r reality of the individual and the shared reality of the external world.

As sensitive as Winnicott is to the distinct category of the aesthetic, the most powerful reason for viewing the resurrection mythology of jazz through a Winnicottian lens is that Winnicott sheds even more light than Melanie Klein on the paradoxical, yet productive nature of destructive impulses in human development. Such impulses are paradoxical because fantasies of destruction actually work to ensure healthy development.18 Winnicott's understanding of both infant and adult relationships derives from a pattern of behavior that initially involves aggressive, destructive fantasies prior to the recognition of the "otherness" and the reality of the object/person whose destruction was desired.19 As a result of the developmental process, the object is transformed into a genuine source of love and affection. This process of fantasized destruction and resurrection originates earlier than even Freud's Oedipus complex. For Winnicott, the mother's breast is both the source of life and the initial object that must endure the "full-blooded id-drives" of the infant. Winnicott conceives of the child's feeding as a violent action: "It is not only that the baby imagines that he eats the object, but also that the baby wants to take possession of the contents of the object" (Maturational Processes 76). But also crucial to the child's development is the eventual recognition that the object will not only survive the attacks but also continue to offer itself willingly to the nursing child. In the process, the survival of the object also alerts the subject of his or her status as a potential object.

What Winnicott is describing here is a form of graduation from the stage of "object- relation" to the stage of "object-use." In the former, the object is seen merely as an extension of oneself, but in the transition to the latter, there is the recognition of the object as an external phenomenon. The infant progresses from a state in which he or she considers the mother's breast to be an extension of the self to an awareness that it is an entity in its own right. But as Winnicott describes the two conditions, "in between, however, is the most difficult thing, perhaps, in human development" (Playing 89). And, in an elaboration which seems directly related to the psychological impetus behind the mythology involving the death and resurrection of jazz, Winnicott explains the nature of this difficult passage:

This change (from relating to usage) means that the subject destroys the object. From here it could be argued by an armchair philosopher that there is therefore no such thing in practice as the use of an object: if the object is external, then the object is destroyed by the subject. Should the philosopher come out of his chair and sit on the floor with his patient, however, he will find that there is an intermediate position. In other words, he will find that after 'subject relates to object' comes 'subject destroys object' (as it becomes external); and then may come 'object survives destruction by the subject.... A new feature thus arrives in the theory of object-relating. The subject says to the object: "I destroyed you,' and the object is there to receive the communication. From now on the subject says: 'Hullo object!' 'I destroyed you.' 'I love you.' 'You have value for me because of your survival of my destruction of you.' (Playing 89-90)

In nearly every mythology involving the violent destruction of the hero (who then, in effect, returns to "receive communications"), a similar psychological process operates, as the hero's value is enhanced because he or she survives the destructive impulse. When the object (for our purposes, jazz) is destroyed in the fantasy of the subject, the object becomes distinct and separate and takes on a life of its own. The transformation of "jazz" to "Eternal Jazz" intensifies the subject's relationship to the music and derives from the fact that Eternal Jazz has indeed survived. In the process, Eternal Jazz returns, much like Jesus returns to the faithful, as a nurturing and educating force.

In rebirth, the stakes for jazz have been raised; upon its return the burden carried by the music is far greater than in its earlier state. While "jazz" serves as a form of expression for the musician and language that addresses the complexity of the human condition for the individual listener, Eternal Jazz carries an additional social imperative that is easily identified when musicians and historians speak of its revival. In his fears that jazz is being murdered, Eric Nisenson believes that we have to learn from the mistakes of the seventies when jazz really became endangered, "not just for the sake of the music, but also for the sake of the country that gave it birth" (233). In a world dominated by "cool" media (to borrow a phrase from Marshall McLuhan) such as the computer and television, jazz restores "heat" to our lives and allows us to connect to each other once again. Nisenson believes that an improvisation-based art such as jazz-which depends so much upon the immediate interplay between audience and artist-might actually save us, if we are not already too disconnected from each other that such a dialogue seems hopeless.

