Old master
Jackie McLean's new Nature Boy
by Richard C. Walls
Alto saxophonist Jackie McLean is 67 now, and that's getting up there even when
measured in jazz years, which dictate that if you don't die ridiculously young
you tend to live to be absurdly old. This is particularly true of musicians of
McLean's generation, the immediately post-Bird one, which had a fair share of
dangerously bohemian types. I once remarked to a friend that jazz was much more
exciting when it seemed that half its practitioners were junkies, and though
that's a cruelly outrageous thing to say, I was only half joking. Because
nowadays even the more interesting players sound as if they still have all
their buttons neatly sewn on, the eclectic have replaced the eccentric, and
only in the permanent ghetto of the avant-garde will you hear traces of what
was once a more pervasive madness.
Of course, all this has less to do with junk or booze per se than with a
musical form's progress through its inevitable developmental curve; or, as
someone once remarked, "Jazz isn't dead, it's just over." Which isn't as grim
as it may sound; it merely recognizes that there aren't going to be any more
Ornettes or Coltranes, in terms of formalist impact. Instead, there's going to
be an indefinite period of revisiting past achievements, refining or at least
tweaking the old conceptual breakthroughs -- a project that takes a lot of
honest hard work and attendant sobriety.
Meanwhile, we still have players like McLean, a musician whose sensibility was
formed and re-formed during post-bop's period of peak vigor and the
avant-garde's first wave of dismantling intrusion -- and whose newest release,
Nature Boy (Blue Note), a likably low-keyed quartet date of pop
standards, is offhandedly idiosyncratic in a manner that marks him as an old
master. McLean came up through the ranks, was hanging out with Bud Powell and
Sonny Rollins while still a teenager, recorded with Miles in the early '50s in
a style still more Bird-like than not, and had arrived at the first version of
his personal voice by the mid '50s.
He was one of those musicians who, in the wake of Charlie Parker's incredible
virtuosity, seemed to intuit the wisdom of embracing his limitations, of
purposefully disconnecting the Parker-esque flow, of harvesting silences and an
aggressive tentativeness appropriate to the age of anxiety. McLean started the
'50s as a Baby Bird but by decade's end had a strikingly original style --
harsh, exhorting, bluesy, and very tense. In a just-play mode, McLean was
rarely less than the biggest introvert on the block. When inspired -- by what
seemed to be some tumultuous heartache -- he came on like a drunk who grabs you
by the collar and shouts accusations in your face while dripping tears on his
thumbs.
In the '60s, as he was touched by the avant-garde, his ferocity became more
arabesque. The turning point was his '62 Blue Note release Let Freedom
Ring, on which he introduced an ear-splitting squeal, saved for climactic
moments and abandoned after a few albums, and a penchant for downward runs that
would land on a disgusted "fuck it all" honk. Between these two extremes he
prowled over a modal terrain, sounding more trapped than freed, flirting with
atonality but drawn to a very satisfying ritual of tension and release.
McLean's seriously experimental phase lasted for only a few more albums, but he
came through to the other side -- and back to more conventional hard-bop and
modal material -- with a hardened, assured sound that rarely flagged during the
next four decades. Like many much-loved jazz musicians, McLean has made a
kajillion records but rarely sounds less than ready-to-rumble. If anything, you
might want to wait till you feel a little rested before you put on a new McLean
disc.
Even Nature Boy, obviously intended as a relaxed outing, is a long way
from being dinner music. True, the downward phrases no longer end in rude
raspberries, and the bludgeoning attack of old has yielded to an almost
friendly grace. But even when dancing through the hallowed changes of "Star
Eyes," McLean occasionally manages to slow down his momentum and a play a
hesitant note that suggests he might just jump the tracks. He doesn't, though
-- that's kid stuff, and besides, the historical moment has passed. No longer a
collar-grabber, he's become a witty conversationalist at home with his elegant
peers -- pianist Cedar Walton, bassist David Williams, and drummer Billy
Higgins -- undaunted by the hokiness of "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes" and genuinely
moved (but never to the point of sentimentality) by the beguiling lilt of "A
Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square." It all sounds real good -- pretty near
perfect, or at least like something the new guys are going to have trouble
improving upon.