Because understanding great literature is better than trying to read and
understand yet another business book, on the Leadership Lessons from the Great
Books podcast, we commit to reading, dissecting, and analyzing the
great books of the Western canon. You know, those
books from Jane Austen to Shakespeare and everything else in
between that you might have fallen asleep trying to read in
high school. We do this for our listeners, the owner, the
entrepreneur, the manager, or the civic leader who doesn't have the time
to read, dissect, analyze, and leverage insights from
literature to execute leadership best practices in the
confusing and chaotic postmodern world we all now
inhabit. Welcome to the rescuing of Western civilization
at the intersection of literature and leadership.
Welcome to the leadership lessons from the great books podcast.
Hello. My name is Hazon Sorells and this is the
leadership lessons from the great books podcast episode
number one forty four
men of colones how was I evil
Oedipus cast his blind eye upon the men of
Athens and blamed the blamed them, not himself,
for the sins he committed. He blamed the city
state. He blamed the rulers. He blamed the
elders. He blamed everybody but himself.
Twenty five hundred years later, the French writer and political philosopher
Jean Jacques Rousseau declared mightily on the
cusp of the French Revolution that, quote,
man is born free, yet everywhere he is in
chains. From these two
philosophical and cultural traditions in the West springs the
idea in constant tension with its Apollonian
opposite that men in their natural organic
state are free, and society serves to shackle
them with needless conventions, arbitrary
rules meaningless traditions and
endless orders of course forcing
them into a state of rebellion against their
natural goodness
And then well, and then art comes along intertwined with
sexual mores and filled with innuendos
designed, as art always is, to channel men's natural
chthonic impulses into Apollonian order
without them really knowing or at the very least
to coax them to release so that
the act of sexual union itself
because art is at the bottom of it about sex
the sexual union itself can be more pleasurable
if this sounds weird for the opening of a literature and
leadership podcast today that's because well, that's because of
the book we are covering today.
Unusual for this show, it is a book that critiques, analyzes, and
examines the untidy and unpredictable nature of one of the
most unlikely genres of art, that is
music, to ever be created by modern
man. This book,
unblinkingly traces the history and the twists and the turns of
improvisation, chaos, and
its manifestation in earthy reality
in a place that can only exist that we in
The United States call, well,
jazz. Today, we will extract as
many leadership lessons as we can from a book written by a man whose
name tends to be intoned with the likes of Pauline
Kael or Toby Tobias.
Considering Genius Writings on Jazz
by Stanley Crouch. Leaders,
here at the end of the fourth turning, improvisation will be the
key to solving some of the hardest problems remaining
in what is left of our benighted twenty first
century.
And we are going to open our episode
today with the essay, the
Negro aesthetic of jazz, by
Stanley Crouch. And I quote,
jazz has always been a hybrid, a mix of African, European, Caribbean,
and Afro Hispanic elements, but the distinct results of that mix,
which distinguished jazz as one of the new arts of the twentieth century, are
now under assault by those who would love to make jazz no more than an,
quote, improvised music, unquote, free of definition.
They would like to remove those elements that are essential to jazz and that came
from the Negro, Troublesome person, that Negro.
Through the creation of blues and swing, the Negro discovered two invaluable things.
With the blues, a fresh melodic could be framed within a short form of three
chords that added a new feeling to Western music and inspired endless
variations. In swing, it was a unique way of
phrasing that provided an equally singular pulsation.
These two innovations were neither African nor European nor Asian nor Australian nor
Latin or South American. They were Negro American.
Though the through the grandsier, Louis Armstrong, swinging and playing the blues
moved to the high ground. After Armstrong straightened everyone out and indisputably
pointed to the way, there was a hierarchy in jazz and that hierarchy was
inarguably Negroid. So much so that many assumed Negro
genius came from the skin and the blood, not from the mind. That is
why one white musician brought a recording to the white New Orleans Rhythm
Kings to Bix Beider Cricker and excitedly told
him that they sounded, quote, unquote, like real niggers.
So the issue was one of aesthetic skill, not
color, not blood.
That white musician understood exactly what every black concert musician rely
realized upon truly meeting the criteria of instrumental or vocal performance.
