coltrane (Fuse review), along with others of much less renown, like the sacred steel group the Campbell Brothers, Catalan drummer Vicente Espí, Hungarian guitarist Juhász Gábor, and the big band led by French composer Christophe Dalsasso and saxophonist Lionel Belmondo.

Individual movements of the suite have inspired reimaginings by (among many others) saxophonists Kenny Garrett, Eric Alexander, and Lakecia Benjamin; Alice Coltrane, with Frank Lowe, Leroy Jenkins, Reggie Workman and Ben Riley; singer Kurt Elling, in a vocalise version setting philosophical words to Coltrane’s solo on “Resolution”; guitarists Carlos Santana and John McLaughlin; keyboardist-producer Robert Glasper; and Canadian pianist Andy Milne, in a symphony arrangement for Carlos Simon’s Coltrane: Legacy for Orchestra (Fuse review).

Even though the reinterpretations vary widely in sound and quality, they all share an astonishing continuity of reverence for the original, as if A Love Supreme were a cathedral, striking its visitors into awe and contemplation.

In all his music, consciously and unconsciously, Coltrane sought to fill the emptiness of a hollow world. The yearning of A Love Supreme touched something universal, and the musical expression of that yearning touched the souls of millions. Its power will not be diminished by time.

STEPHEN PROVIZER

Other Arts Fuse writers will no doubt discuss the creation of A Love Supreme and place it in a broader jazz context. My contribution is a personal story, inspired by the only slight exaggeration that this album saved my life. Twice.

My sister Marlene gave me the album for my 15th birthday the year it was released, 1965. She had no idea at the time, but days before, the girl I loved had told me she no longer wanted anything to do with me. I was devastated and took to my bed, crawling out only for an occasional meal. When Marlene brought me the LP, I could only muster a pro forma thank you.

My family’s record player was a console that sat in the dining room—a Sylvania. At that point, I had heard Coltrane’s Live at the Village Vanguard, so I knew he was going in new directions, but I was not prepared for what I heard. I put the record on and lay under the dining room table to listen. I was more than confused by what I heard. In fact, my breathing momentarily stopped. By the time the record was over, my spirits had lifted and I knew I would never hear or play music the same way again. Life seemed not so dire and perhaps, I thought, love might find me again.

My obsession with Coltrane was such that when I went to college, I finagled a grant to study his life. At nineteen years old, and wearing a fedora in an attempt to look older, I hit the road to North Carolina, Philadelphia, and New York City; I interviewed as many of the people who knew him as I could. Some of this material was published, but I didn’t write a biography because Alice Coltrane’s lawyers wouldn’t let her speak to me unless I had a publisher, and I couldn’t get a publisher until…

To frame the second life-saving incident, I will remind people that this was the era of the Vietnam War. In 1969, the Selective Service lottery was held and my number was 132. I was clearly going to be drafted — I was not interested in going to war. I was called for my physical. I didn’t quite manage to get under the minimum weight for my height, although carrying my trumpet and devising some interesting sexual inclinations did compel the shrink to write on my form that I had “overt character disorders.” I knew I needed to apply for conscientious objector (C.O.) status. And this is where A Love Supreme reappears.

You have to submit a written statement to your draft board that establishes your religious and/or ethical claim to be a conscientious objector. I am Jewish and was bar-mitzvah, but my claim was not based on that. Instead, I included a copy of the liner notes of A Love Supreme and explained that this was the basis of my spiritual beliefs. When I went to my draft board in Brookline’s Coolidge Corner, I brought a man with me—a well-known town guy who umpired softball games. He testified to my sincerity and helped to ground my esoteric claims. I explained the basis of my application to the board: I was granted C.O. status and then declared 4-F. Thank you, John Coltrane. Because of you and A Love Supreme, I never had to see the jungles of Southeast Asia.

STEVE FEENEY

I had an early introduction to the music of John Coltrane by way of a gift from a friend—a double vinyl album that included two Miles Davis releases: Workin’ and Steamin’ from the 1950s. Wow, that tenor sax player in the group had a powerful, distinctive sound. But it was my later introduction to Coltrane’s own A Love Supreme that really opened my ears, which at the time was otherwise accustomed to a diet of psychedelic jams.

As we listened to the disc, a member of my group of young friends nearly threw me off by insisting on singing along in a peculiar way to the spiritual chant at the start of the album. She insisted on changing “A Love Supreme, A Love Supreme” to “I Love Ice Cream, I Love Ice Cream.” The memory of that somewhat amusing, but nonetheless supremely annoying, irreverence still freezes my brain for a moment when I play the album.

In any event, I was, and remain, more focused on the instrumental music that followed the chanting. “Pursuance” is the section (or movement) in the four-part work that still blows me away. It contains the most intense jazz quartet music I have ever heard. I use the qualifier ‘jazz,’ but really, it holds up against any serious quartet music.

The mix of joy, humility, and African American roots in A Love Supreme makes for a triumphant recording, a testament to the chemistry of the leader, pianist McCoy Tyner, bassist Jimmy Garrison, and drummer Elvin Jones. I think I’ll stick the disc in the CD player (I still have one) in my car and head for a visit to the outer reaches of this great music— maybe taking some time out for a quick stop somewhere for a cone.

MICHAEL ULLMAN

In January of 1965, Impulse Records issued John Coltrane’s quartet record, A Love Supreme. I bought my copy soon after. I was already an engaged, teenaged Coltrane fan. I had heard Trane with Miles Davis and also in the Coltrane records I had already acquired—among them, Coltrane Plays the Blues, My Favorite Things, and the more recent Crescent. But my response, and that of others, to A Love Supreme was nonetheless different from our reactions to previous Coltrane performances and perhaps from any previous jazz record. I remember, in the fall of 1967, walking across the green at the University of Chicago and crossing paths with a young man who was chanting, “a love supreme, a love supreme.” Abruptly, it seemed my semi-private obsession with middle and late Coltrane was now widely shared, at least among hip Ivy League types.

A Love Supreme changed the public’s perspective on Coltrane. From 1965 on, his image was surrounded by an air of piety, especially following his premature death in 1967. After Trane, some jazz was increasingly seen as an expression of a spiritual force. No one then was surprised when Pharoah Sanders issued records like Karma and Wisdom Through Music, or when he chanted, “The Creator Has a Master Plan.” Alice Coltrane continued in Trane’s path with records like Lord of Lords. On the other hand, people were startled when they saw a photo of Coltrane smiling: he was typically seen as sober as an old-fashioned judge. His music reflected his seriousness. With its long, almost placid lines and out-of-tempo feel, the introduction to the title cut of Crescent may have been a musical precursor to A Love Supreme. But the latter album came with a poem, and the piece was made up of four movements—“Acknowledgement,” “Resolution,” “Pursuance,” and “Psalm.” This setup suggested the path of an effortful but ultimately successful spiritual awakening. Listeners believed that his music offered them a healing journey, an escape from a war-torn political scene and an increasingly agitated racial climate.

In his notes, Coltrane wrote about his own journey: “During the year 1957 I experienced, by the grace of God, a spiritual awakening which was to lead me to a richer, more productive life.” He backslid temporarily, he said, but had come back to his chosen path. A Love Supreme was his way of saying thank you and also suggesting a way for the rest of us to follow. The way wasn’t meant to be tedious: he ends his poem by telling us what God had vouchsafed him: “ELATION—ELEGANCE—EXALTATION.” “Acknowledgement” begins with a splash on Elvin Jones’s gong and a fanfare from Coltrane, who withdraws as McCoy Tyner fills in and then seems to dwindle away in anticipation. The introduction ends with Jimmy Garrison’s repetitions of the four-note theme that A Love Supreme will always be known for. Coltrane returns, interjecting the straightforward force of his playing as he moves from overblown high notes to the depth of his tenor. He plays short phrases that seem to move with their own harmonic logic. At his most intense, he travels higher in his horn, swirling around an imagined center. Eventually, of course, he chants “a love supreme.”