As a self-proclaimed contributor to the resurrection of jazz in the eighties, Wynton Marsalis makes a similar claim of salvation near the conclusion of Burns's Jazz. In an America beset by continuing racial discord, jazz now serves as far more than a mere musical language regulated by the physical laws of space and time: the group improvisation of jazz teaches us to speak and to listen and, subsequently, to imagine a better nation:

The music forces you, at all times, to address what other people are thinking and for you to interact with them with empathy and to deal with the process of working things out. That's how our music really could teach what the meaning of American democracy is.... [Jazz] gives us a glimpse into what America is going to be when it becomes itself. And this music tells you that it will become itself. (Marsalis qtd. in Jazz)

Without its death and rebirth, the music-as-hero cannot be expected to carry this additional educational imperative. For readers of Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," the process will be familiar: rebirth carries the responsibility of helping to educate other members of the community. Such is a feature of almost any story of the hero's resurrection, since resurrection implies a state of transcendence: "The psyche, whether in individuals or groups of people, is enabled to make a transition from one stage of development to another and therefore brings the theme of death and rebirth into close relation to problems of education whether in a religious or secular sense" (Henderson 4). Eternal Jazz adopts just this type of educational mission for Nisenson and Marsalis in our current cultural climate as it did for musician Archie Shepp during the sixties, when jazz was reborn with the experimentation of Coltrane and Coleman. For Shepp, the free jazz musician should seek "to liberate America aesthetically and socially from its inhumanity," and Shepp believes that the jazz musician could work to "exorcise" the nation (Shepp qtd. in Baraka, Black Music 154-55). The process represents nothing less than the apotheosis of jazz: moving far beyond the brothels of Storyville, the dancehalls of the swing era, or the Manhattan clubs where bebop was born. Eternal Jazz resides in a far more lofty place.

Given this theoretical framework, the consistently violent signifiers that distinguish jazz historiography begin to make sense. In my essay's epigraph, jazz was "starving" in the early sixties for avant-gardist Jackie McLean, while opponents of the New Thing could simultaneously speak of the "destruction of swing" in the pages of Downbeat. The idea that a "murder" against jazz had been plotted extends from Rudi Blesh's postwar calls for an anti-swing, New Orleans-based revival to Eric Nisenson's anxieties over the Marsalis-led murder at the end of that same century. But not only is jazz always being destroyed, it also survives that threatened destruction. In the process, Eternal Jazz achieves something Winnicott refers to as "object constancy"-it becomes real to the subject and reinforces the notion that both the object and subject are distinct and real. The idea that an external object is alive and nurturing is essential to the subject's continued growth. The act of intended destruction is developmentally crucial, but even more so is the act of survival. The continued survival of jazz thus becomes a psychological imperative for those who chart its history, as jazz transcends the acts of human violence. Every writer or musician surveyed in this essay (who has imagined the death of jazz) is one who loves the music and someone for whom the music is even greater for refusing to die and continuing to nourish its listeners. The process is quite similar to what Brooke Hopkins describes in a study of the psychological impact of the Crucifixion: "The violence of the act, the assault on Jesus' body, his hands, his feet, his side, is fundamental here. The crucifixion (as it is represented) is an essentially corporeal act.... [If] Jesus, as an analogue of the mother or of the loved object, is 'always being destroyed,' he is also always surviving" (256).

Such mythic representations of destructive impulses can thus be viewed as a means of continuing developmental processes that began at birth. As jazz has "matured," its historiography repeatedly bears out Winnicott's belief that "growing up is inherently an aggressive act" (Playing 144). In childhood games such as "King of the Castle," Winnicott sees a recapitulation of the destructive fantasies first manifested in an infant's nursing. In an unconscious impulse that culminates in dominance through the imagined death of all rivals, the adolescent's growth depends upon fantasized destruction: "there is to be found death and personal triumph as something in the process of maturation and in the acquisition of adult status" (Playing 145). When discussing the drives that motivate the child who is breast feeding or the similarly-structured adult processes in which we learn to "use" objects and recognize their externality, an analogous sense of object-use characterizes many of the mythic narratives which encompass our culture. The pattern of destruction and survival central to Winnicott's model of development becomes a central feature to myths ranging from Osiris to the Crucifixion to the death and resurrection of jazz. In the process, it is not so much that jazz is reborn but rather the subject, himself, who sees in Eternal Jazz a figure that offers nourishment on many levels: a stronger community, dialogues (both musical and political) marked by true empathy, and a more general liberation from inhumanity.