At some point, perhaps even at the start, Leotyne Prince
learned that being black and from Laurel, Mississippi did not shut her
off from the art of Schubert, Wagner, or Puccini, no matter how far their
European social worlds were from hers in terms of history
and geography. Nor did Price's becoming a master change
those works, she's saying, into German Negro or Italian Negro vocal art.
They remain German and Italian and European, but were obviously available
to anyone who could meet the measure of the music.
Hierarchy has always given Americans trouble. We
believe that records are made to be broken or to be broken free of, which
is why, along with that pesky skin color, the Negroid elements central to
jazz were rebelled against as soon as possible. Martin Williams, the late great jazz
critic and himself a white southerner, told me once that there used to be a
group of white jazz musicians who would say when there were only white guys
around, quote, Louis Armstrong and those people had a nice little
primitive thing going, but we really didn't have what we now call jazz
until Jack Teagarden, Bix, Trumper, and their gang
gave it some sophistication. Bix is the one who introduced
introspection to jazz. Without him, you would have no Lester
Young and no Miles Davis, close
quote. In such instances, Beiderbecher
ceases to be a great musician and becomes a pawn in the ongoing attempt to
deny the blues its primary identity as Negro developed introspective
music, which is about coming to understand oneself
and the world through contemplation. To recognize that would
be to recognize the possibility of the Negro having a mind and one that could
conceive an aesthetic overview that distinguished the music as
a whole. Troublesome person, that
Negro, especially one
with an aesthetic.
Stanley Lawrence Crouch, born
12/14/1945, died
09/16/2020 just before the
launch of this podcast. He
was a American poet, music, and cultural critic, a
syndicated columnist who had a long running column, novelist,
and biographer, in particular, a jazz
biographer. Stanley was born in Los
Angeles, the son of James and Emma Bay Ford
Crouch. Crouch said that his father was a, quote, unquote, criminal
and that he once met the boxer, Jack Johnson.
As a child, Stanley was a voracious reader, having read the complete works of Ernest
Hemingway, Mark Twain, f Scott Fitzgerald, and many of the other
classics, many of which we have covered on this podcast, of American
literature by the time he finished high school.
Stanley came from a and was born in the
pre civil rights era of America.
During the time that he was in high school, Crouch was active as a jazz
drummer. And at the end of his high school career, together
with David Murray, he formed a musical group, the black music
infinity. During the
time he was wandering through his twenties
and into his thirties, Crouch befriended Ralph Ellison
and, of course, the great Albert Murray who influenced
his thinking in a direction less centered on race.
He stated regarding Murray's influence, quote, I
saw how important it is to free yourself from ideology. When you
look at things solely in terms of race or class, you miss what
is really going on.
As a writer for The Voice from 1980 to
1988, he was known for his blunt criticisms of his
targets and his tendency to excoriate their
participants. It was during this period that he became a
friend and intellectual mentor to the jazz great, Wynton
Marsalis, and became an advocate of the neotraditionalist
movement that he saw as reviving the core values
of jazz. Just like Pauline Kael in
film, it could be argued that Stanley Crouch
oh, and Toby Tobias, who I mentioned in the opening as well in dance,
was one of the great jazz critics
and music critics of the
last half of the twentieth century.
Speaking of Stanley Crouch and his understanding of jazz, we
have to look at, when we think about jazz music, one of
the greats of the twentieth century, Louis
Armstrong. And Stanley Crouch had quite a bit to
say about Louis Armstrong, and we're
going to take a look at some of those things that he had to say
as we head back to the book, Back to considering genius,
writings on jazz by Stanley Crouch. We're going to look at the essay,
Papa Dip, Crescent City Conquistador and
Sacrificial Hero. And I
quote, for all the grandeur,
mirth, and joy that Louis Armstrong, Papa Dip, gave
to the world, he was essentially a sacrificial hero.
Though he had contributed to the essential success that made jazz the most
sophisticated performing art in Western history. By the bebop era,
the middle aged innovator was frequently dismissed as no more than a wide
smiling entertainer and Uncle Tom, even a walking
aesthetic cadaver. But as long as an old lion has teeth
and claws, it isn't safe to stick an arm in his cage.