After one acknowledges the omnipresence of God, there is “Resolution,” which precedes the action suggested by the following movement, “Pursuance.” The theme of “Resolution” is just as attractive as its predecessor. Here, though, McCoy Tyner solos at length with his own pounding, two-handed force: he plays a whole chorus of thumping chords. Jones is given the opportunity to open “Pursuance.” Coltrane ensures that every quartet member gets his feature time—still, the saxophonist dominates with his sometimes shrieking intensity. The concluding movement, “Psalm,” is a proclamation, perhaps of well-earned serenity. A Love Supreme has been treated by critics as Coltrane’s signature album. I don’t think he thought of it that way, as if its significance was set in stone. The next day, he re-recorded several movements, and in his next session he recorded “Chim Chim Cheree” from Mary Poppins. His ears remained open and his musical spirit playful.

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WCLK's Jamal Ahmad Pens Letter To The "Uncle" Roy Ayers

JAZZ 91.9 WCLK

If I were ever asked what one musician defines my musical ethos and mission, I would loudly proclaim, without hesitation and with every fiber of my being, South Central Los Angeles' own, Uncle Roy Ayers. Because he was genuinely so many things at one time. He was a walking fusion. What's so genius about Roy Ayers is I became a fan of his early in my life and yet I had no clue who he was.

Like many of my Gen X peers, I discovered his music through hip-hop samples. I'll never forget the day I was in my bedroom playing the New Rochelle group Brand Nubians' newly released single "Wake Up" and my father knocked on my door. He asked me who I was playing on my box. After I told him he said, yeah but that's Roy Ayers' "Everybody Loves The Sunshine". Not knowing who he was, I immediately rode Marta to Wax N Facts and bought the cassette of that legendary album. I was never the same and hearing that song for the first time, which was a truly cathartic moment. And by chance, later that year, which was my junior year in high school, I attended a party featuring legendary DJ Clark Kent and they were giving away tapes at the door. I grabbed a soundtrack called Young Soul Rebels, that featured loads of rare groove and featured his hit single "Running Away". Goodness gracious. I danced so hard in my bedroom the first time I played that song.

A few years later, I was listening to the Thursday night hip-hop show on Georgia Tech's radio station and I won tickets to see him live at Center Stage. I was 19 years old and I took my first girlfriend and it was the first concert I ever attended with a date. He kicked off the show with "Mystic Voyage" and for the next hour and a half, I was in a musical trance. My girlfriend was looking at me like I was crazy because she never saw me react to music the way I did that evening lol.

When I started my radio show at WCLK that same year, he was so heavy in my playlists, the program director actually had to limit me from playing so much of his music lol. And then, through an introduction by my radio mentor Ken Batie, I met my musical hero. They say never meet your heroes, but that didn't apply to Uncle Roy(which is what Ken called him). I saw Roy Ayers do some of the most beautiful things for his fellow humans and quite frankly things I've never seen anyone of his stature do. I remember once after he performed for Ken's birthday party at the Apache Cafe and I was chauffeuring him to the airport with Ken. As we drop him off, he tells Ken with this frustration in his voice, "man take this" and slaps all this money in Ken's hand. Then he let out this sly grin and winked at me. He had given Ken back the money Ken paid him for his performance and said "happy birthday brotha".

Over time, Roy and I became closer with every encounter and I've lost count how many times I've been blessed to interview him and host his shows. Every encounter was soulful and warm and he never changed. When I told him my band The Dangerfeel Newbies was going to cover his song "Love From The Sun" featuring his former vocalist Kathleen J. Bertrand, he gave us the ultimate blessing and said "oh Kathleen is going to make that right". Then when he heard it, he said "y'all turned that song into a hit"! When I asked him to take part in the film I co-directed with Jason Orr of FunkJazz Kafé entitled "Stepping Into Tomorrow"(the final photo in this slide is from the film), he didn't hesitate a bit and blessed us with amazing energy and stories. We're just thankful we were able to honor him and many of his peers.

It goes without saying that Roy Ayers is a jazz legend. But just saying that would minimize his importance. He was one of the great pillars of modern music and the last jazz musicians from his era that drew just as many younger fans to his concerts as he did older fans. Last time he came to Atlanta, I saw so many Tik Tok videos of millennials getting ready for his show. That means something. Roy Ayers' legacy has reached into so many generations that my twelve year old daughter asked me recently if I had ever heard of him. That's so unbelievably cool. He's been sampled by so many legends in hip hop and his list of collaborations features folks as diverse as Rick James, Whitney Houston, Tyler The Creator, The Roots, Masters At Work and many more. His "vibration" literally created a whole new genre and Erykah Badu knighted him "Godfather Of Neo Soul".

All we can do now is thank God for his being and blessing us with him for so many years. Roy Ayers will always be remembered as a master of good vibrations and the world is a much better place after he taught us all how to get on down in the sunshine. I will continue to remind the world of your greatness sir and I will honor you every chance I get. I love you Uncle Roy and may God be pleased with you and your amazing spirit.

~ Jamal Ahmad

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Jazz Club Blue Note Opens New Los Angeles Venue And Take Over Hollywood Bowl Festival

Grammy winning artist and composer to curate events in L.A.

BY AUGUST BROWN

LOS ANGELES (LOS ANGELES TIMES) - The acclaimed New York venue Blue Note Jazz Club is going to sweep through L.A.’s music scene in 2025.

The Greenwich Village club — long regarded as one of New York’s elite spaces for jazz — will open a new venue in Hollywood in March, with 200- and 100-capacity performance rooms and a full restaurant. The club already has outposts around the world, including Napa, Hawaii, Tokyo, Italy, China and Brazil.

The venue will again partner with Grammy-winning artist and composer Robert Glasper to curate events in L.A., building on his long-running “Robtober” artist residency.

“I’m honored to partner up with Blue Note once again for what will be a significant cultural intersection for the Los Angeles community. Los Angeles has always been a second home to me, and I can’t wait to bring L.A. culture to the Blue Note,” Glasper said in a statement.

The venue arrives at a mixed moment for local jazz clubs, as some beloved venues have shuttered and others are revamping to hang on.

Additionally, the venue will become the new flagship partner of the Hollywood Bowl Jazz Festival, which will be renamed the Blue Note Jazz Festival (it began as the Playboy Jazz Festival in 1979). Presented by the LA Phil, the revamped festival will debut June 14 at the Hollywood Bowl, with a full lineup announced February 18 and tickets on sale in May.

The Napa edition of the Blue Note Jazz Festival Napa began in 2022, with a mix of hip-hop and R&B that’s hosted headliners Nas, Mary J. Blige, Chance the Rapper and Maxwell.

“We are thrilled to join forces with Blue Note to launch the Blue Note Jazz Festival at the Hollywood Bowl,” LA Phil’s president and chief executive Kim Noltemy said in a statement. “This partnership represents a shared dedication to celebrating jazz and its extraordinary artists while continuing the legacy of world-class music at the Bowl. Together, we look forward to creating an unforgettable experience for jazz lovers in Los Angeles.”

Quincy Jones Mastered The Art Of Arrangement, Transforming Simple Tunes Into Epic Soundscapes

Ray Charles, left, shares a laugh with Quincy Jones in 2004. George Pimentel/WireImage for NARAS via Getty Images

BY JOSE VALENTINO RUIZ

ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF MUSIC

BUSINESS ENTREPRENEURSHIP

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA

On the sleeve notes of some of the most memorable and best-selling albums of all time, you’ll find the words “Produced and arranged by Quincy Jones.”

It was a hallmark of quality.

Jones, who died on Nov. 3, 2024, at the age of 91, transformed our understanding of musical arrangement. His work spanned decades and genres, from jazz and pop to hip-hop and film scoring. He worked with pop icons like Michael Jackson, Frank Sinatra, Ray Charles and Aretha Franklin, and also collaborated with lesser-known artists such as Lesley Gore and Tevin Campbell.

Each of his projects, collaborations and forays into new genres redefined what it meant to arrange music.

