It seems I have set myself up to fail. I fear there is nothing I can write about Mingus that hasn’t already been written. One need only peruse the half dozen or so substantial biographies (including his own apocrypha: Beneath The Underdog) or the voluminous holdings of The Charles Mingus Collection at The Library of Congress, and we come away with an exhaustively documented American artist. The only possible way to complete this profile is to trace my personal relationship with Mingus’ music and legacy.Let us start with an oversimplification: Charles Mingus (1922-1979) was a jazz musician primarily known as a bassist, bandleader and composer.
For years, that’s all I knew about Mingus. That and his likeness. I could identify a picture of the man who was as iconic and present as was his weapon of choice: the double bass. (Though as a jazz neophyte I often confused my Charles’, thinking at one time that Mingus’ nickname was Bird.)
I admire anyone who can come up with something original. But not originality alone, because there can be originality in stupidity, with no musical description of any emotion or any beauty the man has seen, or any kind of life he has lived.
In high school, I was hanging around with a bunch of fusion geeks and Jeff Beck’s Wired (1976) was in heavy rotation. On this album was a terrific rendition of a song called “Goodbye Porkpie Hat”. This was my first exposure to Mingus music, though arguably ’70s fusion is a fair stretch from the jazz and bop I would come to appreciate in later years.
I had always respected the advice and recommendations of my local record store proprietor and one day asked if he had any Mingus on hand. “Oh, I always try to keep a copy of Blues and Roots in stock. That one’s a classic.”
The blues was in the churches—moaning and riffs and that sort of thing between the audience and the preacher.
Though Mingus’ mode often pushes toward the avant-garde, an appreciation and inclusion of roots music is ever present; specifically, the afro-american spiritual roots of the early twentieth century. Here - in Blues and Roots (1959) - was a great introduction to Mingus catalog: accessible, inventive and soulful.
Before long I was gobbling up large chunks of Mingus’ discography, the jewels of which are the live recordings. For as much as Mingus excelled at what he called ‘pencil composing’, the live collaborative improvisations of the bandstand - where musical invention materializes from thin air - are the proper testament to the passion and genius of his art. The ensemble was another instrument to him. One often hears Mingus howling, moaning and cajoling on these live recordings as he pushes his bandmates into new spaces.
Yet, particularly intriguing is the recording Mingus Plays Piano (1963). As many biographies will attest, Mingus was a volatile and often angry personality, yet this recording finds him reflective and gentle, alone at the keyboard. Subtitled Spontaneous Compositions and Improvisations, Mingus was an excellent pianist channeling traces of Ellington and Monk on the fly.
In my young days, we were raised more on classical music than on any other kind. It was the only music we were exposed to, other than the church choir. I wasn’t raised in a night club. I wasn’t raised in a whore house.
A favored Mingus piece is “Jump Monk”, a tribute to Thelonious that perfectly captures the bop pianist’s tumble-down style and humor, albeit with a big band. It’s one of Mingus’ many nods to his fellow jazzmen and a raucous musical work out. The intro features Mingus the bassist playing a distinctive, eponymous riff that is a compact summary of his strength and stature regarding the instrument.
I don’t read music very well nor fast, but I did recently sit down at the piano to decipher and learn Mingus’ Lester Young elegy, the aforementioned “Goodbye Porkpie Hat”. The deceptive simplicity, beauty and cleverness of the piece is astonishing from a player’s perspective. Every half step of an octave is include;, seamlessly integrated in one flowing chart and nothing sounds odd or out of place. If there be a perfect piece of music, this brief masterpiece must be considered.
Charles Mingus’ life was filled with irony and contradiction. The one Grammy nomination he did receive was not for his music, but for his liner notes to Let My Children Hear Music (1971).
Each jazz musician when he takes a horn in his hand - trumpet, bass, saxophone, drums -whatever instrument he plays - each soloist, that is, when he begins to ad lib on a given composition with a title and improvise a new creative melody, this man is taking the place of a composer. He is saying, “listen, I am going to give you a new complete idea with a new set of chord changes. I am going to give you a new melodic conception on a tune you are familiar with. I am a composer.” That’s what he is saying.
All told, the man impresses most as a composer. Mingus’ massive body of work rivals anything you can find from any composer in any genre from any era. His musical vocabulary is without peer. The recordings are alive and real and infinite.
Music lovers change clothes many times on their journey through time, but for me the outfit that will always fit and will always be in style is the color and fabric of Charles Mingus.
© Stephen Mockensturm for Listen In. Some Rights Reserved.
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