The President and Papa Joe
It is often said that Coleman Hawkins “invented” the tenor saxophone, but it's safe to say Lester Young—who would have turned 100 years old on August 27—was just as crucial to the development of the instrument, and just as integral to the various schools and approaches that would follow in the wake of early jazz. Young’s tone was entirely personal, lighter than the gruff, blustery tone of Hawkins, Ben Webster, and most of his contemporaries. His lines were fleeter because of it, and he seemed less beholden to the changes, though he was criticized for not having a “big” sound like most other tenormen. Players who followed his approach were those with a penchant for melodic improvisation, an approach that seemed more and more a renunciation, an against-the-received-wisdom bet, in the world of bebop, post-bop, and free jazz. Stan Getz is the apotheosis of this; here the student became just as strong a player as his mentor.
Great players can be identified by listeners after hearing only a few notes. Tone is more important than line here. Lester Young, known as "The President," or "Pres," had an instantly recognizable tone, as did Hawkins, Getz, Coltrane, Parker, McLean, Desmond, Lacy, Rollins, Bechet—anyone on the A-list. Tone is the hallmark of originality, and it’s the most important quality a saxophonist—or any musician—can possess. How fast you can move your fingers matters little if your tone is weak or undeveloped.
The saxophonist Joe Maneri could well be added to the above list—and in a jazz world less beholden to a carefully scripted “myth,” he’d certainly have a place in the pantheon. Known affectionately as The Round Man or Papa Joe, Maneri passed away this week. He came to some prominence—the word “some” is crucial—in the early 90s, when he was already in his late 60s. He’d been teaching at the New England Conservatory for decades, where he was deeply involved in microtonal music. His early approach was a mix of jazz and Eastern European ethnic musics, and he was already as advanced as Ornette Coleman at finding hidden layers in tone and tonality, creating lush phrases built on blurring the edges of the tempered scale. By the time of his 90s recordings for Hat, Leo, and ECM, he’d managed to pull together the disparate worlds of free jazz and microtonal music into something that can only be called visionary.
Extended technique—which is either terribly quiet or terribly loud these days—seems to be defining improvisation more and more, often to the detriment of the music. Maneri found his own extended technique but never lost sight of the horn as a musical instrument. His sound was powerful without the trappings of power, and emotional in a way very few in improvised music, whether they be boppers in bespoke suits or electronic musicians mired in the miniscule, manage to be. He didn’t need to fall back on art-school trappings or John Cage’s writings to find a genuine and organic modernity. Too many players are bound by doctrines; they need a manifesto to prop up their work. In other words, they talk too much. Maneri eschewed such banalities.
I was fortunate to see Maneri play many times, primarily at the Knitting Factory and Tonic. He was ably supported on violin and viola by his son Mat, who has carved a parallel path instead of simply following in his father’s footsteps. For the most part Maneri was wonderful live. But free improvisation is risky business, even for the best. There was an occasional show where it just didn't gel—music like this doesn't have a safety exit, you either make it or you don't—yet that was part of the beauty.
I don't think he'd ever have called himself a jazz musician, and yet his sound harkens back to Hodges and Webster. He wasn't afraid of tone or line, qualities seemingly lost these days in the effort to be “original.” He made his own music, but it's still tethered to a tradition. And that makes him a wonderful exemplar—like the great Lester Young.
Great players can be identified by listeners after hearing only a few notes. Tone is more important than line here. Lester Young, known as "The President," or "Pres," had an instantly recognizable tone, as did Hawkins, Getz, Coltrane, Parker, McLean, Desmond, Lacy, Rollins, Bechet—anyone on the A-list. Tone is the hallmark of originality, and it’s the most important quality a saxophonist—or any musician—can possess. How fast you can move your fingers matters little if your tone is weak or undeveloped.
The saxophonist Joe Maneri could well be added to the above list—and in a jazz world less beholden to a carefully scripted “myth,” he’d certainly have a place in the pantheon. Known affectionately as The Round Man or Papa Joe, Maneri passed away this week. He came to some prominence—the word “some” is crucial—in the early 90s, when he was already in his late 60s. He’d been teaching at the New England Conservatory for decades, where he was deeply involved in microtonal music. His early approach was a mix of jazz and Eastern European ethnic musics, and he was already as advanced as Ornette Coleman at finding hidden layers in tone and tonality, creating lush phrases built on blurring the edges of the tempered scale. By the time of his 90s recordings for Hat, Leo, and ECM, he’d managed to pull together the disparate worlds of free jazz and microtonal music into something that can only be called visionary.
Extended technique—which is either terribly quiet or terribly loud these days—seems to be defining improvisation more and more, often to the detriment of the music. Maneri found his own extended technique but never lost sight of the horn as a musical instrument. His sound was powerful without the trappings of power, and emotional in a way very few in improvised music, whether they be boppers in bespoke suits or electronic musicians mired in the miniscule, manage to be. He didn’t need to fall back on art-school trappings or John Cage’s writings to find a genuine and organic modernity. Too many players are bound by doctrines; they need a manifesto to prop up their work. In other words, they talk too much. Maneri eschewed such banalities.
I was fortunate to see Maneri play many times, primarily at the Knitting Factory and Tonic. He was ably supported on violin and viola by his son Mat, who has carved a parallel path instead of simply following in his father’s footsteps. For the most part Maneri was wonderful live. But free improvisation is risky business, even for the best. There was an occasional show where it just didn't gel—music like this doesn't have a safety exit, you either make it or you don't—yet that was part of the beauty.
I don't think he'd ever have called himself a jazz musician, and yet his sound harkens back to Hodges and Webster. He wasn't afraid of tone or line, qualities seemingly lost these days in the effort to be “original.” He made his own music, but it's still tethered to a tradition. And that makes him a wonderful exemplar—like the great Lester Young.
posted by Paul Bennett at 5:59 AM
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