As a music business and entrepreneurship professor, I’ve studied and taught Jones’ techniques, which I hope can inspire the next generation of musicians.

A master musical architect

Musical arrangement might seem like an abstract concept.

Simply put, it’s the art of deciding how a song unfolds. While a composer writes the melody and harmony, an arranger shapes the experience, choosing which instruments play when, how textures build and where dynamics shift.

Arrangement transforms a song from notes on paper into a fully realized piece of art that resonates with listeners. In essence, an arranger acts as a musical architect, designing the structure of a song to tell a compelling story.

Jones brought a visionary approach to arranging. He wasn’t merely filling in the gaps around a melody with a drum beat here and a horn section there; he was crafting a musical narrative that gave each instrument a purpose, guiding listeners through an emotional journey.

From his early work in the 1950s and 1960s with jazz greats like Count Basie and R&B star Ray Charles, to his blockbuster productions with Michael Jackson, Jones saw arrangement as a tool to guide listeners from one musical moment to the next.

Elevating voices

His work on “Sinatra at the Sands” is but one example.

Jones created lush, energetic big-band arrangements that perfectly complemented Sinatra’s smooth, warm voice. The choice of brass swells and the dynamic shifts amplified Sinatra’s charisma, turning the album into a lively, almost-cinematic experience. Unlike many arrangements, which often stay in the background, Jones’ took center stage, blending harmoniously with Sinatra’s vocals while adding depth and excitement to the entire performance.

In Ray Charles’ “I Can’t Stop Loving You,” Jones used orchestral swells and background vocals to bring out the soul in Charles’ voice, creating a richly emotional experience for listeners. By intelligently pairing Charles’ gospel-tinged vocals with a polished, orchestral arrangement, Jones captured the tension between sorrow and resilience – a demonstration of his ability to communicate complex emotions through arrangement.

Turning songs into stories

Jones’ skill at using arrangement as a storytelling device was exemplified by his collaboration with Jackson.

Albums like “Thriller” and “Off the Wall” showcased Jones’ knack for inventively layering sounds. On “Thriller,” Jones combined electronic and acoustic elements to create a multidimensional soundscape that set a new standard for production.

His ability to incorporate textures, background vocals and unique instrument choices – such as horror actor Vincent Price’s iconic narration on the song “Thriller” – transformed pop music, setting the stage for future producers to experiment with storytelling in their own arrangements.

In Jackson’s “Bad,” Jones pushed the boundaries of genre by blending funk rhythms with pop structures, giving Jackson’s music a timeless appeal.

The title track’s arrangement has layers of rhythm and harmony that build a feeling of tension and power, enhancing Jackson’s message of confidence and defiance. Each instrument and background vocal in “Bad” serves a purpose, creating a sound that is bold, exciting and engaging.

Lessons for educators

For educators teaching music production and commercial music, Jones’ approach provides a gold mine of practical lessons.

First, his commitment to genre fusion teaches students the importance of versatility. Jones’ career demonstrates that blending jazz, pop, funk and even classical elements can create something innovative and accessible. Students can learn to break free from the constraints of single-genre production, seeing instead how various musical styles can work together to create fresh, engaging sounds.

Second, Jones’ emphasis on storytelling through arrangement offers students a framework for making music that resonates.

In my classes, I encourage students to ask themselves: How does each musical element support the emotional arc of the song? By studying Jones’ arrangements, students learn to think of themselves as storytellers, not just sound engineers. They can begin to see arrangement as an art form in itself – one that has the power to captivate audiences by drawing them into a musical journey.

Finally, Jones’ work shows the power of collaboration. His willingness to work across genres and with a variety of artists – each bringing unique perspectives – demonstrates the value of open-mindedness and adaptability.

His life’s work serves as a reminder that music is more than just sound; it’s an experience shaped by careful, intentional decisions, with every sound and silence in a piece of music serving a purpose.

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5 Minutes That Will Make You Love Wayne Shorter

BY MARCUS J. MOORE

This month we feature Wayne Shorter, the iconoclastic composer and tenor saxophonist whose work with Art Blakey, Miles Davis, Weather Report and through his own solo discography has influenced generations of like-minded visionaries to push the boundaries of jazz. Since his death in 2023 at 89, it’s felt like he’s still around. That’s because his music always felt so otherworldly and progressive, as if it were beamed in from outer space or somewhere deep into the future.

Shorter rose to prominence in the late 1950s and early ’60s as a member of Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers, where his husky and complex sound proved a worthy complement to Blakey’s propulsive rhythms. By 1964, Miles came calling: He wanted Shorter to join his quintet — an all-star squad that included Herbie Hancock, Ron Carter and Tony Williams — but it was no easy sell. Davis “had even gone as far as telephoning Art Blakey’s backstage dressing areas to speak to the saxophonist,” the author Ian Carr wrote in his definitive Miles Davis biography. As a member of the quintet, Shorter once said, “it wasn’t the bish-bash, sock-’em-dead routine we had with Blakey, with every solo a climax. With Miles, I felt like a cello, I felt viola, I felt liquid, dot-dash … and colors started really coming.”

Shorter was thought to be a catalyst for one of Davis’s most fruitful creative periods. “All of us wrote some songs, I wrote a couple of things myself, but the main writer: Wayne,” Hancock told me over the phone recently. “If we were going to go to a recording session, Miles would ask Wayne, ‘Did you bring the book?’ Once in a while, we would play things written by Charlie Parker or Dizzy Gillespie. But most of the things we recorded were written by Wayne.” The quintet broke up in 1968; Shorter worked with Davis until 1970.

In 1971, Shorter helped pioneer jazz fusion, releasing the first album by the group Weather Report with the keyboardist Joe Zawinul. The group created a genre-bending style of music that incorporated jazz, rock, funk and improvised electronic arrangements. By the late ’80s and ’90s, Shorter’s output didn’t slow down, but his focus shifted to deeper spiritual enlightenment, which led to a deeper friendship with Hancock, who was also a practicing Buddhist. In recent years, even though they’d been collaborators for several decades, Hancock and Shorter became best friends.

“He always was a genius, just an amazing human being,” Hancock said. “Most jazz players are composers, too. But I would say that the majority of us who are still living and were around during the major part of Wayne’s life, if we had to pick someone to be No. 1, I think we all would probably pick Wayne.

“Even though I know Wayne passed away,” he continued, “he’s been in my heart for a long time and he’s still there. So in a certain way I don’t see him anymore. But he hasn’t died for me. It’s not gone forever. He’s still there.”

Below you’ll find a sampling of Shorter’s music picked by a mix of composers and critics. You can find a playlist at the end of the article, and be sure to leave your own favorites in the comments.

Dee Dee Bridgewater, jazz singer

“Footprints”

Wayne Shorter’s composition “Footprints,” written in 1966, has always spoken to my spirit. When compiling material for my “Red Earth” CD project in 2006, it immediately came to mind. While in Bamako, Mali, recording, I researched “Footprints” for pre-existing lyrics … none that I found were befitting to the overall theme, so I decided to try my hand. During a rehearsal session, the idea for lyrics manifested. Within 30 minutes I’d formulated my story. I hoped it was close to what had inspired Wayne in composing his beguiling instrumental.

With some trepidation, I decided to call the maestro — he answered immediately. I explained the project, and the importance of including his composition, and then shared that I’d written some lyrics. Intrigued, Wayne asked that I read them. Once finished, he said I’d come closest to what he was thinking of when composing this masterpiece. He gave me immediate permission to record the song with my new lyrics; however, he insisted I change the title to one descriptive of my narrative, which I did. For my “Red Earth: A Malian Journey” album, released in 2007 on my label, DDB Records, it became “Long Time Ago (Footprints).” The song is part of my current repertoire, performed in honor of Wayne Shorter — my humble way of paying tribute to this intrepid human being that I miss dearly.

