‘IT’S NOT HOW YOU PLAY, IT’S WHERE . . . ‘

One evening not long ago in Los Angeles, Frank Morgan picked up his alto saxophone and played at least half a dozen choruses of “All the Things You Are” with such devastating skill, such seamless creativity, that he seemed to represent the ultimate peak of achievable artistry on the horn.

One might assume that by now Morgan would have been the subject of critical acclaim on the part of the leading jazz historians. True, his career has been interrupted many times by problems due to drug abuse, but for much of the last decade he has been heard in a number of clubs, appeared at occasional concerts and played on several albums as sideman or leader. Yet he is all but unknown to--and ignored by--the very writers who could give him the media recognition he deserves.

The reason is simple: Morgan lives and works in Los Angeles. He has never in his life played in, nor even visited, New York. The leading jazz critics, for the most part, live in New York and seldom visit Los Angeles.

That due acknowledgment of great artistry should be dependent on a matter of logistics is beyond all bounds of logic, yet this factor has played a significant part in the documentation of jazz accomplishments.

The Morgan case is one of many. An all-female jazz orchestra known as Maiden Voyage, led by the saxophonist Ann Patterson and featuring such gifted soloists as Stacy Rowles on fluegelhorn, has displayed a performance level and a library of compositions and arrangements that are on a par with all but a handful of such bands on the contemporary scene. Yet none of the New York experts has written a word about this phenomenon, and the group has yet to make its first record.

The system also works in reverse. A few years ago, Whitney Balliett, one of the most respected jazz critics, wrote a profile in the New Yorker about Michael Moore, whom he characterized without qualification as the greatest of all bass players. Since he could not conceivably have heard more than a very small proportion of the innumerable performers now playing this instrument, the argument was questionable a priori; more significantly, if Michael Moore happened to live and work in Los Angeles, his place in this encomium might well have been taken by Bob Magnusson, John Patitucci, Andy Simpkins or any of a dozen other bassists were the latter group to transfer their locus operandi from Los Angeles to New York.

One musician whose talent is formidable, but who has long suffered from this form of exclusion, recently remarked: “It’s not how you play, it’s where you play it.” Granted this is an oversimplification, yet one can understand his bitterness.

Not only do all but a few of the most influential jazz authorities live in New York, but many of the most powerful record companies are based there. The musician who lives anywhere else, whether in Los Angeles, Chicago, Tulsa or Tacoma, is at a disadvantage that no degree of talent can ever overcome.

Los Angeles musicians have an additional problem due to an elitist attitude on the part of New Yorkers--critics and musicians alike. The theory that West Coast jazzmen play in a laid-back, non-aggressive style, and that only beyond the Hudson can true grit and muscle be discerned, was prevalent as far back in the 1950s, when there was a tendency to equate Southern California with the sounds of a small clique of studio musicians whose work admittedly displayed these tendencies. Yet at the same time, musicians such as Harold Land, Art Pepper, Hampton Hawes, Ornette Coleman and others were giving the lie to this theory. Not until Coleman moved to New York did he become the darling of the critical fraternity.

Expatriate American musicians have to deal with a greater handicap. Not long ago at Donte’s in North Hollywood, I heard a remarkable guitarist named Jimmy Gourley appearing as the guest of Mundell Lowe and playing guitar duets with him as well as solos. His brilliance was indisputable, yet one looks in vain for any reference to him in almost all the history books. The reason is clear: Gourley has lived in Paris since 1951, and was in town only for a brief visit.

It was Lowe who, conscious of the deprivation West Coast musicians were undergoing, dreamed up the idea in 1984 of inviting several leading New York critics to Monterey for the jazz festival.

“I arranged with the Monterey board of directors to take care of their transportation and expenses,” said Lowe, “so that they could have an opportunity to hear some of the things that are going on in this part of the country. They could have gone on to Los Angeles and checked out the scene here. But not one of them accepted; they were all ‘too busy.’ ”

Ironically, one of the best-received events at this year’s Monterey Festival, Lowe said, was the appearance of Morgan and another distinguished alto saxophonist, Charles McPherson. Morgan by now is well known to most California jazz followers; McPherson is at a double disadvantage, since he is even farther removed from any major focus of attention, having been based for years in San Diego.

Duke Ellington observed that the unequivocal formula for success is doing the right thing in the right place at the right time with the right people. This is an indisputable truth, whether applied to jazz or any of the other lively arts.

Francis Bacon once wrote: “Mahomet called the hill to come to him, again and again; and when the hill stood still he was never a whit abashed, but said, ‘If the hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill.’ ”

Frank (Mahomet) Morgan will open at New York’s Village Vanguard in December. And so it goes.