Stuffy, not fluffy: Lewis and Marsalis play it for and by the book at Ozawa Hall
by Seth Rogovoy(LENOX, Mass., Oct. 13, 1996) - John Lewis and Wynton Marsalis pretty much played things by the book at Seiji Ozawa Hall at Tanglewood on Saturday night, in a program of jazz standards aptly titled "For the Books," a benefit concert to raise money for the Lenox Library.
The pianist and the trumpeter duetted in two sets of songs which while totally appropriate for the sort of society gathering this was -- ticket prices started at $45 and went up into three digits -- lacked the sort of passion, challenge or risk-taking one hopes for in a jazz performance, especially one which teams two titans of the style such as these.
Not that Lewis and Marsalis were slouches. With just the two of them on stage, there was no hiding behind accompanists or sharing the burden with rhythm sections. It was a rare opportunity to hear these two living legends of jazz perform for a long stretch in solo and duet formats, and in terms of intelligence and technique they did not disappoint.
Marsalis in particular showed why he is regarded as the leading trumpeter and perhaps instrumentalist of his generation. He was an agile and versatile performer who made his instrument truly "sing" in a fashion that for the most part has been lost or forgotten in recent times. His study of classic playing styles of such pre-bop trumpeters as King Oliver, Louis Armstrong and Cootie Williams were readily apparent in his phrasing, his embouchure and his extensive and artful use of mutes.
Marsalis played a particularly ornate, almost rococo rendition of Kurt Weill's "September Song," in which his use of vibrato and bent notes were startling. "April In Paris" was given a delicate, wispy treatment, in contrast with "I'll Remember April," which featured some dizzying single-note lines with suggestive accents and a warm, fuzzy tone.
Duke Ellington's "Prelude to a Kiss" was sultry and seductive, and George Gershwin's "Summertime" was mournful. But by the time the duo played "In the Evening When the Sun Goes Down," the novelty of Marsalis' use of mutes had worn off. He seemed too enamored of what they could do, like an artist too much in love with a particular brushstroke or color, and one wanted to take his toys away from him and force him to be inventive without resorting to his favorite cliches.
Pianist John Lewis, the founder and leader of the Modern Jazz Quartet, was his usual elegant and precise self. His playing was mostly functional, with little ornament or fluff. He ceded great expanses of melodic territory to Marsalis, who was happy to oblige, and kept the rhythmic and harmonic responsibilities for himself. Occasionally a certain tune or solo brought his playing to life, and he broke out of his basic role as Marsalis' accompanist whereby his left-hand played bass and his right hand harmony.
Lewis matched Marsalis' playful streak on "Perdido," and even topped the latter on their version of Thelonious Monk's "'Round Midnight," totally derailing Marsalis with an unexpected passage of dissonance. Whereas Marsalis seemed to wring this melody for maximum pathos, Lewis preferred to swing it for maximum blues. Count this one -- as well as Irving Berlin's "Blue Skies," during which Lewis' propensity for swinging the melody seemed to totally throw Marsalis for a loop -- a knockout for Lewis.
Unfortunately, moments like these, where the instrumentalists conversed in anything other than a pretty, refined way, were few and far between. They rarely challenged or pushed each other beyond the most basic parameters of the melody. They made a lot of lovely music together and played it with sophistication and athletic grace, but for the most part it lacked tension, wit and personality.
>From Marsalis in particular, who is so often cited as an "articulate" spokesperson, one longed to hear such evidence. Articulate playing, in this case, didn't lead to the articulation of any emotion or particular point of view, which was the evening's greatest disappointment.
For the most part, however, Lewis and Marsalis succeeded in what they set out to do: to provide a comfortable evening of agreeable melodies for the entertainment of the haute bourgeoisie in the uncomfortably stuffy atmosphere of the Ozawa Hall.
[This review originally appeared in the Berkshire Eagle on Oct. 14, 1996. Copyright Seth Rogovoy 1996. All rights reserved.]
Seth Rogovoy
rogovoy@berkshire.net
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