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Stanley Crouch Parker biography reviewed


Fer Urbina

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I honestly feel at some point in the second half of the last century there were so many things going on under the "jazz" umbrella that it makes perfect sense why some would say "this is jazz" and "this isn't jazz." I find myself doing that with the music. I mean. . . I don't consider "Dark Magus" jazz. Others may but I would need some real convincing.

It doesn't matter. In my opinion anyone is free to classify jazz the way they wish as long as they're not holding "jazz" up on a pedestal and raining on everything else.

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In a Jazz Times article from October 2002, Crouch stated that he saw the rise of of Euro jazz, multi-ethnic jazz etc as a "movement to neutralize the Negro aesthetic." Crouch ends the article by stating:

"Jazz is an art, not a subjective phenomenon. Negroes in America, through extraordinary imagination and new instrumental techniques, provided a worldwide forum for the expression of the woes and the wonders of human life. Look like what you look like, come from wherever you come from, be either sex and any religion, but understand that blues and that swing are there for you too—if you want to play jazz."

One could probably argue over every sentence in this paragraph, but taking Crouch at his word, he is saying anyone can play jazz as long as it has the element of the blues and hence swing. Racially, the statement is inclusive, musically, the statement is exclusive.

This is where my objection to Crouch comes in, and not just Crouch, but the considerable number of others, of all stripes, who use "swing like mad" and "swing like crazy" and other enduring cliches as mechanisms for defining, controlling and limiting the music. It is indeed a code word, but a code that has to do with prioritizing the music of previous generations, or at least a certain kind of well-established formula. Personally, I don't really care if something "swings" as long as it is interesting, complex, thought-provoking, innovative and otherwise possessing the "shock of the new." Swing as an adjective to simply describe is one thing, as a noun that has a certain ontological or abstract priority is another. I'm always a little leery when I hear it thrown around like a royal prerogative.

Crouch is bright enough to know that new generations of free improvisors, free jazzers, international mixing and matching of musicians, etc has change the "shape of jazz to come." He is fighting a rearguard action, in his mind to protect and preserve the "Negro aesthetic." I understand his concern. I have no problem with that as long as it does not become the controlling factor. The tide of the music cannot be contained by artificial seawalls, it is a natural process that will go where it will.

In other/fewer words, it's either "a worldwide forum", or it ain't, right? and as for swing/blues necessity - I don't think the jazz police necessarily know either when they (mostly don't) hear 'em, and I'm ok if you ain't got either as long as you gots something rhythmical and/or emotional that takes their place...

Edited by danasgoodstuff
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Unfortunately, mos of the discussion lately has been about Stanley Crouch, not this book itself

I mean, if your opinion about the book is that you're not going to read it because it's by Stanley Crouch, then you really have no opinion about the book, just one about Stanley Crouch.

I'm getting to the point where Rebecca Ruffin is reminiscing, and talking about how Bird was turning into a man now, from a boy to a man, and...there's just something about that storyline that touches me.

And has anybody else notixed how as the years pass, Addie Parker is more and more portrayed as, if not a villain, a Major Contributor to Bird's particularly improvisatory brand of "personal discipline"? I wonder how much of this is objective psychology-based observation, and how much of it is men (and for that matter, women, ) having "mommy issues". Nobody's coming out and saying, hey lady - YOU'RE the reason Bird was so fucked up (well, maybe James Lincoln Collier did, but he writes like a sick fuck his own self, so...), but there's always this....implied pointing out of her being the Original Enabler, if you know what I mean.

Yes, Our Story So Far is at times stunningly clumbersome, but I'm going to keep reading in smallish doses all the way through, because I guess if you want a "factual biography" you can read something like this: http://www.birdlives.co.uk/article/adolescence but for me, that reads like "study", which is of course useful, encouraged, and appreciated, but Crouch is not writing that type of book, not even tying to, don't think I'd want him to myself, really. If anything, this has the feel of Sharon Green's biography of Grant, which I know w a lot of people hated, but which I dug because it read like a family reunion, basically, a lot of people coming together and telling stories of various accuracies and reliabilities and veracitites about the family. Some, all, or maybe even none of it is reliable as "history", but nevertheless as far as forming persona;/group identifiers as what it means to be of this family, hey, unbeatable. These reunions a time-honored tradition in some segments of American life (some families come home from the reunion with really elaborate t-shirts created for the event, others book hotel rooms in block, and others still will vibe you really REALLY hard if start missing consecutive years), and to expect a family reunion to function as an academic treatise is....silly, superheros?

