By Joel Simpson
Mary Lou Williams (1910-1981): was she an important minor and
perhaps neglected figure in jazz history, or was she a powerful and
original stylist somehow left out of the jazz historical cannon? Should
she, in fact, be ranked with the great jazz pianists like Fats Waller,
Erroll Garner, Thelonious Monk and Bud Powell-all of whom admired her-and
if so why hasn't she been?
These questions are fully answered in Linda Dahl's revealing,
honest and sympathetic biography, but the answers she provides turn out to
be complicated and closely tied to the particular ordeals Williams endured
and to the choices she made to survive them. One could certainly attribute
her misfortunes largely to race and gender. Dahl, however, spends little
time blaming and no time soapboxing. Rather she tells a straightforward
story of "the little piano girl of East Liberty" (Pittsburgh), who sought
refuge in music from the abuses of her childhood, and became a truly great
player, even a minor star in the 40s. Her musical adventurousness put her
harmonically ahead of her time, making her arranging skills highly sought
after. That same quest for new sounds fueled her embrace of bebop, a rarity
among the musicians of her generation (she was a year younger than Art
Tatum, two years older than Teddy Wilson, and seven years older than Monk).
Yet her musical life, despite her increasing reputation, was
plagued with so many setbacks and frustrations that by the 50s, when she
should have been consolidating her gains and moving into more prestigious
labels and more visible touring and festival appearances, she quit the
profession altogether in favor of religion and benevolent activities.
To begin with, she had to fight through the gender prejudices of
the Andy Kirk band, where despite her superiority as a pianist, she had to
wait until the band's regular pianist proved too unreliable before she got
the steady post that put her in the spotlight as "the lady who swings with
the band." But building on this success confronted her with a new set of
obstacles: severe underpayment and underrecognition for the 47 compositions
and arrangements she wrote for Duke Ellington, whom she never trusted;
skimming off her pay by tough-guy manager Joe Glaser; the less than
smashing success of her pioneering symphonic Zodiac Suite concerts of
1945-6, whose tapes were then stolen by a flamboyant but unscrupulous
Danish record producer; continual stresses at her club jobs, such as the
one at Cafe Society, where her violence-prone bass player broke her nose,
or where she was clearly the best, though underused, element in an
otherwise weak revue (staring Ethel Waters), which quickly folded;
recording on the cheap for Moe Asch's Disc label. At this time she was
fighting to be taken seriously as a musician and to transcend the nickname
"boogie-woogie queen." On top of this, her Pittsburgh family was a
continual energy drain.
Once Williams converted to Catholicism in 1952, religion became an
obsession. She spent hours each day in prayer, at one point praying by name
for over 1000 people. Her colleagues began to rue her attempts to convert
them. Her spiritual advisors, Father Anthony Woods, S. J. and the
Franciscan Brother Mario (Grady Hancock), had to counsel her to ease up.
From then until the mid-60s she devoted most of her creative efforts to
sacred works, including St. Martin de Porres (the Black Christ of the
Andes), a six-and-a-half minute choral work, and three masses, which Dahl
claims marked the achievement of her musical maturity. But these were not
popular successes.
Even once Williams began playing publicly again in the 60s, she
turned down regular club gigs and tours, which would have strengthened her
reputation and paid some of her bills. It was at this time that she hooked
up with Father Peter F. O'Brien, a young priest with a strong penchant for
the arts, who eventually became her manager and later her executor.
Williams recorded only occasionally during the 50s and 60s. Today
those cuts sound competent, contemporary but not particularly
remarkable-until one remembers that Williams was virtually the only member
of her generation who was keeping up with the absolute latest stylistic
trends. Teddy Wilson, in contrast, remained stylistically in the 30s all
his life. But Williams' 1953 "Round Midnight" is harmonically right on
target for the time; she infuses her 1963 "My Blue Heaven" with
hard-boppish blues and a touch of gospel (and block chords); while her
original "A Fungus Amungus" of the same date catapults the listener into
concrete music a la Cecil Taylor.
Williams had always maintained that unlike her contemporaries, she
kept up with jazz piano's stylistic evolution, and towards the end of her
life she was thus singularly armed to teach the subject at Duke. But in
itself this would not qualify her for ranking among the truly great artists
of the medium.
But something happened in the 70s. In 1971 she was tapped to record
a solo piano album by Hank O'Neal for his new label, Chiaroscuro records.
O'Neal had asked producer/A&R giant John Hammond who he thought deserved to
be recorded, and Hammond without hesitation named Williams. The result was
one of the most compelling and fertile albums of mostly blues solo piano
ever recorded, From the Heart, which was only reissued in 1998 as a
double-CD, renamed for its opening tune Nite Life (Chiaroscuro CR[D] 103).
Williams had clearly come to a point in her career where she had
consolidated her rich musical experience into a voice of exceptional
personal depth. The 70s became a decade of success and appreciation for
Mary, which saw her back in the studio many times, maintaining that depth
where she felt most rooted: the blues. Her 1975 Live at the Cookery
(Chiaroscuro CR[D] 146), keeps that level of richness, as does her 1977
Mama Pinned a Rose on Me (Pablo 2310-819-not yet reissued on CD); while her
1974 nod to contemporary funk, Zoning (Smithsonian Folkways CD 40811)
sounds dated today (you can almost see the enormous Afros in the audience).
During this coda in her career besides her recording, she held down
a long-term gig at the Cookery (owned by former Cafe Society owner Barney
Josephson), and best of all, her appointment to the music faculty of Duke
University. There, according to Dahl, she achieved "a transcendent level of
artistry, and the Duke community came to realize it had greatness in their
midst." She was eventually presented with the "best loved faculty member"
award on her 71st birthday-it was the month that she died of bladder
cancer, May 1981.
Williams left behind a foundation which she had wanted to promote
jazz to young people, but it barely has enough resources to preserve and
archive her music-and much of what she created remains unreleased. Also,
Dr. Billy Taylor, a longtime admirer and supporter, has named his D. C.
Kennedy Center Women in Jazz Festival in her honor.
So why isn't she ranked among the greats, where she clearly
belongs?
At critical points in her career Williams made choices other than
to develop it: spiritual, emotional, altruistic, all infused with a certain
suspicion of commercial success. The result was arguably if ironically, a
deeper level of musical creation during the last decade of her life, and
for which she was justly celebrated at the time. Now, though, as jazz
becomes more and more marginalized in contemporary culture, that very real
achievement-her blues distillation of a life of struggle, suffering, and
stylistic adventurousness-is in danger of being forgotten. So the task
becomes harder to redress the undervaluation that keeps Mary Lou Williams
just on the threshold of the jazz pantheon. Linda Dahl's Morning Glory
takes us a long way in this direction. More Mary Lou Williams recordings
might just take us the rest of the way.
Joel Simpson is the producer of DICK HYMAN'S CENTURY OF JAZZ PIANO CD-ROM (103 tunes/60+styles,
videos, MIDI Studio, great graphics, extensive bios etc.). An
interactive demo can be found on his WEBSITE: www.jssmusic.com.
To order via phone call: 800 557-7894.
