Music and poetry are twins. Born
together when certain apes passed
long, dark nights together sharing what they knew, and feared, and yearned for,
breath and heartbeat. Conjoined twins at that—one flesh, one
life. The shepherd David and blind old
Homer plucked their harps and sang their verses. Shamans
beat their drums and blew their flutes in their calls on gods and ghosts. Bards spread their
news with lute in hand. So it had always been. Poet/singer listeners/dancers sharing the
moments together. Then came the scribes and that bearded German Guttenberg who tore the words
away, imprisoning them on parchment and
paper to be deciphered in silence by
the privileged few who had the key.
Still,
songs had lyrics, poetry after all. The
connection was stretched, not broken.
The
emergence of Jazz in the early 20th Century reunited the sundered
twins and in the process changed poetry, at least in the West, utterly and forever. Jazz
has been called America’s only indigenous
art form. Within a few years of
bubbling up from the fecund street of New
Orleans it swept the nation and leaped an ocean and was changing—and liberating—every
other performance, literary, or fine art.
Poetry
was exposed and infected early. By the World War I era it was adopting jazz syncopations, blues call and response forms, daring sexuality, Black cultural
experience, and liberation themes. Poetry pulsed with new energy and exploded
out of conventional forms liberated by the spirit of improvisation.
Just
as the White musicians of the Original
Dixieland Jass Band were the first to record the essentially Black
music in 1917, White poets were among the first to attract a wide audience for jazz poetry. And none were more important than Vachel Lindsey of Illinois. As early as 1912,
long before most Americans had even heard of jazz, he was incorporating it’s
syncopations and rhythms and call and response forms into his most famous—and controversial
poem The
Congo. A rare racial liberal at
the time he thought he was exposing stereotypes of savagery and protesting the
colonial brutality of King Leopold in
his private colony. Most blacks of the
day took it as such, although there was some criticism. Read by later generations in different
circumstances it would be labeled racist
and another contributor to this survey, Amiri Baraka, would lead a movement that would virtually erase Lindsey
from literary memory. But that was
later. He had come to the defense of the
Black population of his beloved Springfield
when it was devastated in a 1908 race
riot. Lindsey would continue to use
jazz riffs, and often salute Black experience.
In this 1918 piece, praised by W.
E. B. Dubois, he saluted the usually ignored contributions of Blacks to the
war effort.
The Modest Jazz
Bird
The Jazz-bird
sings a barnyard song—
A cock-a-doodle
bray,
A jingle-bells,
a boiler works,
A he-man's
roundelay.
The eagle said, ‘My
noisy son,
I send you out
to fight!’
So the youngster
spread his sunflower wings
And roared with
all his might.
His headlight
eyes went flashing
From Oregon to
Maine;
And the land was
dark with airships
In the darting
Jazz-bird’s train.
Crossing the
howling ocean,
His bell-mouth
shook the sky;
And the Yankees
in the trenches
Gave back the
hue and cry.
And Europe had
not heard the like—
And Germany went
down!
The fowl of
steel with clashing claws
Tore off the
Kaiser’s crown.
—Vachel Lindsay
But, of course, Blacks would soon be spreading their own
poetic jazz wings and the Harlem Renaissance
became ground-zero for the new movement.
The most famous of all of the poets that emerged from that fertile
ground and the most closely associated with jazz was Langston Hughes. Around 1923
Lindsay encountered Hughes, then working as a bus boy in a Washington,
D.C. restaurant after having dropped out of Columbia University, a turn as a merchant sailor, and his first
trip to Paris. Hughes showed some of his poetry to Lindsey,
who not only was encouraging, but actually helped to boost his early career—something
no other White literary figure was ready to do.
Within a couple of years Hughes would emerge at the heart of the Harlem
scene with jazz poetry like this.
The Weary Blues
Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
I heard a Negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other nigh
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
He did a lazy sway . . .
He did a lazy sway . . .
To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor piano moan with melody.
O Blues!
Swaying to and fro on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black mans soul.
O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan—
“Ain’t got nobody in all this world,
Ain’t got nobody but ma self.
I’s gwine to quit ma frownin’
And put ma troubles on the shelf.”
Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor.