Esperanza Spalding, musician and composer

“Pegasus”

So much of the totality of his personality is on display in this song — his creative personality, his musical personality, and his character, which, of course, are all intermingled. And to know that this man, who was already 80 when this came out, said, “Yes, that’s how I want my album to start. That is the correct entrance into the world of this album.” And I think of something that he quoted John Coltrane saying, that he wanted the music to feel like someone had opened the door to a place where all the music was already happening. So I mean, imagine how would you be traveling if you were traveling with Pegasus? Are you on Pegasus’s back? Can you also fly? Are you traveling through celestial realms?

The images in the comic book that accompanies this album have you traveling between dimensions, between worlds. And I feel that with this song, the visuals that are stimulated by this music move you through places you’ve never been before. Then again, this song is such a comprehensive portrait of all the facets of Wayne. He leads you up to a culminating solo at the end. It feels like a blues holler that somebody would’ve shouted from the back of the church. This is a song that I go to all of the time, more than anything else Wayne has done, and hope more people will do the same.

Giveton Gelin, trumpeter, composer, and educator

“Sanctuary” by Miles Davis

I first encountered this song through Dayna Stephens, and I was immediately captivated by its opening phrase, unable to stop listening, dissecting and reflecting on it. It struck me like a sorcerer’s incantation or the beginning of a hypnotic trance. The melody itself ensnares you, but it’s the interplay of the bass notes that creates this overall effect. Essentially, the essence of the opening phrase could be reproduced using only two voices — the very highest and lowest notes.

Wayne Shorter’s complete artistry has profoundly inspired me, and his compositional prowess has greatly influenced me. I chose this song because its melodic content, choice of bass notes, and motivic development represent exemplary craftsmanship. Throughout the tune, the melodic undulating patterns gradually build to a climactic moment. The song has been interpreted in many versions, each undergoing a complete transformation.

One of my favorite renditions is Miles Davis’s live performance of this song at the Newport Jazz Festival. In each rendition, Miles typically takes the climactic point of the melody up an octave and repeats the two-note phrase. In this particular version, Tony Williams’s shuffle rhythm completely transforms the song, showcasing how decisions, love, trust and inspiration naturally yield beautiful outcomes — much like how an exhale follows an inhale.

Patricia Brennan, musician

“Face of the Deep”

It’s challenging to pinpoint one specific track in Shorter’s extensive catalog, but one track in particular stands out for me: “Face of the Deep,” a striking ballad full of depth. I believe it is one of the most emotionally complex tracks on the record, “The All Seeing Eye.” It features Shorter’s genius use of space, texture and density through orchestration and improvisation as well as harmony.

It begins with an emotional piano introduction played by Herbie Hancock, accompanied by Ron Carter’s bass. They are joined by horns stating the main theme of the composition, a dense chorale charged with solemnity. This theme, which returns after the solos, is the highest-density point of the piece, featuring masterful harmonic choices.

Hancock’s solo, beautifully accompanied by Carter and Joe Chambers, is the first one featured. It’s a patiently developed statement that paints a landscape of emotions. Shorter’s solo which follows is an invitation to focus on the music happening in between the notes. He highlights the deepness of musical space and the powerful energy carried by sustained sound.

“Face of the Deep” to me represents beauty within darkness. It is charged with emotional and spiritual profundity.

Immanuel Wilkins, musician

“Over Shadow Hill Way”

“Over Shadow Hill Way” is a piece off the album “Joy Ryder,” recorded in 1988. It’s the soundtrack fit for a superhero, or an angel. The piece of music lives in the future in a way that haunts the mind and body, like it’s reaching back for you. Shadow Hill Way is a street in Beverly Hills — a 12-minute drive from the house where I visited Mr. Shorter, two months and nine days before his peaceful journey into the unknown. The view from his window overlooked all of Los Angeles — I wonder if I could see that street from there. Mr. Shorter’s improvisations come to conclusions that are inquisitive; he lives in the here and now — the veil is lifted. Each improvisation calls you to think about what it means to journey into the unknown — to embrace and surrender to the present moment. Compositionally, the song has such powerful thematic material, it becomes stuck in your head in an instant. There’s a great amount of imaginative logic in the composition, with a bass line that walks up a scale and walks down another, and a chant of chords in the melodic register that alter slightly with really close intervals moving. This piece possesses a deep power, yet is harmonically delicate. Deep funk and soul. Also some nostalgia. Maybe I’m projecting. I miss Wayne Shorter.

Rocio (Wyldeflower) Contreras, D.J.

“Witch Hunt”

The first song on an album can sometimes be a navigational tool. For me it usually tends to be one of the strongest tunes, serving as a hook to bring the listener in — a predictive sonic statement preparing you for the ride you’re about to take. Wayne Shorter’s “Witch Hunt” is the first song on the 1966 Blue Note album “Speak No Evil.” It’s an album where each song feels like a full opus, each track with a towering running time. “Witch Hunt” is a hearty eight minutes, embodying a full range of emotional states, starting off with dramatic dark horns, motivating movement, flow and highlighting the sonic conversation between Freddie Hubbard and Wayne Shorter, one that commits to memory easily. The solos that Wayne offers on “Witch Hunt” are masterful, lush and demanding. They showcase his musical foundation and display a preview of what’s to come. The conversation continues throughout with Elvin Jones and Ron Carter holding us down, while Herbie Hancock’s keys adorn the track with gentle but direct notes. “Speak No Evil" has altered my DNA and amplified my ear with every listen. “Witch Hunt” has been my morning coffee and my midnight drive, countless times. It’s a familiar face and a grounding energy; it’s a nurturing road that you know all the twists and turns to. It’s a map to the heart.

Steph Richards, musician

“Smilin’ Through”

Here we drop the needle halfway into the track with the drummer Brian Blade setting up a ferocious undercurrent while Wayne masterfully shapes rolling tsunamis of energy, loosely interpreting this lesser-known jazz standard on soprano sax. Most know and love Wayne for his tenor sound, as dark and deep as the ocean, but the way he shapes his sound on soprano sax, in contrast, is its own kind of creature, bringing a heat that cuts right to the heart. His quartet flies and fires alongside, underneath and above; shifting meters, feels and harmonic spaces all in a free, openly evolving exchange. Blade, the bassist John Patitucci and the pianist Danilo Perez are agile, fierce and masterful counterparts. This track hails from the album “Beyond the Sound Barrier,” featuring a series of live sets recorded from 2002-04. A feeling of brilliant possibility permeates every shifting moment.

I come back to this album time and time again, drawn to the signature concision, beauty and openness of navigating compositional structure that is singular to Wayne Shorter’s playing and writing. My recent record “Power Vibe” is dedicated to Wayne, and his imprint is embedded throughout, both conceptually and sometimes literally (I quote moments from “Over Shadow Hill Way” from this album in my title track). The heart of his music speeds straight through his structures and into another dimension — if one can compose a groundwork for fantasy, freedom and exploration, as Wayne does so masterfully, the music then reveals itself. We end this clip not just on a high note, but a vulnerable one, highlighting one of my favorite aspects of Wayne Shorter: that he is willing to take us to the edge of beauty and peer beyond it into a cosmic unknown.

Marta Sanchez, pianist and composer

“Sweet Pea”

After nearly a minute of a limbo-like atmosphere, as if the band were communing with Strayhorn in his new state (the composition is Wayne’s tribute to Billy Strayhorn, nicknamed “Sweet Pea,” who died a month before Wayne wrote this piece), Wayne Shorter attacks the first note of the melody, almost like howling. That note resonates so deeply that it sends shivers down your spine, then develops into a simple, sad but hauntingly beautiful melody that seems to ache over Shorter’s unexpected harmonies.

Shorter, a transformer of challenging emotions into precious ones, elegantly converts the sorrow of death into the magic of the afterworld. Wayne takes his time, delivering each note with focused intention, and when the melody finishes, plays a few delicate improvised notes before interpreting the melody all over again. Wayne’s own rendition of his tune doesn’t feature soloists (unlike Miles Davis’s earlier version of the same piece). Just the melody played twice, but in such a deliberate way that we wouldn’t have been able to take any more.