A final illustration of the power of Eternal Jazz appears in the criticism of Ralph Ellison, a writer who frequently expressed a nostalgia for the days of the local dance bands (the "territory bands") of his Oklahoma City youth. In an essay celebrating the art of vocalist Jimmy Rushing, Ellison laments "the thinness" of modern jazz in 1958:

The blues, the singer, the band and the dancers formed the vital whole of jazz as an institutional form [in the 1930s], and even today neither part is quite complete without the rest. The thinness of much of so-called "modern jazz" is especially reflective of this loss of wholeness, and it is quite possible that Rushing retains his vitality simply because he has kept close to the small Negro public dance. (47)

For Ellison, the jazz dances of Rushing's heyday were a vital "public rite" that has disappeared, and the loss of jazz as a dance music is not simply a loss of a popular form of entertainment:
[Rushing] expressed a value, an attitude about the world for which our lives afforded no other definition. We had a Negro church and a segregated school, a few lodges and fraternal organizations, and beyond these there was all the great white world. We were pushed off to what seemed to be the least desirable side of the city... and our system of justice was based upon Texas law; yet there was an optimism within the Negro community and a sense of possibility which, despite our awareness of limitation..., transcended all of this, and it was this rock-bottom sense of reality, coupled with our sense of the possibility of rising above it, which sounded in Rushing's voice. (44-45)

In retrospect, Ellison is aware of the profound significance of an art which some would dismiss as mere entertainment (and which Ellison himself perhaps under-valued in his youth). At a time in the late 1950s when Rushing's art is dormant, Ellison proclaims that "we need Rushing" to once again remind Americans of "who and where we are" (49). The return of Jimmy Rushing from his European exile might help to restore the necessary wholeness to the disintegrating fabric of American life, a process that shows how jazz has moved out of the dancehall in order to occupy a vital position as a local and national institution. Although Ellison was a frequent critic of postwar jazz, and it was not only jazz that endured a painful cycle of death and rebirth. For Ellison and, I would argue, most every writer surveyed in the present essay, the jazz listener becomes an integral part of the process of rebirth. One sees this point very clearly in "Flamenco," an early essay in which Ellison concludes by describing the blues aesthetic at the heart of both flamenco and jazz: "the flamenco voice resembles the blues voice, which mocks the despair stated explicitly in the lyric, and it expresses the great human joke which is the secret of all folklore and myth: that though we be dismembered daily we shall always rise up again" (100).

And so jazz, too, always rises again. In the recently-published Future Jazz, Howard Mandel describes the sixties as the "Janus Age of Jazz," a time when many jazz pioneers looked backward (as yet another New Orleans revival flourished) and when The New Thing looked far into the future. In reality, every period in jazz has sported two faces: one that claims that jazz is dead or dying and one that proclaims its rebirth. But each of these faces requires its counterpart; in the mythic cycles of death and rebirth that I surveyed in Part One, the violent death is the necessary prelude to a more glorious rebirth. Throughout its history, as Barry Ulanov recognized back in the early 1950s, jazz has been neglected in its homeland, constantly needing to defend its existence. Given its continuing underdog status-consider that today jazz record sales only account for roughly three percent of the market-jazz must still fight for its cultural life. In the 1980s, jazz stormed the university, an act which marked the latest incarnation of Eternal Jazz. Jazz died, and was reborn, and in the process brought the theme of death and resurrection into close relation with the field of education. Whenever the passing of jazz has been declared, one constant consequence is that it returns as an art form which not only entertains, but which elevates the spirit:

Jazz music deals with the soul of our nation...[and] through this music we can see a lot about what it means to be American. In our generation, there was a belief that jazz music was dead, so there was all the celebration that went with that: "Ahh, finally, no more jazz." Now here we are-we're still swingin,' and we ain't going nowhere. There's plenty of us out here swingin,' and we're going to keep swingin.' (Wynton Marsalis qtd. in Jazz)