He played a few chords then he sang some more—
“I got the Weary Blues
And I can’t be satisfied.
Got the Weary Blues
And can’t be satisfied—
I ain’t happy no mo’
And I wish that I had died.”
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that’s dead.
—Langston Hughes
By the early 20’s it was officially the
Jazz Age and the new music was
influencing all of the arts. Even poets
not usually thought of a jazz poets—T.
S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and even,
as unlikely as it seems, that guardian of Irish
culture, W. B. Yeats were
liberated and incorporating elements of syncopation and other jazz like riffs
in their work. Carl Sandburg and especially the highly experimental e. e. cummings, were writing about and
in jazz forms. The relationship
continued and as jazz evolved—swing and
big band, post-war be bop, West Coast
cool—so did the poetry reflected by it.
No group of poets was more closely
identified with jazz then the Beats. Jack Kerouac was among the first to do
readings to jazz, collaborating with his pal David Amram improvising on bongos
and piano and perhaps created
the stereotype of the beatnik coffee house scene. Kenneth Rexroth was famous for his jazz
readings and Lawrence Ferlinghetti collaborated
with Stan Getz. But many regard Bob Kaufman as the greatest of the Beat jazz poets. The New
Orleans born writer was the product of a German Jewish father and a mother from Martinique who practiced voodoo. After teenage World War II service in the Merchant
Marine he came to New York City where
he fell in with William Burroughs and
Allen Ginsberg. In 1958 he migrated to the West Coast mecca of North Beach. His jazz performances there became legendary. He usually improvised and seldom wrote down
any of his own work. He was performance artists. Of course, many of his most admired pieces
have thus been lost. But his wife hastily
transcribed some as they were being performed and preserved part of their sheer
energy. After the assassination of John F. Kennedy he took a Buddhist vow of silence, which he kept
for a number of years until he unleashed powerful new work protesting the Vietnam War. He explained his own work, “My head is a
bony guitar, strung with tongues, plucked by fingers & nails.”
O-Jazz-O War Memoir: Jazz, Don’t Listen To It At Your Own
Risk
In the beginning, in the wet
Warm dark place,
Straining to break out, clawing at strange cables
Hearing her screams, laughing
“Later we forgave ourselves, we didn’t know”
Some secret jazz
Shouted, wait, don’t go.
Impatient, we came running, innocent
Laughing blobs of blood & faith.
To this mother, father world
Where laughter seems out of place
So we learned to cry, pleased
They pronounce human.
The secret Jazz blew a sigh
Some familiar sound shouted wait
Some are evil, some will hate.
“Just Jazz, blowing its top again”
So we rushed & laughed.
As we pushed & grabbed
While jazz blew in the night
Suddenly they were too busy to hear a simple sound
They were busy shoving mud in men’s mouths,
Who were busy dying on the living ground
Busy earning medals, for killing children on deserted street
corners
Occupying their fathers, raping their mothers, busy humans
we
Busy burning Japanese in atomicolorcinemascope
With stereophonic screams,
What one hundred per cent red blooded savage, would waste precious
time
Listening to jazz, with so many important things going on
But even the fittest murderers must rest
So they sat down in our blood soaked garments,
and listened to jazz
lost,
steeped in all our death dreams
They were shocked at the sound of life, long gone from our
own
They were indignant at the whistling, thinking, singing,
beating,
swinging,
They wept for it, hugged, kissed it, loved it, joined it, we
drank it,
Smoked it, ate with it, slept with it
They made our girls wear it for lovemaking
Instead of silly lace gowns,
Now in those terrible moments, when the dark memories come
The secret moments to which we admit no one
When guiltily we crawl back in time, reaching away from
ourselves
They hear a familiar sound,
Jazz, scratching, digging, blueing, swinging jazz,
And listen,
And feel, & die,
—Bob Kaufman
LeRoi
Jones rose to prominence as part of the
Beat movement and quickly established himself as a unique voice, as a publisher,
and as an influential essayist and critic who wrote extensively on Black music
and Jazz. He eventually rejected the
mostly white Beats and threw himself into the Black Nationalist Movement and a Black Arts Movement which he founded. He became a scathing critic of White
appropriation of Black music and culture.
