JAZZ BLUES : America’s Primo Art Form Has Had a Tough Time in L.A., but There Are Some High Notes

Don’t think I could live in Los Angeles,” Patricia said, quiet horror audible in her dusky voice long-distance from St. Louis.

“Why’s that?” I was poised to defend my home turf against carjackings, lung-degenerating smog and civic unrest.

“Y’all’s funny about music and I hav’ta have my jazz.”

I was zapped, had no comeback. I love a multitude of sounds, but African-American music in nearly all its variations heads my list. Especially jazz. Whenever I’m able, I indulge, be it a saxophone summit, drum fest or piano bar.

But, yes, jazz has always had it tough in L.A.

As Patricia and I disconnected, unsettling memories flooded in: Under the stars, at the Hollywood Bowl, Dexter Gordon plays 14 notes for the cheering mob, slightly more generous than Miles Davis, who manages 12. At the Universal Amphitheatre, everyone else swoons while I bust the exit as Bobby McFerrin intones “The Itsy, Bitsy Spider.” At the Vine St. Bar & Grill, I can’t hear Mark Murphy because I’m boggled by his silk fuchsia shirt belted over white-on-olive swim trunks. A few months before, I’d run across him at Sweet Basil in New York, and he was the essence of natty snazz down to his nines. What happened?

Are these incidents evidence of deep-seated cultural contempt? Do jazz folk sometimes mute their artistry to cater to assumptions about L.A.? Have they been told Angelenos don’t know beans about jazz? Yes, they are, they do and they have.

‘Tain’t necessarily so.

America’s primo original art form was birthed by the pain of racial oppression. Once “jass” left the stoops, bawdy houses and back streets, it became elite, sophisticated and undanceable. Duke Ellington and Count Basie took it into concert halls, yachts and opera houses. Lena Horne, Nat (King) Cole and Daniel Louis (Satchmo) Armstrong infused it into pop culture via TV and movies. Holiday and Parker made it scary. Dizzy, Dolphy, Miles and T. Sphere Monk elevated it to avant-garde. Mingus and Shepp made it philosophical. Coltrane and Sun Ra made it cosmic. Ornette Coleman (no relation) deconstructed it.

Today, despite the Marsalis brothers and the admirable persistence of Max Roach, “new music” barely survives in black communities. South-Central is no exception, unless rap is included. Many older aficionados argue that rap is a contemporary jazz form.

Locally, more traditional forms of jazz are kept alive by such luminaries as Buddy Collette, Lynn Carey, Charlie Hayden, Nels Cline, Horace Tapscott and Thomas Tedesco. Small social groups like BEEM (Black Experience as Expressed through Music) encourage a new generation through scholarships and achievement awards. And on Degnan Boulevard, misters Kamau Daa’ood and Billy Higgins regularly introduce newborns to The World Stage. Nearby at Marla’s, the young bloods in fedoras-with-attitude get deep into serious.

Most L.A. jazz, though, comes with gray whiskers, overcooked pasta and the aura of grantsmanship. Audiences are distinctly older and distinctly lacking in melanin. It’s gone from all-night jams to midafternoon brunches and teas, from sizzling on bandstands to fizzling in galleries and museums, banquet halls and university and community centers.

Still, I’ll take my jazz any way I can. While the new scene may seem more cult-like than countercultural, it appears to be growing. It’s comforting to note there are goo-gobs of enthusiasts willing to buck Southern California’s hostility to anything that doesn’t have a twang or a yodel. Venues are as diverse as At My Place, Barnabey’s, Birdland West, Dodsworth Bar & Grill and the Jazz Bakery.

I prefer my tonal experiences straight-up with a champagne chaser in an anonymous, heavy-breathing dark. I like intimate public rooms, filled with strangers couched in velvet, oozing melon-colored damask, reeking of expensive perfume mangled by cigarette stink, talk kept to a whisper.

Look close. You’ll find me near the back of the room, gloating over my newly autographed LP. Some of my best nights have been spent gettin’ tore down by Herbie Hancock, uplifted by Randy Weston, knocked over by Dorothy Donegan, inspired by (Little) Jimmy Scott and shazzammed by Betty Carter. Right here in L.A.