Ambrose Akinmusire, trumpeter and bandleader

“Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum”

“Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum,” from Wayne Shorter’s 1966 album “Speak No Evil," holds a special place in my heart for its blend of simplicity and complexity. It’s my favorite song of Wayne’s to play.

I find the melody of “Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum” straightforward, yet the harmonic language feels intricate and unpredictable. The composition seems simple, but it’s actually really complex. In the A sections, Wayne finds a way of weaving something really beautiful and simple through a complex landscape. And the B section is a standard blues form. The macro reflects the micro. The melody is simple, and the chord changes are complex. The A is complex and the B section is simple. It’s like the B section takes the role of the melody. I love that you can find this micro, macro structure in the craft of all his writing.

I also like the tune because of its title. Initially you think it’s about Jack and the Beanstalk, but I think he’s really paying homage to John Coltrane’s “Giant Steps,” and you can see this in the similar harmonic motion. I love how the melody, confined to a single octave — B flat to B flat — feels expansive because of its dynamic expression and rhythmic variations. It’s like he’s squeezing the essence out of everything, out of every chord, every moment. It bypasses the intellectual stuff and gets to the essence.

It reminds me of what it was like to hang out with him and talk to him. One minute he’d be talking about quantum physics, the next he’d be talking about pop culture. I miss talking to Wayne, and playing this particular composition makes me feel like I’m continuing my conversations with him.

Giovanni Russonello, jazz critic

“House of Jade”

Fittingly, the music on “Juju,” Wayne Shorter’s second album for Blue Note, has a dark-arts energy about it. These six tracks can send you spiraling into yourself, sounding out unnamed feelings, lost — but then they’re always somehow liable to bring you back to center and confirm your strength, to leave you feeling fortified. That is partly the work of Elvin Jones’s steady drums: the loping ride cymbal; his judicious, devastating kick drum. Add Reggie Workman’s bass and McCoy Tyner’s piano, and you have a rhythm section entirely associated with Shorter’s mentor John Coltrane. But just as he had learned by now to take only what he needed from Coltrane’s style, as a composer and a soloist, Shorter bends this rhythm section around his own ear. He puts the band to work especially slyly on “House of Jade,” with a sticky and slow-moving bass line illuminating Shorter’s melody from odd angles.

When he recorded this album in August 1964, a 30-year-old Shorter was in the process of joining Miles Davis’s band, on Coltrane’s referral. With Davis’s second great quintet, Shorter would make some of the finest small-group jazz in history, but the commitment kept him from touring with his own groups. As far as hearing Shorter as a bandleader during his historic, blazing run of the mid-to-late ’60s, when he was writing and playing as well as any musician alive, all we’ve basically got is the studio records. And the first spell you should cast for yourself is “Juju.”

George Burton, composer and producer

“Aung San Suu Kyi” by Wayne Shorter and Herbie Hancock

As someone who’s delved deeply into Wayne Shorter’s entire catalog, the concept of space frequently arises in my thought process, particularly regarding how a musician’s career trajectory often evolves to reflect their perception of music and life. “Aung San Suu Kyi,” written and performed by Shorter, was inspired by the Burmese politician, Nobel Peace Prize laureate and former leader of Myanmar, known for her long struggle for democracy and human rights. In this tune, you can hear various ideas that may correlate to an individual like her, from the simple beauty of the melody to the intense groove it leans against. It also displays a comfort in the unknown, with the notion that we are working together to present this experience.

Shorter’s ability to create beautiful melodies, as seen with “Aung San Suu Kyi,” embodies the essence of artistic expression at its highest form, weaving through the history of Black music. The tone and inflection of his horn, combined with the individualism of each player in his ensembles, demonstrate his deep understanding of sound exploration. From bands with Lee Morgan, McCoy Tyner and Elvin Jones to the ensemble Weather Report, and his last band with Danilo Perez, John Patitucci and Brian Blade, Shorter’s music reflects an understanding of changes in not just music but life itself. His compositions are not just tunes; they are narratives that engage listeners, inviting them to explore the depths of musical and emotional landscapes.

Jahari Stampley, pianist and composer

“Infant Eyes”

Captivating. Dreamlike. Inspiring. Controlled. Free. These are some words that would describe my favorite song written by the brilliant composer Wayne Shorter — “Infant Eyes.” Released in 1966 on his album “Speak No Evil,” this revolutionary composition as well as the influential ensemble of musicians on the recording helped to nurture the beginning of my musical lineage. From my mother, who credits Wayne Shorter as being the catalyst of her musical journey as an artist, to my earliest experiences as a pianist, composer and bandleader through my mother, his musical impact has carried throughout generations.

“Infant Eyes” is arguably one of the most beautiful and mysterious jazz ballads ever written — unpredictably formed, enigmatic and melodically haunting. Shorter’s organic & captivating tone flows over each phrase, creating an incredibly emotional impact. The song was dedicated to his daughter, Miyako. And I could imagine him looking into her eyes for the first time.

His ensemble generated a magical synergy. With Herbie Hancock’s understated and skillful piano comping, Ron Carter’s subtle, supportive bass lines and Elvin Jones’s intuitive & perfectly balanced drumming, they seemed to play almost effortlessly, gracefully elevating Wayne Shorter’s melody to the forefront, but in a gentle way. “Infant Eyes”: Wayne Shorter’s timeless gift to the world.

Leo Genovese, musician

“Night Dreamer”

“Night Dreamer” was the first Wayne Shorter album I heard, when I was in Argentina in the mid-90s. In the title track, when Wayne plays you can hear his soul producing value, his sound mission and his life’s determination to be creative at all times.

He was always reaching deeper. He never stopped studying and seeing it all, and making us aware of many things the media and society try to hide or hijack. He wrote music in a magic room, next to a big window where you could see the whole downtown Los Angeles, where you could observe the sky in full form, always ready for a “visit” from something from another place. The room was populated by maybe 300 statues of magical beings, superheroes, dragons and fairies. The TV was always on. Sometimes he had on the news, or some channel with some bad energy. From his desk he was writing the antidote to all those mediocre things portrayed in the media.

He would say, “Commission yourself. Don’t wait on grants, don’t rely on anything. Do the work, just commission yourself and start.” He told me he was going to commission himself to write an orchestral piece for “Night Dreamer,” but I don’t think he got to it.

As he said, he had to go to get a new body to continue the mission.

He’ll be back.

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Brain Scans Of Philly Jazz Musicians Reveal Secrets To Reaching Creative Flow

BY JOHN KOUNIOS AND YVETTE KUONIOS

Flow, or being “in the zone,” is a state of amped-up creativity, enhanced productivity and blissful consciousness that, some psychologists believe, is also the secret to happiness. It’s considered the brain’s fast track to success in business, the arts or any other field.

But in order to achieve flow, a person must first develop a strong foundation of expertise in their craft. That’s according to a new neuroimaging study from Drexel University’s Creativity Research Lab, which recruited Philly-area jazz guitarists to better understand the key brain processes that underlie flow. Once expertise is attained, the study found, this knowledge must be unleashed and not overthought in order for flow to be reached.

As a cognitive neuroscientist who is senior author of this study, and a university writing instructor, we are a husband-and-wife team who collaborated on a book about the science of creative insight. We believe that this new neuroscience research reveals practical strategies for enhancing, as well as elucidating, innovative thinking.

Jazz musicians in flow

The concept of flow has fascinated creative people ever since pioneering psychological scientist Mihály Csíkszentmihályi began investigating the phenomenon in the 1970s.

Yet, a half-century of behavioral research has not answered many basic questions about the brain mechanisms associated with the feeling of effortless attention that exemplifies flow.

The Drexel experiment pitted two conflicting theories of flow against each other to see which better reflects what happens in people’s brains when they generate ideas. One theory proposes that flow is a state of intensive hyperfocus on a task. The other theory hypothesizes that flow involves relaxing one’s focus or conscious control.

