Why I am Not a Jazz Critic

No, this is not a play on Bertrand Russell’s “Why I am Not a Christian.” For obvious reasons, I wouldn’t dare. And for at least one less obvious reason. Russell argues that a Christian, among other things, had to believe in God. He did not. And that was that.

What do you have to believe to be a jazz critic. I don’t think someone saying “I don’t particularly like Louis Armstrong” would disqualify them. For all I know, they are plenty of people who listen to jazz who have never heard Armstrong’s “West End Blues” or “Weatherbird Rag.” Even as an aspiring trumpet player, it took an obscenely long time for me to hear Armstrong’s earliest recordings. For all I knew in 1964, Armstrong was a famous player from another era who made a comeback with “Hello Dolly.” Awful, right? I doubt I was the only one. But, you see, that’s just it. Ignorance is a Hell of a foundation on which to build a career as a critic who presumes to judge the artistic merits of a musical work.

I was doing some research into the career of the celebrated jazz drummer Shelley Manne. Manne, who died at the premature age of 64 (no drugs or alcohol) was widely respected as a player, leader, you name it. I won’t say no one ever had a bad word to say about him, but you got to look pretty hard.

https://www.npr.org/2010/06/07/127478987/shelly-manne-the-well-toned-drummer

In any event, I came across a very early review of a commercial jazz station in Philadelphia, WHAT-FM. Since I was a compulsive listener as a teenager–it was one of the first all jazz stations in the country in 1958–I was, well, curious to hear what the reviewer had to say. I am accustomed to reviewing as a blood sport, both from my academic background and from an interest in female jazz vocalists in the 1950. Most of the stuff I’ve read was seemingly motivated by misogyny, although it was another time. But the review of WHAT was, well, plus ultra. The reviewer had a right to his opinion–he was more than qualified. That said, wow. Talk about a whiff of odium scholasticum. It would have done an academic journal proud. Maybe because the reviewer was an academic. He knew the moves.

Ok. Who really cares? This is something that happened 60 years ago. So some guy with a fancy degree and a fancy sincecure called a now-defunct radio station, well, a purveyor of middlebrow trash. So what? So what if he basically said “were I in charge of this station, you would get an education in the music, and not just some predictably mediocre commercial experience.” I’m sure he was probably not far off the mark (with apologies to the late Sid Mark, then WHAT-FM’s program director). He would have programmed something other than Bill Evans (I like Bill Evans)or Jimmy Wisner (who?). Fer sure. Academic snobbism posting as an arbiter of advanced taste is something I don’t much care for. If, in this case, the critic wasn’t simply being obnoxious, he was, to put it mildly, obtuse.

What really stuck in this guy’s craw was WHAT’s playing Jimmy Wisner’s “Blues For Harvey” “unmercifully” day after day, although the writer conceded this was a minor point. Well, what was the point? “The real failure was in the lack of authority in presentation.” Meaning? Well, if you listened to WHAT enough (and sample size does matter), you’d conclude, said the reviewer, only one of the 5 DJs at the station played anything but the “latest sounds.” That presumably included Sid Mark. In other words, Sid didn’t play “Weatherbird.” I guess that explains my shameful ignorance at age 13 in knowing more about Maynard Ferguson (whom Sid indeed adored) than Louie Armstrong. Hmph. A devastating observation. Only one guy at the station passed muster with the writer–and, to be honest, I never heard of him. And meanwhile, the host publication really clobbered Jimmy Wisner (a Philly guy who had one novelty hit in his career) in a separate review of the album in which “Blues for Harvey” appeared. Well, better pianists than Wisner had gotten their clocks cleaned in this estimable publication, so, who cares?

Problem is, there is a backstory here. This was not a review. It was a hatchet job, as were so many jazz writings in the 1950s and 1960s. If you’ve ever wondered why a lot of musicians say they don’t (or didn’t) bother with jazz critics (or plainly detest them), this may give you some idea why.

