Letters of Note: Music
Page 3
Knowing the worst, then, would you be good enough to hold in check the possible inclination to regard a woman’s composition as long on emotionalism but short on virility and thought content;—until you shall have examined some of my work?
As to the handicap of race, may I relieve you by saying that I neither expect nor ask any concession on that score. I should like to be judged on merit alone—the great trouble having been to get conductors, who know nothing of my work (I am practically unknown in the East, except perhaps as the composer of two songs, one or the other of which Marian Anderson includes on most of her programs) to even consent to examine a score.
I confess that I am woefully lacking in the hardihood of aggression; that writing this letter to you is the result of having successfully done battle with a hounding timidity.
Having been born in the South and having spent most of my childhood there I believe I can truthfully say that I understand the real Negro music. In some of my work I make use of the idiom undiluted. Again, at other times it merely flavors my themes. And at still other times thoughts come in the garb of the other side of my mixed racial background. I have tried for practical purposes to cultivate and preserve a facility of expression in both idioms, altho I have an unwavering and compelling faith that a national music very beautiful and very American can come from the melting pot just as the nation itself has done.
Will you examine one of my scores?
Yours very sincerely,
[Signed Florence B. Price]
‘I HAVE AN UNWAVERING AND COMPELLING FAITH THAT A NATIONAL MUSIC VERY BEAUTIFUL AND VERY AMERICAN CAN COME FROM THE MELTING POT JUST AS THE NATION ITSELF HAS DONE.’
– Florence B. Price
LETTER 08
EASY, YOUNG MAN
Charles Mingus to Miles Davis
30 November 1955
In early November 1955, American jazz magazine DownBeat published ‘Miles: A Trumpeter in the Midst of a Big Comeback Makes a Very Frank Appraisal of Today’s Jazz Scene’, a remarkably candid interview with esteemed jazz trumpeter and composer Miles Davis in which he took aim at numerous fellow musicians, including renowned double bassist and composer Charles Mingus, another giant in the world of jazz who had just recently played on – and published on his own label – Davis’s album, Blue Moods. Rather than ignore Davis’s charge that his arrangements were ‘depressing’ and ‘tired modern paintings’, Mingus chose to respond with a letter that was soon reprinted in DownBeat.
THE LETTER
Four editions of Down Beat come to my mind’s eye—Bird’s “Blindfold Test,” mine, Miles’, and Miles’ recent “comeback story”—as I sit down and attempt to honestly write my thoughts in an open letter to Miles Davis. (I discarded numerous “mental” letters before this writing, but one final letter formed last night as I looked through some pictures of Bird that Bob Parent had taken at a Village session.) If a picture needs to go with this story, it should be this picture of Bird, standing and looking down at Monk with more love than I think we’ll ever find in this jazz business! . . .
Bird’s love, so warmly obvious in this picture, was again demonstrated in his “Blindfold Test.” But dig Miles’ “Test”! As a matter of fact, dig my own “Blindfold Test”! See what I mean? And more recently, dig Miles’ comeback story. How is Miles going to act when he gets back and gets going again? Will it be like a gig in Brooklyn not too long ago with Max, Monk, and me when he kept telling Monk to “lay out” because his chords were all wrong? Or even at a more recent record date when he cursed, laid out, argued, and threatened Monk and asked Bob Weinstock why he hired such a nonmusician and would Monk lay out on his trumpet solos? What’s happening to us disciples of Bird? Or would Miles think I’m presuming too much to include myself as one?
It seems so hard for some of us to grow up mentally just enough to realize there are other persons of flesh and bone, just like us, on this great, big earth. And if they don’t ever stand still, move, or “swing,” they are as right as we are, even if they are as wrong as hell by our standards. Yes, Miles, I am apologizing for my stupid “Blindfold Test.” I can do it gladly because I’m learning a little something. No matter how much they try to say that Brubeck doesn’t swing—or whatever else they’re stewing or whoever else they’re brewing— it’s factually unimportant.