What I'm picking up on Crouch trying to do is is to do the same type thing, only than participating in the reunion, he's kinda MC-ing it, providing what he feels are relevant historical contexts and character framing for the family stories. With that as his aim, I can say, to this point, that his success rate is incredibly erratic, but reading it with that intent, rather than creating an academic tome, in mind, I can go with his flow just fine. Some times with less of a need to stifle LOLs than others, but, yeah, there's a flow that I'm willing to follow.

Also, keep in mind that I do NOT enjoy Stanley Crouch in his role as critic - social, musical, whatever. He's whatever the 1960s Watts equivalent of a Country Boy Gone To The City And Gettin' Above His Rearin' syndrome is. Problem is, I am generally prone to liking a good street intellectual better than a formal one. I might not agree with them more, but I'll enjoy their company more. But Crouch has seeming yearned and willed his way into at least a veneer of "formal" respectability. Dude, just stop it, ok?

As if.

But -that's my thoughts about Stanley Crouch, not the book he's written about Charlie Parker, which, again, I am enjoying to this point for reasons quite unrelated to how I feel about Stanley Crouch.

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The consensus here seems to be Crouch uses lack of swing and empathy with the blues as euphemisms to hide his rascism against white jazz cats?

That sums it up pretty well.

If you look at the the two projects he's been involved in; JALC and the Ken Burns doc, it's not that much of a stretch...

I agree there was some interesting omissions in the Ken Burns documentary, which he himself has stated were not down to Crouch, but Burns own editorial decisions. Brubeck has been accused of not swinging at all and he made it into the documentary, but he was of course in context of the period covered, was much more important than Evans.

I actually like Crouch's larger than life personality and strong, even reactionary opinions, as we need these types to stimulate debate and conversation. One thing you can say about Crouch, love him or loathe him, he cannot be ignored. And I find this extremely refreshing in a media over saturated with shallow newspeak, propaganda and sound bites.

I have no problem ignoring him

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The consensus here seems to be Crouch uses lack of swing and empathy with the blues as euphemisms to hide his rascism against white jazz cats?

That sums it up pretty well.

If you look at the the two projects he's been involved in; JALC and the Ken Burns doc, it's not that much of a stretch...

I agree there was some interesting omissions in the Ken Burns documentary, which he himself has stated were not down to Crouch, but Burns own editorial decisions. Brubeck has been accused of not swinging at all and he made it into the documentary, but he was of course in context of the period covered, was much more important than Evans.

I actually like Crouch's larger than life personality and strong, even reactionary opinions, as we need these types to stimulate debate and conversation. One thing you can say about Crouch, love him or loathe him, he cannot be ignored. And I find this extremely refreshing in a media over saturated with shallow newspeak, propaganda and sound bites.

I have no problem ignoring him

You've ignored him enough to answer my post.

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Stanley sat down across the table from me @ The Jazz Standard in 2009 when I went to see Bobby Bradford and I didn't say a word as all it would do is cause trouble.

Fwiw he couldn't ignore Dresser & Ehrlich and he almost snapped his neck to see what the hell was going on when those two improvising masters started improvising in a manner he had long ago stopped even trying to experience of understand.

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So ok, Charlie & Rebecca are watching cowboy movies and holding hands (and spending Addie Parker's money to avoid watching all the barely masculine men in the romances) and this is all really, really sweet, especially how Bird can do facial impressions of all the cowboys, and then - all at once and without fair warning - D.W. Griffith is becoming Duke Ellington and then not so much and then, ok, redeemed but damage done, and then it's 1950 & Sidney Poitier changes everything, and by the time all that happens, sorry, get me off this commode for now, please, I think we all need to relax, regroup, and refocus.