The team recruited 32 jazz guitarists from the Philadelphia area. Their level of experience ranged from novice to veteran, as quantified by the number of public performances they had given. The researchers placed electrode caps on their heads to record their EEG brain waves while they improvised to chord sequences and rhythms that were provided to them.

Jazz improvisation is a favorite vehicle for cognitive psychologists and neuroscientists who study creativity because it is a measurable real-world task that allows for divergent thinking – the generation of multiple ideas over time.

The musicians themselves rated the degree of flow that they experienced during each performance, and those recordings were later played for expert judges who rated them for creativity.

Train intensively, then surrender

As jazz great Charlie Parker is said to have advised, “You’ve got to learn your instrument, then, you practice, practice, practice. And then, when you finally get up there on the bandstand, forget all that and just wail.”

This sentiment aligns with the Drexel study findings. The performances that the musicians self-rated as high in flow were also judged by the outside experts as more creative. Furthermore, the most experienced musicians rated themselves as being in flow more than the novices, suggesting that experience is a precondition for flow. Their brain activity revealed why.

The musicians who were experiencing flow while performing showed reduced activity in parts of their frontal lobes known to be involved in executive function or cognitive control. In other words, flow was associated with relaxing conscious control or supervision over other parts of the brain.

And when the most experienced musicians performed while in a state of flow, their brains showed greater activity in areas known to be involved in hearing and vision, which makes sense given that they were improvising while reading the chord progressions and listening to rhythms provided to them.

In contrast, the least experienced musicians showed very little flow-related brain activity.

Flow vs. nonflow creativity

We were surprised to learn that flow-state creativity is very different from nonflow creativity.

Previous neuroimaging studies suggested that ideas are usually produced by the default-mode network, a group of brain areas involved in introspection, daydreaming and imagining the future. The default-mode network spews ideas like an unattended garden hose spouts water, without direction. The aim is provided by the executive-control network, residing primarily in the brain’s frontal lobe, which acts like a gardener who points the hose to direct the water where it is needed.

Creative flow is different: no hose, no gardener. The default-mode and executive-control networks are tamped down so that they cannot interfere with the separate brain network that highly experienced people have built up for producing ideas in their field of expertise.

For example, knowledgeable but relatively inexperienced computer programmers may have to reason their way through every line of code. Veteran coders, however, tapping their specialized brain network for computer programming, may just start writing code fluently without overthinking it until they complete – perhaps in one sitting – a first-draft program.

Coaching can be a help or hindrance

The findings that expertise and the ability to surrender cognitive control are key to reaching flow are supported by a 2019 study from the Creativity Research Lab. For that study, jazz musicians were asked to play “more creatively.” Given that direction, the nonexpert musicians were indeed able to improvise more creatively. That is apparently because their improvisation was largely under conscious control and could therefore be adjusted to meet the demand. For example, during debriefing, one of the novice performers said, “I wouldn’t use these techniques instinctively, so I had to actively choose to play more creatively.”

On the other hand, the expert musicians, whose creative process was baked in through decades of experience, were not able to perform more creatively after being asked to do so. As one of the experts put it, “I felt boxed-in, and trying to think more creatively was a hindrance.”

The takeaway for musicians, writers, designers, inventors and other creatives who want to tap into flow is that training should involve intensive practice followed by learning to step back and let one’s skill take over. Future research may develop possible methods for releasing control once sufficient expertise has been achieved.

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BOOK REVIEW: “3 Shades Of Blue” — Transcendent Art, Despite Personal Demons

BY ALLEN MICHIE

3 Shades of Blue is at its most compelling seen as an extended essay about drugs, creativity, the jazz life, and the mysterious nature of musical genius.

This is a book that promises something other than it delivers, but it ends up being all the better for it.

Starting with the title, the implication is that 3 Shades of Blue is about the famous Miles Davis album Kind of Blue (1959) and the three central musical geniuses behind it. But Kind of Blue isn’t at the center of this book, and neither is it at the center of the careers of Miles Davis, John Coltrane, or Bill Evans (hereafter referred to as the KOB3). Also, this book isn’t about what it means to be “cool,” how “cool” formed some kind of “empire,” or how the “cool” ever lost said empire. The title has the ring of something a committee at Penguin Books came up with, not James Kaplan (an experienced novelist, essayist, reviewer, and author of two Frank Sinatra biographies).

So what is 3 Shades of Blue: Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans, and the Lost Empire of Cool about? It’s trying to do several smaller things, not one big thing. What it gains in scope and ambition, it sacrifices in cohesion. It contains three shortened, general biographies that alternate more often than they overlap. It’s also a book about Kind of Blue, although those sessions account for less than 5% of its pages. Above all else, the volume is an extended essay on the paradox of the slow, painful climb to the pinnacle of one’s artform, followed by the rapid, even more painful self-imposed descent to a place far worse than the starting point. Miles Davis and Bill Evans both went there, and came back, and went there again. John Coltrane went there, came back, then ascended to someplace unknowable.

Here’s what Kaplan set out to write, according to his acknowledgements section:

But what if, instead of just writing about the album, I were to tell the stories of these three great artists both as men and musicians, before, during, and after the recording of the record that brought them together? There was a lot there: musically, historically, psychologically. Racially. There was the big story of the devolution of jazz — the only purely American artform — in the second half of the twentieth century, from a music that brought the country together, made it dance, to an art music, a niche music, one that fewer and fewer people found understandable or compelling. Kind of Blue seemed to sit almost precisely at the hinge between jazz’s 1950s glories and its slide into esotericism.

That’s a ludicrously tall order for one book. Three lifetime biographies, a history of jazz from bebop to the death of Davis in 1991, and the (supposed) devolution of jazz. Experienced jazz listeners familiar with these three life stories will find the biographies frustratingly reduced. There are some fresh observations about Kind of Blue, but nothing that rivals the detail supplied by Ashley Kahn’s Kind of Blue: The Making of the Miles Davis Masterpiece (2000). There’s little new information or research to add to the record, apart from some original interviews (including with Davis). However, readers new to jazz, eager to explore exactly what clicked inside them when they heard Kind of Blue for the first time, will profit from every page of this book.

Kaplan the subjective essayist is more compelling that Kaplan the objective historian. The book is at its most engaging as an extended essay about drugs, creativity, the jazz life, and the mysterious nature of musical genius. He’s also an excellent storyteller. Even while he debunks some myths about these jazz legends, Kaplan has a way with a good anecdote; his use of them, at times, makes 3 Shades of Blue seem like a novel with a trio of gripping subplots that sometimes interweave. Perhaps it’s that novelistic feel that creates the expectation that the Kind of Blue recording sessions should serve as the climax. But the fact remains (and Kaplan prioritizes fact over storytelling) that Kind of Blue was something of a lucky one-off fluke in the careers of the KOB3. The most advanced parts of all three careers came after Kind of Blue; in fact, the album wasn’t particularly influential regarding their later music. Kaplan resists the temptation to make the album more than it really was, pointing out that the reputation of Kind of Blue only took off when all three musicians had moved beyond, with Davis and Coltrane already into radically different styles of music. Much of the album’s reputation is due to the undeniably superb music, but Kaplan also clears space to give a good deal of credit to the canny and aggressive advertising department at Columbia Records, which was determined to make Miles Davis a star. And did.

As both Kahn and Kaplan make clear in their books, Kind of Blue was just another recording session for the KOB3, Cannonball Adderley, Wynton Kelly, Jimmy Cobb, and Paul Chambers. There wasn’t even a sense during the two recording sessions that something very special was going on tape. Excellence at this level was fairly routine for what became known as Davis’ First Great Quintet (plus the brilliant addition of Adderley), indisputably one of the greatest jazz bands ever assembled. What Kaplan adds to Kahn’s book is a more detailed emphasis on how Kind of Blue was actually less innovative, in some ways, than the legend has led us to believe. The author rightly gives much of the credit to George Russell, and via Russell to Evans, for bringing modal music to jazz. There’s a fine section on what modal music is, how it works, and how it feels in contrast to standard song forms based on chord changes. Kaplan pinpoints how modal music was a perfect match for Davis’ style. For example, Kaplan writes that the track “All Blues” both graces and transcends the form that Miles is about to leave behind:

“All Blues” contains two inventions by Davis that, characteristically, are seemingly simple but subtly powerful. A normal blues in G stays in G for the first eight bars: the change is in shifting from G7 to what Jimmy Heath called ‘a G minor sound . . . [making Miles’s] improvisation sound a little dissonant, and a little more sophisticated.’ Less chordal, more modal. Kind of blue.