Armstrong was such a lion. His technique was pared down by the
time and by his fantastic exhibitions of stamina and
bravura playing in the nineteen thirties when nothing was too
difficult or too dangerous to try. Consequently, would
be hip listeners and musicians who focused on obvious virtuosity
missed the new things that he had to offer. The wisdom and depth of
experience of his later years was vastly different from the rebellious
longing and the exhilaration of conquest heard when he was a
young innovator. One reason Armstrong's best
late work is often overlooked is that his early achievements were so monumental.
A quintessential twentieth century man, Armstrong created a body of work that
interacted perfectly with the technology of the age when human motion
was literally reproduced rather than described. Through the
phonograph, the radio, and film, his artistic
action was captured as he took on convention and won a well
documented battle. He defeated the greatest gift, the ultimate
measure, and the inevitable enemy, time.
A character of Jean Luc Godard's The Mired Woman states
an understandable European vision when she says in a discussion about memory,
the past, and discerning truth, quote, I prefer the present because I
have no control over it, close quote. That
woman would have been shocked to realize what Louis Armstrong had been doing all
those years ordering the present in the context of
ensemble improvisation. As
Albert Murray has pointed out, the phonograph record gave musical artists the
opportunity to leave truly accurate scores. We don't have to surmise
intent. We could hear coherence and achievement or confusion and
failure. In that respect, technology transcended the written manuscript in the
same way the jazz that the jazz musician transcended the present. When
Papa Dip was a youth, a flame with fresh musical with a fresh musical
world in his very cells, his recordings provided a master
class. Aspiring jazzmen and songwriters played Armstrong's
discs over and over in order to learn how artistic expression
worked on the hoof and what the particulars of his
transforming logic were.
Then we're going to move forward a little bit. As
maturity increases the speed of perception and experience becomes
denser, fewer details are needed to recognize essential meanings. While
the younger person is still contemplating, the old master has moved on to the next
point, digesting through the shorthand made possible by the passage of many
moons. In art, that law allows the individual
gesture to take on greater resonance. The best of Louis
Armstrong's work after 50 proves that his expressive ideas
didn't reach their peak until he was nearly 60. By the middle nineteen fifties,
Armstrong could shade a single pitch with a greater swell of nobility, a
deeper sense of tragedy, a stoic nostalgia shaped by the facts, and
a bittersweet richness born of the lessons he had learned about victory,
ambivalence, and loss. Four collections
that prove my point are Louis Armstrong plays WC Handy, nineteen fifty
four, Satch plays Fats, nineteen fifty five, Satchmo, a
musical autobiography, 1956, '50 '7, and Echoes of an Era, the
Duke Ellington Louis Armstrong years, 1961. He
was then like Escudero, the Spaniard who Ralph Ellison described as
growing to a point that he could reduce the entire vocabulary of
his tradition to a few compelling twists
of his fingers.
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Now back to the show.
In the book of Deuteronomy in the Old Testament in the
Bible, Louis Armstrong would have appreciated this.
It states, and I quote, Moses
was a hundred and 20 years old when he died. His eye
was not dimmed nor his natural force
abated. Close quote. Louis
Armstrong was quite possibly the greatest jazz
musician, the greatest jazz improviser of
the twentieth century, as Stanley Crouch makes his
argument here in his essay in Writings
on Jazz. He was different than
Duke Ellington, who was more of a
classically inclined man, who
took jazz in the direction higher
than it started in nor was he Miles Davis who
eventually, became
the very thing that
he fought against. Louis
Armstrong was not John Coltrane or Charlie Parker,
both of whom struggled with drugs.
Louis Armstrong just was a force that
rolled on and on. He was the Moses of
twentieth century jazz. His
emotional force came through his music, his desire
not only to love and to be loved, but to also make a
dent in the world not by dent of who he
was, but by dent of what his talent
could achieve. Where does power
and influence really come from? Does it come from the well of the
emotional force that a person brings to it?