As it happens, “Blues for Harvey,” to which our erudite friend objected (albeit as a minor point, said he) was written in honor of a radio personality, promoter, and pretty much of a pioneer named Harvey Husten. I have written at length about Husten elsewhere (https://www.allaboutjazz.com/harvey-husten-presents-jazz-in-jersey-the-red-hill-inn), so I’ll spare you the details. Husten wasn’t just any dumb dj. He was a Cornell graduate, Phi Beta Kappa, I believe, and the guy who created a series called “Jazz in Jersey” at the Red Hill Inn, just over the bridge in Pennsauken. The Red Hill Inn was legendary–as jazz writer Kirk Silsbee explained to me–the East Coast equivalent of a famous LA jazz spot named The Crescendo. This meant the big leagues, and, by extension, Harvey was too. Husten, in turn, had been mentor to Sid Mark, the Program Director at WHAT-FM, who did an apprenticeship at the Red Hill Inn to the “Jazz in Jersey” series. Sid was no dope either. He may have ended up as Frank Sinatra’s Uber-Fan, and a bit much on The Kid from Hoboken, but Mark knew his stuff. He spotted Nina Simone as a pianist in Philly and pushed her on the air as a singer. Hard. What have you (or I) done lately?(https://thisgameisover.com/2022/04/20/sid-mark-the-mark-of-jazz/)

So when our friend called the people at WHAT-FM ignoramuses with questionable taste, he was wrong. And, since he was based in Philly (there was no internet radio in them days, remember), and held court at the Halls of Ivy, it’s hard to believe he didn’t know who Harvey Husten was. Or why so many jazz musicians literally idolized him. Billy Taylor–Dr. Billy Taylor, if we’re counting degrees–said he knew of no one who had done as much for the music and the musicians as Harvey Husten. He said this after Husten’s untimely death in 1957 at the age of 37. Husten had given classes on jazz history in Philadelphia in the 1950s. Anyone who claimed to be a jazz savant in Philly surely knew this. You get the picture? Do I need to spell it out? If you think professional jealousy is bad among musicians ( it is), you ought to talk to your local PhD professor of humane letters. It has been known to destroy a few careers in the Academy. And is particularly obnoxious when directed at someone who is (a)dead and (b)not some buffoon.

But, believe me, this is how many jazz critics made their bones in the 1950s and 1960s. So, as Bertie Russell said, sort of, I am not a jazz critic. Not if this is what it takes. And certainly not disguised as some sort of thoughtful consideration of what one would like to hear on the air or coming out of the end of a horn. Apart from needing to know your stuff, you need to know your place. I guess someone thought Husten didn’t.

What makes this particularly poignant for me is that I was talking to a well-known fusion musician today on a vastly different subject. He is now, as am I, in his 70s, and was calling from an airport waiting for a flight home after a gig. I was expressing alarm that he was touring at an age when most of us are looking for any excuse to avoid work–he had been awake since 4 AM and he sounded it. We got to talking about why musicians endure–and “endure” is the word–life on the road. Obviously, as an aging Woody Herman once put it, “I have an extreme need to make a living,” so, yeah, money is always an issue. But then my friend said something that struck home. I will paraphrase. “I like to play music. Playing makes me happy. And, thank Heavens, it seems to make a lot of other people happy too, which is why they come out to hear me.” Imagine that. I make people happy. As someone who taught economics and history for a living, I really had few opportunities to say that. I got the impression from some of my students that I was put on Earth to make them miserable. I think a sizeable chunk of our political class lives to make people miserable, especially if they are, well, a bit different. Some vocation.

So when a music critic–not just a jazz critic–gets off on tearing someone down, think about what is going on. Most jazz musicians are not millionaires. Their presence or absence at the Super Bowl is not the object of breathless fascination by our idiot media. Some of them are doing this out of, guess what, love of the art. Does that mean they are all equally proficient, talented, enjoyable, or even worth hearing on a particular day? No. Are some of them just going through the motions? Well, aren’t we all sometimes? It’s called being human. Humans get bored, tired, disgusted, disillusioned, pissed off–and, occasionally, inspired. Look for the good in people’s art. And don’t pretend you’re doing something else if you’re not. Hypocrisy stinks, in print or otherwise. At least try to be constructive. Any idiot can be a critic. Take it from me.