As we have seen, the irony here is that the pleasure derived from the death of jazz comes not only from the people who dislike jazz: those for whom jazz is elitist, or difficult, or even those who consider it a "low" cultural form. True pleasure also springs from those who imagine its death, all the while drawing nourishment from the music as it survives the violent fantasy. The desire to destroy jazz can also be seen as a natural extension of processes of human development, in which the music is not an escape from reality but a way of confronting fundamental truths about our relationships from birth to adulthood. The resurrection of jazz not only reminds us of our own distinct identities, but also offers the opportunity for the music to address the social ills of the communities in which we live. Such was the argument of Burns's Jazz, the most recent jazz history examined in the present essay. And further proof that the cycle of jazz's death and resurrection continues can be obtained again from one of the newspaper headlines that recently attended the British release of the film. One review, in particular, appearing in the 25 May 2001 issue of The Guardian carries a headline which initiates the cycle once more: "Jazz: The Obituary."


1 In addition to writing two early histories of jazz-Le Jazz Hot (1934) and The Real Jazz (1942), Panassié published the magazine Jazz-Hot, which was one of the most influential jazz periodicals of the World War II-era.

2 Williams's objection to the fusion of jazz and rock is related to a certain rhythmic incompatibility: "the beat in jazz moves forward; it is played to contribute to the all but irresistible momentum of the music: jazz goes somewhere. The beat in most rock bobs and bounces away in one place.... Rock stays somewhere" (Williams qtd. in Burns 449). In addition, Williams's view of the post-Coltrane era can be surmised from his seminal work, The Jazz Tradition, in which the contents progress directly from Coltrane contemporary Eric Dolphy directly to the World Saxophone Quartet, who released their first album in 1979.

3 James Lincoln Collier is one among many who have written of the "jazz Diaspora" which followed the closing of Storyville. By 1978, when Collier was writing The Making of Jazz, he would write that "the effect on employment for musicians was less drastic than some writers have claimed" (79), but still argues that the event had a "symbolic effect" in pulling many of the leading New Orleans musicians out of the city, namely Joseph "King" Oliver and Sidney Bechet. A much less critical account of the myth of Storyville's demise appears in Nathan Pearson's Goin' to Kansas City (1987). See Chapter Two, "Sources of the Early Kansas City Jazz Style: Ragtime and New Orleans Jazz."

4 There has been much discussion about the primary motivation for the 1942 recording ban. It is true that the shellac used in phonograph records was also a primary ingredient in bullet coating and electric wiring. However, as Scott DeVeaux reports in The Birth of Bebop, an active recycling campaign ensured that the shellac drawn from old, worn-out recordings would prevent a complete interruption in the supply of new recordings. See pages 239-40 and 295-99.

5 The pages of Metronome magazine provided a home base for the proponents of swing. The magazine had begun in 1892 as a source for parlor music, but by 1935-the year of Benny Goodman's famed Palomar Ballroom concert-the focus of Metronome had shifted to dance music and musicians. Noted contributors such as Barry Ulanov, as well as the magazine's editorial staff, maintained that swing and jazz were synonymous in pieces such as "Jazz vs. Swing, Which is Which? Are They Both the Same," Metronome Apr. 1944: 22-23.

6 One of the most vigorous statements on the subject of the unchanging nature of jazz appears in Theodor Adorno's essay "Perennial Fashion-Jazz." In arguing for the rhythmic "limitations" of the music, Adorno suggests that "jazz has in its essence remained static" and that "millions of people seem never to tire of its monotonous attractions" (121).

7 Jazz writer and discographer Douglas Payne, who has offered valuable commentary on an early draft of this essay, has reminded me of the many record labels in addition to Pablo Records that were releasing traditional jazz in the 1970s. The list includes companies such as Timeless, East Wind, and Steeplechase Records, all of which are based outside of the United States.

8 This statement appears, among other places, in John Edward Hasse's Beyond Category: The Life and Genius of Duke Ellington, New York: Simon and Schuster, 1993, 322. In addition, Burns reinforces the Ellington "resurrection" in the companion book to Jazz by placing a caption over two-page photo spread on Newport '56 that simply reads "Rebirth."