Does it come from our internal forces or does it come from our
external circumstances? Is a
leader's locus of control internal or
external? Is it what comes out
of a man that is more influential, or is it what
goes into a man? Louis
Armstrong was a sacrificial hero as all
heroes are. He placed himself on
the altar of jazz. He placed himself on the altar
of the twentieth century and allowed himself to
be, to be the thing
that would be fought against, to the thing that would
be contended against, to the thing
that would be pushed against, the rock
such as it were that the later water of all
jazz musicians and all jazz of the twentieth century
would break itself against.
There's a lesson for leaders in the life of Louis Armstrong. And
the lesson is this. Do you wanna go out with eyes
undimmed and force unabated? Or do you wanna go
out leaving everything on the
floor?
Speaking of Miles Davis, let's get back to the book.
Back to Considering Genius, the
collected writings on jazz by Stanley Crouch.
We're gonna pick up here with a little commentary on
Miles Davis from On the Corner, the sellout of
Miles Davis. And I quote,
the contemporary Miles Davis, when one hears his music or watches him perform,
deserves the description that Nietzsche gave of Wagner, the greatest
example of self violation in the history of art. Davis made
much fine music for the first half of his professional life and represented for
many the uncompromising Afro American artist contemptuous of
Uncle Tom, but he has fallen from grace and been celebrated for
it. As usual, the fall from grace has been a form of success.
Desperate to maintain his position at the forefront of the modern music scene
to sustain his financial position to be admired for the hipness of
his purported innovations, Davis turned butt to the beautiful in
order to genuflect before the commercial.
Once given to exquisite dress, Davis now comes on the bandstand draped in the
expensive bad taste of rock and roll. He walks about the
stage, touches foreheads with the saxophonist as they play a duet, bends over and
remains in that ridiculous position for long stretches as he blows at the floor,
invites his white female percussionist to come midriff bare down a ramp and
do a jungle movie dance as she accompanies herself with a talking
drum, sticks out his tongue at his photographer's, leads to the
din of electronic cliches with arm signals, and trumpets the
many facets of his own force with amplification that blurts forth the sound so
decadent that it can no longer disguise the shriveling of its
maker's soul. Beyond the terrible
performances and the terrible recordings, Davis has also become the most remarkable liquor
of money boots in the music business, willing now to pimp himself as he once
pimped women when he was a drug addict. He could be seen on television
talking about the greatness of Prince or claiming in his new autobiography,
Miles, that the Minneapolis, Bulgarian, and borderline dragon
drag queen, quote, can be the new Duke Ellington of our time if he just
keeps at it, close quote. Once nicknamed
Inky for his dark complexion, Davis now hides behind the murky fluid of
his octopus fear of being old hat and claims
that he is now only doing what he has always done, moving ahead,
taking music forward, submitting to the personal curse that is his need
for change, the same need that brought him to New York from
Saint Louis in 1944 in search
of Charlie Parker. Before he
was intimidated into mining the fool's gold of rock and roll, Davis's
achievements was large and complex as a trumpet player and an
improvisor. Though he was never of the order of Armstrong, Young,
Parker, or Monk, the sound that came to identify him was as
original as any in the history of jazz. His technical limitations were
never as great as commonly assumed, except when he was strung out on
drugs and didn't practice. By January 1949, when he recorded
overtime with Dizzy Gillespie and Fats Navarro, he was taking a back
seat to nobody in execution. By May 1949, when he traveled to
France and was recorded in performance, he was muscling his way
across the horn in molten homage to Navarro and
Gillespie, the two leading technicians of the bebop era. He was three weeks
short of his 20 birthday and already had benefited from big hand
experience and big band experience with Billy Eckstein and
Gillespie, already had stood next to Charlie Parker night after night
on bandstands and in studios.
The conventional idea that Davis discovered that he couldn't play like Gillespie and
proceeded to develop a style of of stark, hesitant, even blushing lyricism
that provided a contrast to Parker's flood of virtuosic
inventions is only partially true. A methodical
musician, Davis systematically worked through the things that were of interest to
him. Eventually, he personalized the levels of declamation,
nuance, melodic fury, and pathos that are heard, for example, in
Parker's bird of paradise. But first, he examined
Gillespie's fleet approach and harmonic intricacy, which shaped the dominant approach
to bebop trumpet. From Gillespie, he learned bebop
harmony and was also encouraged to use the keyboard to solve problems. He
even took from Gillespie an aspect of timbral piquancy that settled
beneath the surface of his sound, but Davis rejected the basic nature of
Gillespie's tone, which few found as rich or as attractive as the
idiomatic achievements of the deejoid race brass vocabulary
that had preceded the innovations of bebop. Davis grasped
musical power that comes from having a sound that
is itself a musical expression.