He established himself as Imamu
Amiri Baraka and adopted Newark, New
Jersey as his home base. He became a
leading national figure in the Black Nationalist Movement, but eventually left
that behind to become a Marxist and anti-colonialist. Always controversial and often angry,
Amiri Baraka became the New Jersey Poet
Lauriat only to have the position abolished after his post 9/11 poem Somebody Blew Up America?
aroused indignation. He died last year
admired and reviled in equal measure.
Wise I
WHYS
(Nobody Knows
The Trouble I Seen)
Traditional
If you ever find
yourself, some where
lost and surrounded
by enemies
who won't let you
speak in your own language
who destroy your statues
& instruments, who ban
your omm bomm ba boom
then you are in trouble
deep trouble
they ban your
own boom ba boom
you in deep deep
trouble
humph!
probably take you several hundred years
to get
out!
The Trouble I Seen)
Traditional
If you ever find
yourself, some where
lost and surrounded
by enemies
who won't let you
speak in your own language
who destroy your statues
& instruments, who ban
your omm bomm ba boom
then you are in trouble
deep trouble
they ban your
own boom ba boom
you in deep deep
trouble
humph!
probably take you several hundred years
to get
out!
—Imamu Amiri Baraka
Jayne Cortez married
saxophonist Ornette Coleman when she
was 18. After divorcing him after several
years of marriage in 1965 she became founder director of the Watts Repertory Theater Company. Part of the Black Arts Movement, she
established her own press and record label through which she released a series
of readings to and about jazz. She
pushed boundaries working with the electric
funk/fusion group the Firestarters and
worked in Latin jazz and Afro/world music styles. She died in 2012, the most influential woman
spoken word performer of her generation.
Jazz Fan Looks
Back
I crisscrossed
with Monk
Wailed with Bud
Counted every
star with Stitt
Sang “Don’t
Blame Me” with Sarah
Wore a flower
like Billie
Screamed in the
range of Dinah
& scatted “How
High the Moon” with Ella Fitzgerald
as she blew roof
off the Shrine Auditorium
Jazz at the Philharmonic
I cut my hair
into a permanent tam
Made my feet
rebellious metronomes
Embedded record
needles in paint on paper
Talked bopology
talk
Laughed in
high-pitched saxophone phrases
Became keeper of
every Bird riff
every Lester
lick
as Hawk
melodicized my ear of infatuated tongues
& Blakey
drummed militant messages in
soul of my
applauding teeth
& Ray hit
bass notes to the last love seat in my bones
I moved in
triple time with Max
Grooved high
with Diz
Perdidoed with
Pettiford
Flew home with
Hamp
Shuffled in
Dexter’s Deck
Squatty-rooed
with Peterson
Dreamed a “52nd
Street Theme” with Fats
& scatted “Lady
Be Good” with Ella Fitzgerald
as she blew roof
off the Shrine Auditorium
Jazz at the Philharmonic
—Jayne Cortez
We
will wrap up with Gil Scott-Heron,
the poet/musician whose jazz work and political riff poetry became the inspiration
for modern hip hop and rap.
I Think I’ll
Call It Morning
I’m gonna take myself a piece of sunshine
and paint it all over my sky.
Be no rain. Be no rain.
I'm gonna take the song from every bird
and make them sing it just for me.
Be no rain.
And I think I’ll call it morning from now on.
Why should I survive on sadness
convince myself I've got to be alone?
Why should I subscribe to this world’s madness
knowing that I’ve got to live on?
and paint it all over my sky.
Be no rain. Be no rain.
I'm gonna take the song from every bird
and make them sing it just for me.
Be no rain.
And I think I’ll call it morning from now on.
Why should I survive on sadness
convince myself I've got to be alone?
Why should I subscribe to this world’s madness
knowing that I’ve got to live on?
I think I’ll call it morning from now on.
I’m gonna take myself a piece of sunshine
and paint it all over my sky.
Be no rain. Be no rain.
I’m gonna take the song from every bird
and make them sing it just for me.
Why should I hang my head?
Why should I let tears fall from my eyes
when I’ve seen everything that there is to see
and I know that there ain’t no sense in crying!
I know that there ain’t no sense in crying!
I think I’ll call it morning from now on.
—Gil Scott-Heron
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