9 According to the official website for the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA), two of Marsalis's mid-eighties recordings, Hot House Flowers and Standard Time, have been certified gold records with more than 500,000 copies sold. Only a handful of other jazz records can claim this distinction. See <http://www.riaa.com>.

10 Marsalis is once again in select company, as only Louis Armstrong, Dave Brubeck, Duke Ellington, and Thelonious Monk preceded him on the cover of Time, and his predecessors appeared there in the period from 1949 to 1964.

11 The title of the one book-length study of the New Orleans revival of the 1960s continues the religiously-charged language that often envelops jazz history. See William Bissonnette's The Jazz Crusade, Bridgeport, CN: Special Request Books, 1992.

12 One observes a display of the liturgical hyperbole that Marsalis inspires in Crouch's liner notes for the compact disc In This House, On This Morning (1993). In describing the debut live performance of this piece at New York's Lincoln Center, Crouch suggests,

Marsalis and his men executed a victory far beyond the technical. They arrived at that place where the wick of the soul caught fire, casting a large and variously shaped light through the wonderfully designed lamp that was In This House, On This Morning. That fiery wick spoke its brightness through the bush of silence and darkness with such aesthetic authority that Pearl Fountain, Marsalis's housekeeper and a veteran of many, many long mornings and evenings in church, said of the performance, "God visited you all last evening. (194)

This essay is also reprinted in Crouch's collection of essays The All-American Skin Game, or The Decoy of Race (1997). An alternative view of the debut of In This House appeared in the pages of the Village Voice, in which a reviewer described the piece as under-rehearsed and the Lincoln Center patrons as speeding toward the exits before the conclusion of the concert.

13 The concluding chapter of Gene Lees's Cats of Any Color (1995) elaborates on the subject of the rather narrow breadth of the Jazz at Lincoln Center programming practices in the early 1990s. See pages 187-246.

14 For me, there is a contradiction inherent in Nisenson's anti-electric stance here. For Nisenson, the "fusion" era of the seventies is a period of jazz dormancy that prefigures its current critical state. However, Nisenson also claims that "jazz" and "fusion" are really synonymous, pointing to the fact that jazz has fused successfully with many different musical forms. While Nisenson lauds the jazzy baroque fugues of the Modern Jazz Quartet and the influence of Swedish folk music on the work of trumpeter Art Farmer, he seems convinced that the amalgamation of jazz and funk or rock rhythms is far less successful. Perhaps it is simply a matter of taste, but in my case for the vitality of jazz in the seventies, I would submit to the court Miles Davis's Bitches Brew, Herbie Hancock's Head Hunters, and a host of early-seventies recordings on Creed Taylor's CTI Records. As early as the sixties, the jazz "boogaloo" provides another example of the productive combination of jazz and rock beats. The boogaloo essentially "straightened out" the eighth notes of the traditional swing rhythm while retaining the soloist's improvisation and plenty of syncopation within the instrumental ensemble. For an example, sample Lee Morgan's "The Sidewinder," one of the most commercially successful Blue Note recordings in the label's history.

15 Lees draws the title of his book from a quote by Louis Armstrong. Following the controversy that surrounded the integration of Armstrong's band (which included white trombonist Jack Teagarden), Armstrong had pined for a time when "cats of any color could play together."

16 There is a useful summary of some of Frazer's findings in David Leeming's Mythology: The Voyage of the Hero (1998). See especially pages 157-82.

17 The use of object-relations theory has been applied in the interpretations of texts ranging from Macbeth to the poetry of Frost and Wordsworth to D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover. For such examples, see Peter Rudnytsky, ed., Transitional Objects and Potential Spaces: Literary Uses of D.W. Winnicott (1993).

18 For more on the differences between Winnicott's and Klein's conceptions of the ultimate source of the creative impulse, see Winnicott's "Creativity and its Origins," reprinted in Playing and Reality (1971).

19 An essential component of object-relations theory is that the "object" may be just that-a blanket or stuffed animal in childhood-or it may be person, particularly a mother, father, or someone in a close relationship to the subject. However, even in adulthood, people retain close connections to objects, including food or alcohol, which is why the field is not known as "human relations" theory.




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