On CBSSports.com: Play Fantasy Football for FREE Now
Find Articles in:
all
Business
Reference
Technology
News
Sports
Health
Autos
Arts
Home & Garden
advertisement
advertisement

Content provided in partnership with
Thomson / Gale

Baraka's bohemian blues

African American Review,  Summer-Fall, 2003  by John Gennari

<< Page 1  Continued from page 4.  Previous | Next

There's not enough space here for a full exegesis of this complex, irksome, fascinating book, or of the famously surgical Ralph Ellison critique. But let me summarize the debate this way: Whereas Ellison affirmatively celebrates American culture as a triumph of miscegenation in which blacks and whites engage in a tussle of "antagonistic cooperation" that helps them bring out the best in each other, Baraka, by contrast, grimly sees the dynamic of American culture as black resistance against white corruption, a rearguard action made necessary by the American culture industry's seemingly inexhaustible capacity for appropriation and debasement. Ellison incisively underscores the pessimism inherent in Baraka's argument: If Baraka were right that black culture had been denuded of its authenticity, stripped of its essential properties, by its commodification in the American entertainment industry, then the "blues people" of twentieth-century urban America were trapped in a defensive, reactive posture, fatally consigned to having their cultural expression predetermined by forces beyond their control. The logic of this position, paradoxically, forces Baraka to acknowledge interracial contact as a defining feature of a music he wants desperately to claim as an emblem of racial authenticity.

Baraka's black high modernism and anti-mass-cult ideology leave him unable to deal with the popular: hence, the claim that big-band jazz "developed into a music that had almost nothing to do with the blues" and "had very little to do with black America"; the conspicuous absence of even a single mention of Miles Davis's Kind of Blue, which at the time of Blues People's publication was on its way to becoming the best-selling jazz record of all time; and the summary dismissal of rhythm-and-blues and the funk/soul jazz movement as retrogressive forms with "no serious commitment to expression or emotional profundity." These critical positions, coupled with his deep immersion in the avant-garde scene, put Baraka at odds with many in the black community. As A. B. Spellman said at the time, "The man standing in line for the Otis Redding show at the Apollo almost certainly never heard of tenor saxophonist Albert Ayler, and wouldn't have the fuzziest idea of what he was doing if he did hear him" (167). When Baraka elaborated on his hard bop critique in a caustic review of Art Blakey's Jazz Messengers in Jazz magazine, a black reader from Philadelphia named Ben Page took him to task:

   When Jones first appeared, being a
   Negro writer and all I was very happy
   indeed and had hoped that be might
   develop his capacities and evolve into
   perhaps the first major Negro jazz critic.
   But instead he has merely found a
   forum for his "new thing" type vernacular
   (which might explain his preoccupation
   with "new thing" musicians).

Page took exception to Baraka's tone:

   ... he really did it when he referred to
   the effusive Art Blakey as "Massa
   Blakey." If I were Art I'd have to speak
   to him about that. Or better yet, I'd
   give him a nice fat shunk in his unbaptized
   mouth, a la Mingus. Jones should
   be happy he is a Negro when doing
   something like that; otherwise he
   would be open to very, very many and
   sundry racial charges none of which I
   care to mention here.