Not because Dave made Time magazine—and a dollar—but mainly because Dave honestly thinks he’s swinging. He feels a certain pulse and plays a certain pulse which gives him pleasure and a sense of exaltation because he’s sincerely doing something the way he, Dave Brubeck, feels like doing it. And as you said in your story, Miles, “if a guy makes you pat your foot, and if you feel it down your back, etc.,” then Dave is the swingingest by your definition, Miles, because at Newport and elsewhere Dave had the whole house patting its feet and even clapping its hands . . .
Miles, don’t you remember that “Mingus Fingers” was written in 1945 when I was a youngster, 22 years of age, who was studying and doing his damnedest to write in the Ellington tradition? Miles, that was 10 years ago when I weighed 185. Those clothes are worn and don’t fit me anymore. I’m a man; I weigh 215; I think my own way. I don’t think like you and my music isn’t meant just for the patting of feet and going down backs. When and if I feel gay and carefree, I write or play that way—or when I’m happy, or depressed, even.
Just because I’m playing jazz I don’t forget about me. I play or write me the way I feel through jazz, or whatever. Music is, or was, a language of the emotions. If someone has been escaping reality, I don’t expect him to dig my music, and I would begin to worry about my writing if such a person began to really like it. My music is alive and it’s about the living and the dead, about good and evil. It’s angry yet it’s real because it knows it’s angry.
I know you’re making a comeback, Miles, and I’m with you more than you know. You’re playing the greatest Miles I’ve ever heard, and I’m sure you already know that you’re one of America’s truly great jazz stylists. You’re often fresh in a creative sense and, if anything, you underevaluate yourself—on the outside—and so with other associates in the art. Truly, Miles, I love you and want you to know you’re needed here, but you’re too important a person in jazz to be less than extra careful about what you say about other musicians who are also trying to create . . .
Remember me, Miles? I’m Charles. Yeah, Mingus! You read third trumpet on my California record dates 11 years ago on the recommendation of Lucky Thompson. So easy, young man. Easy on those stepping stones . . .
If you should get around to answering this open letter, Miles, there is one thing I would like to know concerning what you said to Nat Hentoff about all the tunes you’ve recorded in the last two years. Why did you continue to record, session after session, when you now say you didn’t like them except for two LPs? I wonder if you forgot the names of those tunes; also, how a true artist can allow all this music, which even he himself doesn’t like, to be sold to the jazz public. Or even accept payment for a job which you yourself say wasn’t well done.
Good luck on your comeback, Miles.
‘MY MUSIC IS ALIVE AND IT’S ABOUT THE LIVING AND THE DEAD, ABOUT GOOD AND EVIL. IT’S ANGRY YET IT’S REAL BECAUSE IT KNOWS IT’S ANGRY.’
– Charles Mingus
LETTER 09
I INVENTED PUNK
Lester Bangs to East Village Eye magazine
1981
Nearly forty years since his untimely death in 1982 at the age of thirty-three, Lester Bangs retains the reputtion he earned during his brief but impactful life – as one of popular music’s most eloquent and outspoken critics. A native of Southern California, Bangs began his professional career writing reviews for Rolling Stone, but soon moved to Detroit to work full-time for Creem magazine, where his distinctive style came to define that publication’s irreverent attitude and tone. An early champion of the 1970s punk movement, Bangs oversaw its evolution during the latter part of the decade after moving to New York City, wh
ere he continued to chronicle rock’s fables and foibles until his sudden passing from an unintended drug overdose. In 1981, tiring of the seemingly endless debates over its origins, he wrote this letter to the East Village Eye wherein, with his characteristic blend of passion and cynicism, Bangs put to rest a question on the lips of many: Who invented punk?