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I suppose that's possible, bu there are numerous other options to which I would give at least equal consideration. :g

Seriously, I'm sitting on the john reading this thing, and it's taking all these hard lefts off into parallel realities and shit, and I know why he's going there but I'm like, hey dude, learn to encapsulate, ok, we got a teenage love going story here, and then we don't, and it's like we don't just look away for a moment, it's like he pushes the pause button, takes a shower, gets dressed, goes out to play a gig, eats breakfast afterwards, comes home to change clothes and THEN resumes play. I mean, we've all done it, but in a book? I'm like, dude, is this really necessary?

I don't think it takes any zen relevancy to say, no, not really, it's really not.

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I already posted about the book some time ago on this thread, but happy to throw in a couple more comments. First of all, it does seem more of a collection of scraps, bits, and pieces from sources of varying reliability. A patchwork in other words.

I found it interesting that Crouch uses a Horatio Alger hero template, with Charlie as "boy hero." He employs many of the conventions of the "boy hero makes good." Maybe that's where the novelistic aspect coms from, but in a biography one is skeptical of interior monologues and conversations that are not documented adequately.

One aspect I found odd is that Crouch seems very interested in the salacious details of nightlife in KC, NYC, etc, with some quite explicit details.

One has to remember this is volume one of two. I had the impression that it was pushed out on to the market to satisfy contract requirements (it's been gestating forever) It has the feel of a not quite finished work, almost a draft copy.

Anyway, just some additional thoughts on it.

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When I saw Bobby Bradford last week he encouraged me to read the book. He said "It's not because he's an old friend and used to be my drummer. It reads like a novel and I think you will find it interesting". I hope I got that quote correctly.

When I read this, the first thing that came to my mind was - Bobby Bradford seems to have a certain loyalty toward Stanley Crouch. I wonder how much of that loyalty is reciprocated.

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  • 1 month later...

Oh my lord, who knows how many bowel movements later, and Charlie & Rebecca are still in love and still at home, albeit in a confused kind of way, not that we'd want to be kept aware of that, because DAMN does this thing ramble...all...over...the...fucking...place...and sometimes, like where I'm up to now, where Jay McShann talks about the importance to both self and community of pride and grace and hard work and presentation, how excellence of food, clothing, and grooming were all of a singular piece in defining not just one's self but one's totality, yeah, I'm mesmerized, transfixed, feeling good about what I'm reading. But lord lord LORD there's some long walks down straight-line desert highways between those spots.

I understand what kind of book the guy's trying to write (it is The Rise & Times Of Charlie Parker, after all), I really do. And I think it's a valid reason, an important reason, actually. But...this is one of those "hey man, I really dig what you're trying to do" things in the extreme. I mean, if I had written this book, I'd be very proud of it, until I sat down to read it. And then I'd be like, oh god, oh dear god, what was I thinking? And then, Charlie Parker bio becomes Jack In the Box commercial.

When I get through this thing, I will be glad to have read it, and equally glad to have survived it. I'll try to remember the good parts and forget the bad, but...good luck on that, unfortunately.

Seriously, unfortunately. The raw materials are there, delightfully so, but...just too damn "epic" Stanley, too damn "epic"...the subject deserves better than "epic". A better author and/or editor could have turned this thing into a stunning oral history with just enough side-narration to hold it together and be really impactful/insightful. But no, this guy's gotta go all "epic" and shit.

The story tells itself grandly, ok, it doesn't need a "director", it just needs directing.

Hell, Jay McShann has me ready to go get a few new suits in the morning and hit the barber shop that afternoon (and do god knows what with the results in the evening). I haven't felt that way in decades.

But that's Jay McShann, dig? Not Stanley Crouch.

Besides, paying for it all with plastic makes it less real, somehow at some level. Sign of the times, I guess. The Fall & Times of American Humanity, perhaps.

Please god, don't let Stanley write that book (again). Please.