The life and career of Miles Davis proves
the maxim that one, well,
not even one, that everybody, right, wants to rule the
world, but once everybody has it,
no one, or at least very few, can keep
it. Stanley Crouch seems to
have objected to Miles Davis selling out,
and there's something to be said, I guess, for
not selling out, whatever that may mean.
But the slam or the critique that artists sell
out has been leveled ever since
artists began getting paid for their work
in more than just claps and maybe a few scraps
of bread. Improvisation
and selling out in the world of jazz seem to be at odds with
each other, but this is because
Pache, Stanley Crouch, the audience gets to determine
what is, quote, unquote, selling out and not the critic.
Sure. The critic can point the way, and
the critic can point out
the spots along the road to selling
out, but the critic the critic does not get the
final word word. The market does, and the market got the final
word on miles Davis
being a critical darling, and eschewing the audience
or not leading the audience, doesn't lead to market
wealth. But on the plus side, it does lead to less
confusion When you're a critical darling, that means you're
on purpose difficult for the audience to
maintain or for the audience to even get a hold of or for the audience
to even appreciate. I see this in the writing
of my books, and I see this in content and
things that we see on the Internet. Should
books as the final best end of
technology to transmit wisdom across time be
difficult? Should they be easy? Should their covers
be inviting or should their covers be closed off?
Should the content be invigorating and uplifting? Does it
really matter if it's self published or traditionally published?
Does it have more weight, more gravitas, more meaning
if I spent five years trying to
get a book deal for an idea that expired ten
minutes ago that I could have blogged about two days
ago? Being a critical darling
doesn't lead to market wealth, but it does lead to less
confusion. These are the kinds of decisions that talent
has to make, and talent is the other part of the dynamic here.
Miles Davis had talent. Even Stanley Crouch will admit that. Everybody
would admit that. Heck, I was just in a conversation the other day with
somebody and I mentioned to them, when they were asking me
about my music preferences, what I thought of
jazz, and I said, well, Miles Davis in Kind of Blue is quite
possibly the best jazz album of the twentieth
century. Miles Davis had
talent. Talent is mercurial
and transitory, the muse, such as it were,
particularly if it's not appropriately sacrificed to on the part
of human beings. No one really can describe
what the particular sacrifices are that must be made in
order to honor talent. Those are too individualistic and
gossamer like based on your talent and your abilities.
The sacrifices that a carpenter will have to make aren't the same as
the sacrifices that a jazz musician will have to make. The
sacrifices that a business person or an entrepreneur will have to make aren't the
same as the sacrifices that a civic leader will have to make, and,
of course, the sacrifices that a mother or a
father, a parent, or even a grandparent will have to make
aren't the same as the types of sacrifices that a person who has
no children will have to make.
But talent does require sacrifice.
We all know this, by the way. And in the case of art, the sacrifice
always involves the artist making decisions, some of
them intentional, most of them intuitive
about improvisation, about what is selling out and what is
not, and about how to lead the audience.
And this is the big lesson that leaders can take from the life and times
of Miles Davis. The sacrifice
always involves making decisions,
especially if you want the rule of the world, and
you want to keep it.
As we round the corner here today, I want to
quote from Albert Murray in his great
essay, the Omni Americans, talking about the
blues idiom and the mainstream.
I'm gonna read a couple of passages here for you. The creation of
an art style is, as most anthropologists would no doubt agree, a major
cultural achievement. In fact, it is perhaps the highest as well
as the most comprehensive fulfillment of culture. For an art style,
after all, reflects nothing so much as the ultimate synthesis and refinement
of a lifestyle. Art
is by definition a process of stylization and what it stylizes is
experience. What it objectifies, embodies,
abstracts, expresses, and symbolizes is a sense of life.