THE LETTER
Dear East Village Eye:
So far in your pages I have at different times learned that both Richard Hell and John Holmstrom invented punk, presumably also at different times. So I figured I might as well put my two cents’ worth in. I invented punk. Everybody knows that. But I stole it from Greg Shaw, who also invented power pop. And he stole it from Dave Marsh, who actually saw Question Mark and the Mysterians live once. But he stole it from John Sinclair. Who stole it from Rob Tyner. Who stole it from Iggy. Who stole it from Lou Reed. Who stole it from Gene Vincent. Who stole it from James Dean. Who stole it from Marlon Brando. Who stole it from Robert Mitchum. The look on his face in the photo when he got busted for grass. And he stole it from Humphrey Bogart. Who stole it from James Cagney. Who stole it from Pretty Boy Floyd. Who stole it from Harry Crosby. Who stole it from Teddy Roosevelt. Who stole it from Billy the Kid. Who stole it from Mike Fink. Who stole it from Stonewall Jackson. Who stole it from Napoleon. Who stole it from Voltaire. Who stole it from an anonymous wino whose pocket he once picked while the man was lying comatose in a Paris gutter, you writers know how it gets when you’re waiting on those royalty checks. The wino stole it from his mother, a toothless hag who once turned tricks till she got too old and ugly whereupon she became a seamstress except she wasn’t very good, her palsied hands shook so bad all her seams were loosely threaded and dresses would fall off elegant Parisian women right in the middle of the street. Which is how Lady Godiva happened. Lady Godiva was a punk too, she stole it from the hag to get revenge. And Godiva’s horse stole it from her. Soon thereafter said horse was ridden off to battle where it died, but not before the Major astride the horse stole punk from it. The Major was a serious alcoholic given to extensive periods of blackout running into weeks and even months, so he forgot he stole it. He forgot he ever had it. Forgot what it ever was or meant. Just like all of us. But one night in a drunken stupor he burbled out the age-old and Grail-priceless Secret of Punk to another alkie with a better memory. When the Major sobered up, the other alkie, a pickpocket and generalized petty thief, lied and told the Major that he, the pickpocket, had originally owned punk but that one night when he, the pickpocket, was in his cups the Major stole punk from him. The Major believed this. But later he got drunk and forgot all about punk again. So it might have been lost in one of the crevasses of history and John Holmstrom would be an aluminum-siding salesman door-to-door and Richard Hell would be pitching hay down from the loft of some midwestern farm where he was hired hand RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT in which also I, creator of punk as I really shouldn’t have to remind you, would not be a rock critic and sometime musician to the irritation of many and pleasure of some enlightened folk but rather a senior poobah in the headquarters of Jehovah’s Witnesses over in Brooklyn. Instead of reviewing Devo from the Voice I would be the author of the article “Springs—the Wonder Metal,” published in Awake! magazine sometime in 1978. And that too would be something to be proud of.
Lester Bangs
LETTER 10
COMPOSER FOR NITWITS
Erik Satie to Jean Poueigh
1917
Eccentric. Weird. Unusual. All words regularly used to describe both the character and work of Erik Satie, a celebrated French pianist of limited technical expertise whose compositions attracted attention far and wide thanks to their offbeat angular jaunty nature and their overriding brilliance. When it came to accepting criticism, however, Satie was less successful. On 18 May 1917 a ballet named Parade premiered at the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris, with music by Satie, writing by Jean Cocteau and set design courtesy of Pablo Picasso. Much to Satie’s annoyance, this impressive roster of talent somehow failed to rescue the show from a savaging by Jean Poueigh, a music critic with whom Satie had shaken hands after the event. Having read the review, and feeling particularly betrayed after their fleeting contact, Satie wrote him a note. And then he sent another. And then another. Sensibly, Poueigh remained silent, instead choosing to sue Satie for slander. The composer was sentenced to eight days in jail for his troubles, and Cocteau was arrested for screaming obscenities in the courtroom.
THE LETTERS
30 May 1917
To Jean Poueigh
Sir and dear friend,
What I know is that you are an ass-hole, and, if I dare say so, an unmusical ass-hole. Above all, never again offer me your dirty hand.
Erik Satie
* * *
3 June 1917
To Monsieur Jean Poueigh, Head Flop, Chief
Gourds and Turkey
You are not as dumb as I thought. Despite your bonehead air and your short-sightedness, you see things at a great distance.
Erik Satie
* * *
5 June 1917
To Monsieur Fuckface Poueigh, Famous Pumpkin and Composer for Nitwits
Lousy ass-hole, this is from where I shit on you with all my force.
Erik Satie
‘WHAT I KNOW IS THAT YOU ARE AN ASS-HOLE, AND, IF I DARE SAY SO, AN UNMUSICAL ASS-HOLE.’