Fans of Kind of Blue (and if you’re not one, seriously, treat yourself) will find revelations here. Davis was strongly influenced by the kalimba, the African thumb piano, both in his approach to modal music and in discovering a new way to structure melody. You might have never noticed the similarity of “So What” to Bobby Timmons’ hit with Art Blakey, “Moanin’.” And credit is given to the key roles of the producer and sound engineers on the sessions. On the other hand, it’s a little depressing to see almost no attention given to the contributions of Jimmy Cobb and Paul Chambers. That’s a mistake not made in Kahn’s book.

Now for a few comments on the four main characters of this history: Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans, and Heroin.

After a gossipy opening section rehashing the overly hyped clash between Davis and Wynton Marsalis, Kaplan takes a careful walk through Davis’ early years in East St. Louis and his move to New York City to study at Julliard. That didn’t last long before Miles revealed to his stern father the real reason for his going to New York, which was to track down Charlie Parker. Even as a teenager, and even when he didn’t have the trumpet chops to back it up, Davis was ambitious. It’s like he already knew he was going to be MILES DAVIS when he became an adult. Parker is a strong presence for both Davis and Coltrane in the first quarter of the book (there’s a smart take on an early photograph of Coltrane listening to Parker), and Kaplan shows how Bird’s influence was as much psychological and cultural as musical. Kaplan is excellent on the development of the “Birth of the Cool” band and sessions — one of the best parts of the book is about Gil Evans’ chaotic apartment and the social/musical networking that went on there. It was truly a different age; these days kids major in Jazz Studies and get MFA degrees.

Davis’ hot-and-cold personality, and the convienent division of his career into tidy chapters, makes for great storytelling. Rather than relying on clichés about Davis the Great Leader, Kaplan argues instead that Davis, in contrast to Parker, was by nature a great collaborator. “His artistic ambitions — and limitations — led him on a lifelong quest for collaboration and broader musical meaning, and Gil Evans joined him at the start of his voyage.” Kaplan also busts the myth of Davis constantly moving forward — he even commits the heresy of arguing that Miles went backward with the Second Great Quartet, playing the old songs from the ’50s when Tony Williams, Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, and Ron Carter were eager to play the brilliant new Shorter songs they were putting on record and experiment with elements of the new Free Jazz. Davis takes some hits in the ’70s, too, when he was none too happy about seeing his audience thin out (and whiten), on top of the indignity of playing as opening act for Hancock, one of his former sidemen.

So much is left out of Davis’ long, complex, and varied life. The trumpeter’s 1959 beating by a cop outside of Birdland is treated only parenthetically, though it was a central shaping event in Davis’ psychology for the rest of his life. The Ascenseur pour l’echafaud soundtrack session isn’t given enough attention as Davis’ main follow-up to the modal approach of Kind of Blue. The disproportionately long “After” chapter completely misses In a Silent Way, Jack Johnson, and everything from the ’80s and ‘90s after We Want Miles.

Davis is the center of gravity in Kaplan’s book by virtue not only of his band leadership, but also by his dominating personality. He kept others in their subordinate place: he once punched Coltrane in the gut, and he played a cruel practical joke on Evans (he faked an initiation ritual into the band). Coltrane and Evans come across as rather passive by comparison; a pair of inherently shy individuals who were deeply focused on practicing, developing a voice, dealing with their families, and slowly climbing the ladder into the jazz Big Time. Davis comes across as someone who was always, from the very beginning, waiting for the Big Time to catch up to him.

Most people come to Coltrane backwards. They start with him at his mid/late career masterpiece A Love Supreme, or maybe his mid-career swingers like Blue Train, My Favorite Things, or Giant Steps. Few remember what Coltrane spent much of his life doing — playing in R&B bands, literally “walking the bar” in juke joints, filling in with big bands, and picking up touring gigs (a prize opportunity was with Ellington’s alto player Johnny Hodges). Kaplan covers this period of Coltrane’s life well, tracing his development as both a young man and a musician. It wasn’t until Coltrane landed in Davis’ band, plus a brief but extraordinarily productive interval in Thelonious Monk’s quartet, that he found his own distinctive sound and style. Davis gave him the freedom to experiment and stretch out; Monk schooled him in theory. Once Coltrane returned to Davis’ band, just in time for Kind of Blue, he was a master jazz musician in every sense.

For readers who like Coltrane but who just can’t process his late-career work, from Ascension (1966) onward, Kaplan’s book is recommended reading. He does an excellent job of showing the rise of Ornette Coleman (a kind of joker, if not quite the antagonist, in this semi-novel), explaining the appeal of Free Jazz to musicians like Coltrane. He is insightful on Coltrane’s mental state, especially in his post-Kind of Blue leadership, and he does not portray him as a modern-day saint. Kaplan’s Coltrane is an ordinary, flawed human being, someone who isn’t always sure where he’s going and if it’s always a good idea. It is a portrait of someone whose spiritual movement upward was always in conflict with his physical body pushing him back downward.

Kaplan mentions the First Great Quintet’s 1960 tour of Europe as a practical matter regarding their comings and goings. What he omits is depicting how the quintet was on fire, building rapidly and scintillatingly on the lessons learned making Kind of Blue, and how Davis and Coltrane were both playing at career peaks. In just those few months on tour, Coltrane emerged fully formed; by the end he was more than ready to become a leader. Still, there are many nice touches in Kaplan’s overview of Coltrane’s brief life, and fans will find much that both canonizes and humanizes the man. For example, after Elvin Jones’ first gig with the band, Coltrane was so impressed that he immediately took him out for a big plate of ribs.

Bill Evans was a piece of work. I had no idea. If you’re familiar with his gorgeously sensitive piano playing but not his biography, Kaplan’s book will have several unpleasant surprises. Perhaps Evans was such a great ballad player (arguably the best in jazz history) because he was unhappy for almost his entire life. He escaped a crowded family and a neglectful father through absorption in classical music and constant practicing. By the time he made it to New York jazz circles, he was well aware of his nerdy appearance and white-boy image, not that any of the Black musicians and audiences were going to let him forget it. He lived immersed in insecurity, even after he found peers like Russell and Davis who took him seriously as a musician. Those who think of Davis mostly as a badass in a Ferrari might be surprised that he and Evans would spend hours together in the Juilliard library pouring over symphony scores.

Evans grew the least of the KOB3. While Miles was making On the Corner and Coltrane was making Expression, Evans had taken to recycling stylistic habits. Drummer Paul Motian left the famous trio mostly because he was bored. But Evans heroically persisted in his vision, resisting the powerful tides of Free Jazz and Fusion that had taken Coltrane and Davis out to sea. When the ’70s came around, Evans’ biggest changes were to update his look and get a 22-year-old girlfriend.

But the story of Evans is inseparable from the story of the fourth character in this book — the villain — as omnipresent as the very air the KOB3 breathe. Even when it’s not there, it’s there, either in the missteps the KOB3 are struggling to repair, or lurking in the bloodstream waiting to destroy anything that might look like happiness: heroin, LSD, cocaine, and alcohol. For example, Evans recorded prolifically in 1962, including the famous duets and quintets with Jim Hall. But this wasn’t because of an outpouring of inspiration from a restless artistic imagination — it was because the loan sharks who were supplying Evans’ heroin habit were threatening to break his fingers if he didn’t pay up. They don’t include that on the album liner notes.

