By Nick Catalano
There probably is not a single American jazz musician who has ever worked in Paris and not pondered one of the great mysteries of the music: Why is jazz so much more appreciated here than in America? Why do the great jazzers seem to be revered here while in the U.S. they are virtually ignored by a populace that lionizes rock, folk and rap figures?
These are enigmas that have continually surfaced since the 1980's when Coleman Hawkins wowed Parisienne audiences and french writers began extolling "l'art du jazz." In the early 1930's Sidney Bechet settled in Paris and composed "les oignons" in 1949 and by the time Bird and Miles came over a couple of years later jazz had completely overwhelmed the french music scene. In 1953 Clifford Brown, while touring Europe with Lionel Hampton's band, recorded in Paris for Vogue records. The critical response resounded so loudly that when Brownie went back home the phone did not stop ringing. The power of the french press had begun to set artistic standards.
Since the halcyon days of hard bop the french, while greatly annoyed at not having invented jazz, are quite comfortable with the knowledge they have accomplished more than most in recognizing the aesthetic of the music.
On a recent trip to Paris I looked in on the french and their jazzmania and discovered some interesting developments. Each year in May there is a Paris Jazz Festival to go along with the cascade of other festivals that occur throughout the country. By the time I arrived it had wound down but a follow up celebration dubbed "l'espirit jazz" (sponsored by the new Mini car) was underway throughout the city. Film programs focused on Cecil Taylor, Charles Lloyd and Sun Ra, lectures featured "hommage a' Charlie Parker" and club concerts showcased various groups - all French.
When I began to pop into the legendary jazz club scene during my stay I found this situation everywhere - unlike a few years ago, the absence of American players is conspicuous. The following is a log of my visit:
May 9 - At Caveau De La Huchette (located on Rue de la Huchette off Saint-Michel in the St. Germain) I find a Swiss swing band playing Goodman and Basie standards. This club is one of the oldest in Paris originating in 1946. Both Lionel Hampton and Sidney Bechet appeared here after World War II and the intimate wine cellar atmosphere of the club is still vibrant. You buy a ticket for ten Euros, descend a stone staircase, and sit around a small room facing the bandstand. You aren't required to purchase a drink but the bar is quaint and beverages are not overpriced.
When I arrive , the Neuchatel swing quintet is tuning up - an energetic group with a deliberately derivative sound from yore. The pianist doesn't try to disguise his note for note imitation of Erroll Garner and the reed man plays exacting replications of Benny Goodman licks on standards such as "Memories of You," "The Man I Love" and "Moonglow." When he switches to tenor he "becomes" Coleman Hawkins playing "It Don't Mean a Thing ÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂ
", "Satin Doll", and "All of Me." The crowd is very appreciative of the imitative playing - a situation which would be very odd in a New York jazz club. The atmosphere is very festive and the patrons are obviously regulars who love the music. The most notable publicity flyers are advertising an appearance by Duffy Jackson at the end of the month.
May 10 - On St. Germain-des-Pres across from Les Deux Magots and CafÃÂÃÂÃÂé Flore (two of the most famous cafes on the rive gauche - where Sartre, Hemingway, Fitzgerald and other literati of the golden days often dined) is the rue Saint-Benoit. A small club - La Montana was the scene of my own playing experiences in Paris when I lived here in 1988. Down the street sits Le Bilboquet another venerable boite founded in the late 1940's and sporting portraits of Billie Holiday and Miles Davis - two of its early headliners. Le Bilboquet has dashing dÃÂÃÂÃÂécor and wonderful intimacy - twin characteristics found almost everywhere in Paris nightspots. Actually, it is almost impossible to drop into an eatery, cafÃÂÃÂÃÂé or bar without marveling at the appointments. Somehow the french continue to lead the pack in surrounding their lives with beauty. Their aesthetic sense operates everywhere - T-shirts have designs that make you want to acquire them for wall decorations.
On this Friday night vocalist Christel Domat is appearing with her trio. The musicians begin the set sans Christel with "The Kid from Red Bank" and "What is This Thing Called Love." Some charming solos but definitely no swing here. Christel prances to the mike, addresses the audience with classic English-French-English patter and launches into a lounge-like treatment of "On a Clear Day." She phrases nicely but her smoky sound makes no pretext of hiding her slavish imitation of Sassy. Later she delves into "Straighten Up and Fly Right" and "Route 66" and the audience roars at the exhumation of Nat Cole and his sound. Once again the trick is to try and replicate a famous American jazz personality. Forget about your own stuff; the idea is to imitate the masters from across the Atlantic. It reminds me of the sculpture of classical antiquity when the Romans simply copied the Greeks: The best had been achieved so why even try to surpass itÃÂÃÂÃÂÃÂ
Very strange.
Next month: Part II of "Jazz in Paris"