– Erik Satie
LETTER 11
I HAVE LEARNT TO MASTER MYSELF
Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky to Nadezhda Filaretovna von Meck
5 March 1878
For thirteen years, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky was able to commit himself fully to composing the operas, ballets, concertos and symphonies for which he is now rightly celebrated, thanks in no small part to the generosity of one person: Nadezhda Filaretovna von Meck. Von Meck was a music-loving Russian businesswoman turned patron of the arts whose vast fortune allowed her to support Tchaikovsky financially from 1877, thus freeing him from the stresses of everyday life. Remarkably, the two never met in person; however, they corresponded frequently and became close friends through the page, their letters offering Tchaikovsky a sorely needed opportunity to ruminate freely and passionately about his music and his life. This was just one of those times.
THE LETTER
Clarens, March 5th, 1878.
It is delightful to talk to you about my own methods of composition. So far I have never had any opportunity of confiding to anyone these hidden utterances of my inner life; partly because very few would be interested, and partly because, of these few, scarcely one would know how to respond to me properly. To you, and you alone, I gladly describe all the details of the creative process, because in you I have found one who has a fine feeling and can understand my music.
Do not believe those who try to persuade you that composition is only a cold exercise of the intellect. The only music capable of moving and touching us is that which flows from the depths of a composer’s soul when he is stirred by inspiration. There is no doubt that even the greatest musical geniuses have sometimes worked without inspiration. This guest does not always respond to the first invitation. We must always work, and a self-respecting artist must not fold his hands on the pretext that he is not in the mood. If we wait for the mood, without endeavouring to meet it halfway, we easily become indolent and apathetic. We must be patient, and believe that inspiration will come to those who can master their disinclination. A few days ago I told you I was working every day without any real inspiration. Had I given way to my disinclination, undoubtedly I should have drifted into a long period of idleness. But my patience and faith did not fail me, and to-day I felt that inexplicable glow of inspiration of which I told you; thanks to which I know beforehand that whatever I write to-day will have power to make an impression, and to touch the hearts of those who hear it. I hope you will not think I am indulging in self-laudation, if I tell you that I very seldom suffer from this disinclination to work. I believe the reason for this is that I am naturally patie
nt. I have learnt to master myself, and I am glad I have not followed in the steps of some of my Russian colleagues, who have no self-confidence and are so impatient that at the least difficulty they are ready to throw up the sponge. This is why, in spite of great gifts, they accomplish so little, and that in an amateur way.
You ask me how I manage my instrumentation. I never compose in the abstract; that is to say, the musical thought never appears otherwise than in a suitable external form. In this way I invent the musical idea and the instrumentation simultaneously. Thus I thought out the scherzo of our symphony— at the moment of its composition—exactly as you heard it. It is inconceivable except as pizzicato. Were it played with the bow, it would lose all its charm and be a mere body without a soul.
As regards the Russian element in my works, I may tell you that not infrequently I begin a composition with the intention of introducing some folk-melody into it. Sometimes it comes of its own accord, unintentionally (as in the finale of our symphony). As to this national element in my work, its affinity with the folksongs in some of my melodies and harmonies proceeds from my having spent my childhood in the country, and having, from my earliest years, been impregnated with the characteristic beauty of our Russian folk-music. I am passionately fond of the national element in all its varied expressions. In a word, I am Russian in the fullest sense of the word.
LETTER 12
IT WASN’T A RIP OFF, IT WAS A LOVE IN
John Lennon to Craig McGregor
14 September 1971
On 14 June 1970, shortly after the break-up of The Beatles, an article by journalist Craig McGregor appeared on page thirteen of the New York Times titled ‘So in the End, the Beatles Have Proved False Prophets’, in which the band were labelled as ‘white imitators of black music’ who ‘exploited the black man’s music and finally betrayed it’ by churning out increasingly conventional, safe and ‘counter-revolutionary’ songs. Perhaps it took fifteen months for a copy of the piece to reach him, or maybe digesting such a charge was simply a slow process, but it took until September of the next year, at which point he was aboard an American Airlines aircraft, for John Lennon to respond by letter to McGregor, handwritten on a couple of sheets of in-flight stationery.