The jazz composer and bassist Charles Mingus is one of my heroes. Mingus, Duke Ellington, and Thelonious Monk form a triad of geniuses, arguably the best composers in jazz history. Wayne Shorter could make a strong claim to be of that echelon, but to my taste, his music doesn’t quite have the divine perfection of Duke, the infinite replayability of Monk, or the scope of Mingus. Shorter, Strayhorn, and Ornette might be the triad just beneath Ellington, Monk, and Mingus - better than everyone below but ever-so-slightly south of the tip top three. Oliver Nelson deserves a very high spot, as does Count Basie…. Duke Pearson is incredible, but…
Arbitrary categorization aside, Mingus has been on my mind and in my ears during recent weeks. I heard for the first time Let My Children Hear Music, a towering orchestral jazz album that Mingus thought of as a jewel in his crown. I also had my first experience with Changes One, which doesn’t possess quite the grandeur of Let My Children Hear Music but contains a definitive recording of “Duke Ellington’s Sound of Love,” one of the absolute greatest Mingus compositions, and features beautiful playing by a smaller ensemble throughout. Ah Um is probably the most “perfect” Mingus album - it is as clean as his bluesy music can be, tightly arranged and executed from start to finish. As masterful as that album is, it is somewhat atypical for Mingus because of its perfection. In contrast with Ellington and Monk, the majority of Mingus’ recordings/compositions are not sparkling and pristine. Even Ellington’s lesser-known albums are composed flawlessly; and except for on a few early recordings with deficient band support, Monk was incapable of anything but the highest level of swing and the most brilliant tunes. But Mingus produced many flawed masterpieces. Large-ensemble orchestrations are occasionally clumsy; big, episodic song forms sometimes lose steam; some of his linear bebop writing feels a bit forced. But still, Mingus is the heaviest of the heavy, and the flaws in his music beg the question ‘why?’ or more concretely, ‘how is this still so good?’
My best answer is atmosphere, one of the most difficult qualities of music to master and compose deliberately. There are endless melodies that are good enough on their own; one could competently learn jazz harmony (from the perspective of composition, at least) in a matter of months; with enough years of practice, any musician could learn to swing. In other words, the basic theoretical/technical components of jazz are staunchly within reach for a fairly disciplined non-genius. But merely putting those components together doesn’t lift the music to that higher plane where one deeply feels a specific aesthetic. By contrast, when musical memories surface of the supreme jazz composers, I’d guess that what comes to mind is a set of emotional/spiritual atmospheres rather than specific moments.
Examples:
Duke Ellington’s music, especially the earlier music that predates the Civil Rights movement, comes across as holy and exalted, living proof of graceful black excellence in an era all-too-rife with prejudice. The urgent blues aspects of Duke are counterbalanced with a certain lightness and restraint, almost a fanciness that comes from economical arranging. I have a mental image of the atmosphere of Duke Ellington - the musical equivalent of morning light coming through church windows; warmth hitting the back of the neck.
Billy Strayhorn is, in general, easy to tell apart from Duke, for atmospheric reasons. To me, the essence of Strayhorn is the essence of New York City on a rainy night, perhaps being unsure exactly where to go after a drink or two and some secondhand smoke. Strayhorn’s dark-tinged ambiguity complements Duke’s bright clarity.
One does not need to be told which tune is being played to envision the atmosphere midway through a Thelonious Monk set. All of his tunes and all of his bands swing in that jaunty, jagged way - lots of space between the notes, lots of kinetic energy.
Wayne Shorter’s classic 60’s albums are imbued with a magical blend of fantasy and blues - subtle and impressionistic harmony underneath rather cute melodies. Swinging fairy tales. One hears big rumbly thunder and also small, ginger creatures in the woods.
But Mingus, to me, is even deeper than all of those composers when it comes to atmosphere. The above surely have diverse, wide-ranging output, but I can nail down a relatively slim set of atmospheric characteristics for each. Mingus, on the other hand, actively composed with a wide palette of distinct atmospheres. That is to say he could not only conjure up a specific ambiance underneath the melody, harmony, and rhythm of a musical moment, but he could juxtapose, layer, and blend many of them according to what he thought the music needed. Mingus possessed a higher-order version of an already rare musical skill. This facet of his genius is most proudly displayed in his biggest, dirtiest works. In fact, the multi-atmospheric abilities of Mingus are probably least pronounced in the comparatively clean Ah Um. But Let My Children Hear Music is quite the ride through subareas within classical music, small- and large-ensemble jazz, and the blues; the occasional clunkiness may indeed be unavoidable considering the points A, B, C, … on the album. Mingus Moves is relatively consistent, but Pithecanthropus Erectus and Charles Mingus and Friends in Concert go all over the place, dragging the listener as if by a high-speed time-travelling spaceship. The source of his atmospheric technique is not entirely clear (that’s part of what’s so mysterious and magical about it); one is tempted to point to orchestration, but it really is so much more than that - if anything, it’s a nose for sniffing out perfect orchestrations to complement harmony and melody, plus the cultural/historical awareness to predict how various layers of the music will be received. But that doesn’t really cover it, and probably nothing could. Atmospheric composition is certainly a skill that cannot be taught, maybe one that cannot be learned…. In any case, Mingus’ magic, to summarize, is how he paints with a deeper brush than just melody/rhythm/harmony/etc. - he conjures whole atmospheres, environments one can inhabit rather than merely hear. On top of that, he plays with more than a single atmosphere per composition or album; there are so many rich musical locations he builds, sometimes two or more right on top of each other.
The question then becomes, “how do I listen to this?” Does one try to mentally hold the individual atmospheres for comparison, or does one simply accept each moment and the transits between them, no matter how bewildering? Is it worth trying to untangle the thorny, layered moments, or is it better to let them hit with full astonishing force? Of course, there is no single answer. But if one answer is chosen at a time, it can be adjusted later! That is to say, Mingus is especially rewarding for the listener who is willing to go back for seconds and thirds. A first listening may be a “dragged along” type experience, but the second time through, one could choose to focus on just a few elements at a time, perhaps listening from the bass chair, for instance. What’s amazing is that by focusing on subgroups of the ensemble, one can be transported to vastly diverse places: perhaps bass and drums chug along swinging while the piano and saxophone yell the blues, but the big band behind them is in some bizzaro bebop version of Vienna! The giants of music all reward repeated listening, but in jazz, only Mingus hits so many atmospheric destinations. My final proof of this is that I rarely identify myself as being in a “Mingus mood,” which is not the case for other composers. Sometimes, a little Monk will hit the spot and it’s obvious that that’s the case, but choosing to listen to Mingus comes from a desire to be intrigued/challenged/amazed, rather than a subconscious hunger for a certain atmosphere.
In his ability to create, move between, and layer atmospheres, Mingus reminds me of another great Charles of American music, namely Charles Ives. Anyone who knows Ives knows what I mean: what other music has parallel substrates of marching band, Beethoven, and New England transcendentalism all at once? Someday, someone should record an album of Ives and Mingus covers!
I think the very best video games have palpable atmospheres, too. Besides controls, that’s what makes it fun to just be in the game. Atmosphere is a big difference between the masterpiece Chrono Trigger and something more generic, like one of the less-than-perfect Dragon Quest games. Music is obviously a huge part of game atmosphere. The track “Aquatic Ambiance” from Donkey Kong Country is the only thing that saves the water levels (where the controls aspect of atmosphere is ruined). I’m nearly done playing Kentucky Route Zero, a newer, highly aesthetic narrative game that’s all about atmosphere. That’s what makes it.