The strongest part of Kaplan’s book is his extended demystification of the drug culture in jazz. The old cliché is still with us that a chemical addiction is a necessity to be someone with a life hard enough to inform the depth and brilliance of playing great jazz (see Brad Mehldau’s recent Formation: Building a Personal Canon, Part 1). Kaplan quotes Dexter Gordon, “We were the revolutionaries. We did what was new and hip with no forethought of consequences. Heroin just became part of the scene.” According to Sonny Rollins, “Using drugs was, in a strange way, a negation of the money ethic. Guys were saying, ‘I don’t care about this, I don’t care how I dress or how I look, all I care about is music.’”

Hey, you want to play like Bird? You’ll need to do heroin like him. Hey, you want to beat your wife in a rage of paranoid delusion like Miles? Want to pick your nose and eat your boogers on stage like Coltrane? Want to stack newspapers to the ceiling in your kitchen, rot out your teeth, have chunks of flesh missing from your legs, and have your junkie girlfriend take all your money and lose it in Atlantic City then put on one of your outfits and throw herself in front of a train like Bill Evans? You’ll need to do heroin like them.

Kaplan is relentless and damn effective. He includes devastating lists of an entire generation of jazz musicians, the major founders of bop (except, thank Heaven, for Dizzy Gillespie), and how young they were when they died. He intersperses them in the text with no transition. The strategy might be to quietly remind you, while you’re thinking of something else, of an insistent undercurrent — the drugs, the suffering, the incalculable sacrifice of artistic potential, and the lost years of magnificent music we were denied. Coltrane died at 40. Try not to think about that.

This is an odd book, not quite three biographies, not quite a study of Kind of Blue, not quite a history of modern jazz. It’s all of those things in turn, but not to the extent that will satisfy readers looking for something comprehensive. Its dedication to unvarnished truth undermines any assumption that Kind of Blue was as central to the careers of the KOB3 as it is to every jazz lover’s record collection. What you will take away from this book is the ancient story of great art and its artists — that works of heartbreaking and awe-inspiring beauty are often created by deeply flawed individuals, not because of, but in spite of, their devouring personal demons.

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George Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody In Blue’ Is A Story Of Jazz, Race And The Fraught Notion Of America’s Melting Pot

BY RYAN RAUL BANAGALE

February 12, 1924, was a frigid day in New York City. But that didn’t stop an intrepid group of concertgoers from gathering in midtown Manhattan’s Aeolian Hall for “An Experiment in Modern Music.” The organizer, bandleader Paul Whiteman, wanted to show how jazz and classical music could come together. So he commissioned a new work by a 25-year-old Jewish-American upstart named George Gershwin.

Gershwin’s contribution to the program, “Rhapsody in Blue,” would go on to exceed anyone’s wildest expectations, becoming one of the best-known works of the 20th century. Beyond the concert hall, it would appear in iconic films such as Woody Allen’s “Manhattan” and Disney’s “Fantasia 2000.” It was performed during the opening ceremonies of the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics, and if you ever fly on United Airlines, you’ll hear it playing during the preflight safety videos.

I’ve spent nearly two decades researching and writing about this piece. To me, “Rhapsody” isn’t some static composition stuck in the past; rather, it’s a continuously evolving piece of music whose meaning has changed over time.

Programming “Rhapsody” for concerts today has become somewhat of a double-edged sword. A century after it premiered, it remains a crowd favorite – and almost always guarantees a sold-out show. But more and more scholars are starting to see the work as a whitewashed version of Harlem’s vibrant Black music scene.

A cobbled-together hit

Whiteman commissioned Gershwin to write “Rhapsody” sometime in late 1923. But as the story goes, the composer forgot about his assignment until he read about the upcoming concert in a newspaper on Jan. 4, 1924.

Gershwin had to work quickly, writing as time allowed in his busy schedule. Manuscript evidence suggests that he only worked on the piece a total of 10 days over the span of several weeks.

Accordingly, he relied on the familiar melodies, harmonies, rhythms and musical structures that had started to garner him acclaim as a popular composer for the Broadway stage. This music was increasingly influenced by early jazz, as the improvised, syncopated and blues-infused sound of Black musicians such as Louis Armstrong made its way north from New Orleans. Gershwin also mingled with, and was influenced by, some of the great Harlem stride pianists of the day, including James P. Johnson and Willie “The Lion” Smith.

Despite being quickly cobbled together, “Rhapsody in Blue” ultimately sold hundreds of thousands of records and copies of sheet music. Gershwin’s own performances of the work on tour also helped boost its popularity.

But success also opened up the piece to criticism – particularly that Gershwin had appropriated Black music.

Black musicians feel snubbed

This is not only a 21st-century critique by music historians. Even back then, some Black artists were miffed.

But rather than calling it out in print, they did so through their own art.

In 1929, blues artist Bessie Smith starred in a short film called “St. Louis Blues,” based on the song of the same name by composer W.C. Handy. It features an all-Black cast, including members of the Fletcher Henderson Orchestra and the Hall Johnson Choir. Instrumental and vocal versions of Handy’s song provide the sonic backdrop for this 15-minute film – with one very pointed exception.

Smith plays the part of Bessie, an unrequited lover to a duplicitous gambler named Jimmy. In the final scene, after a previous falling out, Jimmy and Bessie reconcile in a club. They embrace on the dance floor to the strains of “St. Louis Blues.”

But unbeknownst to the love-struck Bessie, Jimmy carefully picks her pocket and unmercifully shoves her back to her bar stool. After Jimmy flashes his newly acquired bankroll, the opening clarinet glissando of “Rhapsody in Blue” begins. During this brief, 20-second cue, Jimmy boastfully backs out of the club, bowing and tipping his hat like a performer acknowledging his ovation.

It’s hard not to see the subtext of introducing Gershwin’s famous piece at this moment: Just as Jimmy has robbed Bessie, the film suggests that Gershwin had pilfered jazz from the Black community.

Another musical response to “Rhapsody” emerged in 1927 from Gershwin’s stride pianist friend, James P. Johnson: “Yamekraw.” Publisher Perry Bradford billed the work as “not a ‘Rhapsody in Blue,’ but a Rhapsody in Black and White (Black notes on White paper).”

Of course, the “black notes” were more than just the score itself. Johnson demonstrates how a Black musician would approach the rhapsody genre.

Stuck in the middle with ‘Blue’

Gershwin once described “Rhapsody” “as a sort of musical kaleidoscope of America – of our vast melting pot.”

The problem with the “melting pot” metaphor is that it asks immigrants to leave behind cultural practices and identities in order to assimilate into the majority population.

And that’s just what Whiteman’s musical experiment at Aeolian Hall a century ago was all about: He sought, as he put it, to “make a lady out of jazz.”

As the concert’s program read, “Mr. Whiteman intends to point out, with the assistance of his orchestra and associates, the tremendous strides which have been made in popular music from the day of the discordant Jazz … to the really melodious music of today.”

In other words, he wanted to fold the era’s popular jazz music into classical music – and, in doing so, draw out the inherent beauty in the beast, making it more acceptable to white audiences.

“Rhapsody in Blue” and other classical-jazz hybrid works like it would soon become known as “middlebrow” music.

This fraught term emerges from the space between the so-called “lowbrow” and “highbrow,” descriptors that locate works of art on a scale from pedestrian to intellectual. These terms originally related to the pseudoscience of phrenology, which drew conclusions about intelligence based on skull shape and the location of the ridge of one’s brow line.

Highbrow music, made by and for white people, was considered the most sophisticated.

But highbrow music could also conveniently elevate lowbrow music by borrowing – or rather, appropriating – musical elements such as rhythm and harmony. Merging the two, the low gets to the middle. But it could never get to the top on its own terms.

If Gershwin’s “Rhapsody” is meant to be heard as a “musical kaleidoscope of America,” it is important to remember who’s holding the lens, what music gets added to the mix, and how it has changed once admitted.

But it’s also important to remember that 100 years is a long time. What the culture values, and why, inevitably changes. The same is true for “Rhapsody in Blue.”

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