Smooth operator: Black to white

Dave Brubeck's brand of jazz tempered flamboyance with finesse, yet always remained aware of its African roots

Jazz virtuoso, Dave Brubeck, would have turned 95 early this December, and being the only improviser of his kind, he deserves a, well, re-remembrance, chiefly because he didn't appear to be one. He eschewed the showy, the immediately feet-stomping, and took jazz to the classical tier. That is why even non-jazz listeners could identify his tunes. Sure, he was ahead of his time, and that is why it is worth a smirk that his compositions like Take Five and Blue Rondo a la Turk, now nestled in the Long Room of jazz, were actually pretty innovative, rebelliously non-formulaic at the time, and simply wowed America.
Brubeck, in essence, had managed to hug this genre the way he felt comfortable - a sort of embrace that even ensured his longevity, both as a musician, and increasingly, an icon. For a prospective rancher, his music was not about physical alacrity and a romping strike of the ivory, but precision and contemplated creativity - a style that complemented his trademark, and almost Presbyterian, concert attire of dark suits and tie.
Not the flamboyant Art Tatum, not the almost-establishment Ellington, Brubeck became the original "cool" face of a genre his less privileged brothers brought to the fore because he brought jazz honour. It was no longer a saloon phenomenon, it was welcome in the drawing rooms of the Mozartian acolytes of educated America - and soon in the hallowed concert halls which hitherto showed more than a predilection for string quartets and Horowitz. Appearing on the cover of Time Magazine in 1954 was, in fact, a testimony of his having got the crucial nod from the nation's elite.
In his heart he knew, this phenomenon was a gift to his country, one given by people from far-off Africa, only whose people could possess the brio that afforded its subsequent popularity, thanks largely to its original simplicity.
Thus, Brubeck espoused - and groomed - jazz. His Take five - revered for long for its 5/4 time, from its first piano riff to Paul Desmond's saxophone eventually assuming almost the space of a lead vocal - is, of course, oft-praised. But it was his controlled experi- mentalism - ever so often unusual, nevertheless, always relatable - that made him a genuine ambassador of his art. "You can take a theme from a Bach sacred chorale and improvise. It doesn't make any difference where the theme comes from, the treatment of it can be jazz," he often admonishingly convinced his interviewer.
Experimentation, of course, also led to Brubeck being deemed as too schematic, sometimes stolid, oscillating between too few chords. But that did not, happily, come in the way of his music sounding unwaveringly original, a factor that helped him force jazz into the LP collection of young listeners in the 50s who were, at the time, becoming used to the sonic dimensions of three-minute pop singles.
And, of course, he was loathed to academise the open-endedness of his craft - one that had its roots in the spontaneous pain, joy and ennui of a group of people wishing for a life better than the one they were granted, shipped, as they were, from the "dark continent" to an even darker one. "Away from the constriction of written music, but improvising on top of it. This is the thing I love most about jazz. It is the music of freedom", he often said.
Jazz, as he saw it, was automatic. This represented the essential Blackness of it all. And, perhaps, that is why he was the bane - and joy - of his teachers in ear training classes, when he would not, quite stubbornly, recognise a chord, but unfailingly mention the composition to which it belonged, compelling the latter to say: "You are supposed to know that is a flat ninth, why can't you learn to say what a chord is? But you are, as usual, right about the number."
Brubeck was forever mindful of one fact: the people who were responsible for jazz couldn't possibly deserve to be subjected to what they were - segre- gation. He saw jazz, as it clearly became in the 40s right up to the 60s, a unifying force between people, as he succinctly put it, "separated by law, not feeling".  And he fought to bring down this "rope down the middle".
When on a tour of playing in universities, he was told that his black bassist, Eugene Wright, couldn't play in the concert. He took a stand which left the president of the concerned institution little option but to soften his intolerance and say that Wright could play if "kept in the background". Dave agreed, only to beckon his ace bass player, after the first number, to "come up front as your microphone isn't picking any of your solos up".
The governor of the state, too, was impressed and sanctioned no action.
Till Brubeck arrived, jazz was still trying to sell itself as something very much from America. He made it American - while not short-changing the Americans responsible for it. Small wonder, Dana Gioia, chairperson of the National Endowment of Arts, said, "There's no American alive who has done more extensive and effective cultural diplomacy than Dave Brubeck". He was even chosen to thaw Cold War tensions, being asked to play for a series of summits between Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev. Thaw he did, because the then secretary of state, George Shultz, gave the pianist a hug, announcing, "Dave you've made the summit. you made the breakthrough!"
Dave, for his part, said, "I can't understand Russian, but I can understand body language". He was referring to the Soviet general secretary vigorously tapping his foot while he played.
A body language, perhaps subtly reminiscent of those people in a continent bereft of light and nutrition, where playing an improvised drum made out of a hollow tree trunk crowned by a taut cowhide was not a rare sight, a rhythmic wealth which many have appropriated like Brubeck, but in his case not thanklessly.
by Jayatsen Bhattacharya