If I wanted to time this post strategically, I would have released it at the start of January when people are going gaga over resolutions and plans to hit the gym, but I feel compelled to write it now, so I am sharing it now.
In my Honors seminar (Jazz: An Improvisational American History) last week, we talked about fusion, running the gamut of experiments mostly in the 1970s fusing jazz to everything from rock to classical music. If you would like to listen, here is the playlist.
As usual, our discussion ranged from considerations of musical evolution and responses to social realities to questions of a more personal nature inspired by the music: Why change what you do, when people are perfectly happy with what you are doing? Why try something new when there is nothing “wrong” with the current order of things?
Here is one concrete example: Herbie Hancock’s early song “Watermelon Man,” first recorded by him in 1962 in a straight-ahead hard bop style that fell well within the contemporary jazz mainstream. Mongo Santamaria recorded a Afro-Cuban-inflected version that became a monster hit in the following year. You might think that Hancock, a prolific composer, would have no reason to revisit this song. But in 1973 Hancock released a new version of “Watermelon Man,” one that sounded shockingly different. It isn’t until about 1:45 in that we hear something that sounds like the original—sorta.
Why remake a great song? Hancock spoke a little about his reasoning in an interview with Elvis Costello (and flawlessly segued the original into the update in a brilliant live performance). His revisiting his own classic speaks to a deeper question than shifting to keep up with the latest styles, though: it is about taking a chance that can redefine not just your future, but also your past, a step not many have the courage to take.
When discussing 1970s jazz, and jazz fusion in particular, Miles Davis enjoys a prominent place. Originally coming to prominence in the 1940s as a member of Charlie Parker’s quintet, he reinvented himself, it seems, almost annually. There is the Apollonian reserve of Birth of the Cool, which pointed to one direction of jazz’s future. One great quintet that set the standard for mid-1950s small-band jazz. A genre-shifting exploration of modal jazz. Experimentations with orchestral textures. A second great quintet that reinvigorated small-band jazz in the 1960s. One could think that Davis, with two decades of innovation and excellence behind him, might stick to the rivers and streams that he was used to. And few would blame him—after all, how many times can we expect one person to give us something unexpected?
But in 1969, Davis released In a Silent Way, an album that eschewed jazz standards for two songs that each took up an entire side of the record, adding keyboards and electric guitar to his quintet. This was the start of a period that would see Davis explore textures and instrumentations unimaginable a decade earlier, to mixed critical and popular success, with a good measure of actual hostility.
To get an idea of what I’m talking about, listen to the Davis quintet’s rendition of the Frank Loesser standard “If I Were a Bell” from December, 1965. Firey stuff, to be sure, but it’s easy to see it as an evolution of his 1956 recording of the same song. Now take a listen to On the Corner, a 1972 release that first-time listeners may find difficult to orient themselves to. It’s certainly not another set of standards; some said it wasn’t jazz at all.
Turning one’s back on the tried-and-true, particularly when it is still working, takes courage—with maybe a side of not caring what others think. Those obsessed with their status or popularity might not be able to take the bold steps that Davis did in the 1970s (and again in the 1980s). I would argue that, whatever honor and acclaim they enjoy, they and us are probably poorer for it.
There is something to be said in favor of sustained excellence; certainly it isn’t easy to continue creating new material in a familiar style in ways that intrigues audiences, and those who can deserve our admiration. But there is also a certain lack of vulnerability there. That kind of openness and exposure can be scary, but it is also necessary to grow. Students learn by diving into new material. New knowledge is tempered by setbacks, which spur confrontation and, ultimately, mastery.
Novelty is rarely easy. Those around us can be confused and disappointed that we aren’t doing the things they have become accustomed to. We might lose support that we have been relied on. We might not be as creative or as agile as we think. We might fail.
Worse yet, we might not be able to go back to our familiar patterns, even if our new approach doesn’t work out. The biggest risk we take might not be that we might fail; it might be that we will be transformed in unpredictable ways. Shaped by what we do, we might end up as someone we don’t recognize when we get to the other side. But life is about growth and change. Stagnation is too high a price to pay for security.
What does all of this have to do with my usual topics, interpersonal conflict and communication? Maybe a little, if you look from the right angle. Shaking things up brings tremendous risks but can also yield new understanding and appreciation. Breaking our routine might upset others, but when we explain where we aspire to reach, they might get on board. If not, better to know now.
But the real reason I wrote this wasn’t because I wanted to didacticize about conflict resolution, as much I usually enjoy that. I genuinely wanted to try something new, inspired by the leaps into the unknown that jazz musicians took in an often-underappreciated decade, and maybe connect with others who are thinking about what it means to be vulnerable, to take risks, to walk away from the familiar.
So until next time, expect the unexpected, stay informed, and I’ll stay informal.
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