Accordingly, what is represented in the music, dance, painting, sculpture, literature, and
architecture of a given group of people in a particular time, place, and
circumstance is a conception of the essential nature and purpose of human
existence itself. More specifically, an art style is the
assimilation in terms of which a given community,
folk, or communion of faith embodies its basic
attitudes towards experience. Then I'm gonna
skip down a little bit and go to this. Kenneth Burke has equated
stylization with a strat with strategy. To extend the military
metaphor, one can say stylization is the is the estimate
become maneuver. In such a frame of reference, style is
not only insight but disposition and gesture. Not only
calculation and estimation become execution as in engineering,
but also motive and estimation become method and occupation.
It is a way of sizing up the world and so ultimately and beyond all
else, a mode and medium of survival.
And then a little bit later on, he notes this,
indeed the blues idiom represents a major American innovation of
universal significance and potential because it fulfills,
among other things, precisely that fundamental function that
Constance Rourke describes to the comedy. The irreverent
wisdom, the sudden changes, and adroit adaptations she found in the folk
genre of the Yankee backwoodsman Negro of the era of Andrew
Jackson. It provokes it provides,
quote, emblems for pioneer people who require resilience
as a prime trait, close quote from Albert Murray in his
essay, The Omni Americans. As we close here today, I
wanna get to the core of why we're here in
this short episode about well, about jazz. I
don't have to talk about music on this podcast, and it doesn't frequently
show up as a genre that we do talk about because
music is so emotional, so personal, so
specific to the individual that
the notions and the ideas that I might have about music can
very rarely successfully be scaled up to leadership.
But there's something there in what Albert Murray is getting at and there's something here
in what Stanley Crouch is getting at in his writings on jazz and
there's something here I think that is beneficial for leaders in the jazz
medium as it comes out of America in and of itself
here at the end of the fourth turning.
At the end of chaos, how do you move
into building for the future?
I used to, way back when I first started my first business, I used to
have a hashtag that I would post everything on and you could find it still,
I'm sure, on the Internet and on social media platforms unless it's been
scrubbed or retconned or just forgotten by the Internet.
And the hashtag was buildingforthefuture because I
believed that with every blog post, with every training, with every social
media post, I was somehow building for the future. I was somehow building
for a better tomorrow today.
There's many, many reasons why I stopped using that hashtag, but one of
the big ones is that improvisation didn't
factor in to how I thought about building for the
future. Jazz shows the
way towards improvisation. Jazz is the
way towards improvisation. Jazz is improvisation in and
of itself, and it's the uniquely Yankee backwoodsman
Negro version of jazz that will guide
us out of the chaos of the
fourth turning and into a new, I hesitate to say this,
but a new golden age.
On this one third of the continent, as leaders,
we must encourage people to continue the process of
mixing and mingling our unique natures, perspectives,
humanities, and experiences, and pouring out the gumbo
onto the ground that comes out of that.
By the way, in every first turning, the unresolved
chaos is the unresolved problems, the unresolved
conflicts and tensions that were
present and evident in that fourth turning. In a first
turning, typically, those things are subsumed. Those
things lay fallow. Now they may have some
flare ups here and there, but in general, over the next twenty five
years, what will be
prioritized will be leaders who will have the resolve
and who will be able to resolve the conflicts of the first
turning. Those conflicts will be more Louis Armstrong
than Miles Davis. But either way, they
are going to need they are going to require, they are going
to demand the unique perspective
that the unique well, the most unique form of
music on the planet provides.
They are going to need the perspective of those who think,
who act, and who feel, well,
feel like jazz.
I know this one was tenuous and so I would encourage you
to go and listen to your favorite jazz album. If you've never
listened to jazz before, I would encourage you to start with
Louis Armstrong and move yourself into Charlie Parker,
then take on Thelonious Monk, and finally end with
Davis and Coltrane.
That's my only advice to you as a leader on this episode
today, because that will allow you to
stay on the path in a much more intuitive
and improvisational way. And,
well, that's it for me.
Thank you for listening to the Leadership Lessons from the Great Books podcast today.
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I've heard. Alright. Well,
that's it for me.