Anyone who focuses on the ragtime, jazz, and swing music of the first four decades, whether performer, listener, or both, is at some point subjected to a comment similar to this: “Oh, so you dwell in the past.” I’m not sure why the music I love to play and listen to is a target for statements like that; people enjoy Elvis, the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, hell, Britney Spears, and somehow none of their music or styles are labeled “the past.” I wonder if it’s because people who listen to music from, let’s say, the 1950s-1990s are feeling nostalgic for their youth and the soundtrack of the contemporaneous “good times” they enjoyed in their halcyon years. Indulging in nostalgia could be, one might observe, a perfect definition of “dwelling in the past,” yet it’s rarely viewed thus. Indeed, at this point in time OKOM (meaning, as should periodically be pointed out, “Our Kind Of Music:” an umbrella term for the styles listed in my first sentence) is inexorably being pushed out of the “nostalgic” category by attrition. In short time, there’ll be no one left who experienced the music of the 1930s firsthand.
I think I chose my topic this month because that offensive phrase was recently lobbed at me by a journalist doing a phone interview to write a story on my upcoming appearance in the area her publication covered. I can’t remember the name of the newspaper, but it wasn’t a big one—it would be in the same category as the “Nowhere News,” “Bohunkus Blat,” or “Podunk Puke”—and this might have been her first-ever interview: she sounded like she was 14. But she tried to empathize. She proudly told me, “I like old music, too! My favorite oldies include “Heat Wave” by Glass Animals, and “abcdefu” by GAYLE!”
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Yes, I had to look these up. According to the Nolan Method of rating a tune (based on stream count, revenue earnings, and overall cultural impact), they were respectively, the #1 and #17 hits…of 2022!!
Judge Not Lest Ye Be…
It’s not just the uninformed who immediately assume you drive a horse-and-buggy to your hut lit by oil lamps when you share your passion for playing early, hot, syncopated American pop music. Even other very talented and worldly musicians have a tough time wrapping their brains around the notion of anyone performing for pay “The Maple Leaf Rag” or “Back Home Again in Indiana” or “Tin Roof Blues” (along with a dozen other obvious tunes, the extent of their awareness of the repertoire preceding 1940). Back in the 1990s in Connecticut, I went to hear a fellow who was a magnificent Flamenco and Latin-American styled guitarist. This guy had chops and such a beautiful tone on his instrument. His leather outfit and long flowing black hair added to the effect and of course everyone was swooning over him! His girlfriend also happened to come to a weekly gig I played with a blues guitarist to sing a few songs, so she’d told him about me. During his break I introduced myself and we got to chatting.
“Mary tells me you like the old stuff,” he incredulously offered after I’d shared my appreciation for his artistry. “You know, B.B. King and all of that.”
“Well, that’s what I play on the gig she comes to sit in on,” I replied, “but my first love is traditional jazz!”
He scoffed, “What, all that ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’ garbage? That hokey razz-a-ma-tazz crap?”
I vainly tried describing to him that there are thousands of great tunes by hundreds of soloists and bands to explore in my chosen styles of ragtime and ’20s and ’30s jazz and swing. He was dismissive, turning his back on me and returning to the bandstand.
Okay, I was miffed. About ten years later, we happened to meet at a jazz concert for which he was the opening act (an outdoor concert in front of 3,000 people where, ironically for him, the headliner was Allen Vache leading a band recreating a good portion of the 1938 Benny Goodman Carnegie Hall Concert). “Hey, Barnhart,” he jibed, “Come to see a real show? What’re you doing these days?”
At the time, I was performing about 40 weeks a year with one of three jazz bands that would routinely fill venues of 500-900 people, so I simply said, “I’m still traveling playing the music I love.”
“Man, you’re still doing that striped vest/styrofoam hat junk? You must be starving.” And off he toddled to open for Allan.
Fast forward to 2019. I ran into Mary while doing some grocery shopping and we chatted for a while. Eventually, we got round to her guitar-playing boyfriend when I asked how he was doing. “He doesn’t have any work. No-one’s calling or hiring him. His music just isn’t in demand anymore. If you need a guitarist, please give him a call. I’m sure he’d do great!!”
I thought I’d die laughing thinking of him wearing a styrofoam boater, but I didn’t even crack an inner smile. Surprisingly, I didn’t experience a second of delicious (though naughty) Schadenfreude. I simply felt sorry for him. I still do. He’s no busier now. His music is beautiful. Perhaps his attitude shut those doors. I didn’t ask.
I am reminded, however, of a rhetorical question the late great trombonist Bill Allred queried on a two-week ocean cruise we were playing together for Jazzdagen Tours. Some of us were still in our tuxedos sitting in the cigar lounge sipping complimentary 21-year-old single malt scotch, and he turned and asked me, “I wonder what the musicians who refuse to play Dixieland are doing tonight?”
Now in truth, I’m also sometimes guilty of judging the music—or the way—people choose to play. I still believe I can pick out a Berkeley (or, with very rare but notable exceptions, any other music school) grad playing in a classic jazz band three venues away. As soon as I hear terrific technique, altered scales, prodigiously dense phrases, and no soul, I know where they learned their craft. It’s not their fault: their professors chose to keep them away from certain, guttier styles of jazz (read: anything earlier than Miles Davis or John Coltrane, yes, the bulk of whose music is admittedly by now over 70 years old) and so when they’re hired to play those earlier styles, they have to resort to all the elements I listed above, having no true connection to the material or the style they’ve found themselves asked to play. But see? Here, I sound as close-minded as my Flamenco guitarist antagonist, just in reverse. Oh well, I still hear what I hear.
Now YOU Be The Judge
Returning to that odious phrase, “dwelling in the past,” what does that even mean to anyone?? Okay, some people choose to immerse themselves deeply in their chosen era, even dressing appropriately in vintage-style (or actual vintage) ensembles to complete the effect. One contributor to this publication, ragtime musician, researcher, writer, and lecturer, twenty-something R.S. Baker, dresses in period clothing (Victorian, Edwardian and a bit later) whether she’s onstage or not. BUT how can she be labeled as “dwelling in the past” when she belongs to and is conversant in all of the 21st century outlets for communicating, researching, and networking? She dresses the way she does out of choice, and utilizes cutting edge technology to follow her dreams. On the other hand, I throw on my Nordstrom Rack suit, go play a show featuring music from the 1890s-1940s, and choose not to be found on any of the modern Blogpods, Tiks, Toks, or Twitches.
Some readers may at this point be wondering why all of this is in a column called “My Inspirations.” If you’ve lasted this long, you’ll now find out. I believe artists select their style(s) based on passion: a deep stirring of something that starts in their guts and pierces their hearts. Whatever style of expression they choose (or chooses them)—if they’re visual artists: perhaps oil, water-color, sculpture, or mixed technique-material; if dancers: maybe jazz, tap, ballet, swing, or avant-garde; if jazz musicians: early, mainstream, or more modern styles—they are using their adopted style(s) as a way of creating meaning and connection. Artists who embrace time-honored traditions to express meaning don’t “dwell in the past.” They simply find the language of a certain style or combination of styles to be their best mode for creating and sharing. It’s not about the past, present, or future. It’s about the relationship between the artist, the tools they employ for their creativity, and the audience that wishes to receive their creations.
Each of these relationships between creator, creation, and spectator is unique and will never again be experienced. And that’s the inspiration for me.
Jeff Barnhart is an internationally renowned pianist, vocalist, arranger, bandleader, recording artist, ASCAP composer, educator and entertainer. Visit him online atwww.jeffbarnhart.com. Email: Mysticrag@aol.com