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Oh my lord, who knows how many bowel movements later, and Charlie & Rebecca are still in love and still at home, albeit in a confused kind of way, not that we'd want to be kept aware of that, because DAMN does this thing ramble...all...over...the...fucking...place...and sometimes, like where I'm up to now, where Jay McShann talks about the importance to both self and community of pride and grace and hard work and presentation, how excellence of food, clothing, and grooming were all of a singular piece in defining not just one's self but one's totality, yeah, I'm mesmerized, transfixed, feeling good about what I'm reading. But lord lord LORD there's some long walks down straight-line desert highways between those spots.

I understand what kind of book the guy's trying to write (it is The Rise & Times Of Charlie Parker, after all), I really do. And I think it's a valid reason, an important reason, actually. But...this is one of those "hey man, I really dig what you're trying to do" things in the extreme. I mean, if I had written this book, I'd be very proud of it, until I sat down to read it. And then I'd be like, oh god, oh dear god, what was I thinking? And then, Charlie Parker bio becomes Jack In the Box commercial.

When I get through this thing, I will be glad to have read it, and equally glad to have survived it. I'll try to remember the good parts and forget the bad, but...good luck on that, unfortunately.

Seriously, unfortunately. The raw materials are there, delightfully so, but...just too damn "epic" Stanley, too damn "epic"...the subject deserves better than "epic". A better author and/or editor could have turned this thing into a stunning oral history with just enough side-narration to hold it together and be really impactful/insightful. But no, this guy's gotta go all "epic" and shit.

The story tells itself grandly, ok, it doesn't need a "director", it just needs directing.

Hell, Jay McShann has me ready to go get a few new suits in the morning and hit the barber shop that afternoon (and do god knows what with the results in the evening). I haven't felt that way in decades.

But that's Jay McShann, dig? Not Stanley Crouch.

Besides, paying for it all with plastic makes it less real, somehow at some level. Sign of the times, I guess. The Fall & Times of American Humanity, perhaps.

Please god, don't let Stanley write that book (again). Please.

Your mini reviews speak for themselves. I don't wish you a bad case of constipation, but please finish the book so we can be through with Stanley. ;)

Edited by paul secor
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See, the thing is, if the book was really compelling, I would sit on the toilet way longer than usual, and finally get up and take the book with me. When I was reading John Litweiler's two novels, hell, I stayed on the toilet until my legs started going numb, and then, oops, that's not good, so I got up and took the books with me. This Parker bio, it's like Bird is a secondary character in his own biography, sometimes tertiary, he gets pushed so far back into the background/relevancy, and I'm like, well, ok, this will be here when I get back, and sure enough, it is.

I mean, it's not a drag opening it up, but it's usually not been a problem coming to a stopping point, either.

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I'm reminded indirectly of composer Max Reger's famous note to Rudolph Louis, critic for the Muchner Neuste Nachrichten:

"I am sitting in the smallest room of my house. I have your review before me. In a moment it will be behind me."

("ich sitze in dem kleinsten Zimmer in meinem Hause. Ich habe ihre Kritik vor mir. Im nachsten Augenblick wird sie hinter mir sein")

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The raw materials of this book are fantastic. And Crouch occasionally has something good to add of his own, like the comparison of opiate Bird to opiate Sherlock Holmes (although for the role of Watson, hey, it's the 21st Century, Lucy Liu is more than ok with me, hubbahubbayehyehyeh). But then just this morning, I read about something like the musicians in the balcony listening to movie soundtacks and how that's the democracy of technology or something like that, and I'm like, ok, time to get up, see you later.

But I tell you - the raw materials are fantastic. As is Joan Watson.

lliu_gl_23aug12_rex_b.jpg

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I'm reminded indirectly of composer Max Reger's famous note to Rudolph Louis, critic for the Muchner Neuste Nachrichten:

"I am sitting in the smallest room of my house. I have your review before me. In a moment it will be behind me."

("ich sitze in dem kleinsten Zimmer in meinem Hause. Ich habe ihre Kritik vor mir. Im nachsten Augenblick wird sie hinter mir sein")

:rofl:

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my copy is still sitting where I can see it. I closed it 3 months ago and just cannot bear to read it again; it's just too.....Crouchian.

And it's still for sale, no joke. Just would like to get a little of my investment back.

Edited by AllenLowe
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