Among the memoirs by persons who made the acquaintance of
Ellington upon his first visit to England in 1933, one of the most interesting
is that of Russell Woodward, penned at Cambridge in October of that year. A book-length manuscript, excerpts from which
were used in 1935 by the Associated Negro Press, most of Woodward’s twelve
essays are devoted to analysis of Ellington’s compositions and the playing
styles of his soloists. The one included
here, however, is a good example of the kind of impression Ellington made on
the English.
The complete typewritten manuscript may be found in the
Claude Barnett file of the library of the Chicago Historical Society. The following text, except for minor
typographical corrections, reproduces exactly the original manuscript.
The Eleventh Essay
Although these essays are critical rather than biographical,
I feel impelled to include a personal note on the subject of the man who
composes the music; and though the short essay which follows may seem out of
place in an appreciation of his work, it is not intended to serve as mere “fan
fodder.” Its only purpose is to provide
yet another viewpoint from which the music of Duke Ellington may be studied; If
it fails in such purpose, then it must be condemned as irrelevant.
I enjoyed a great deal of Ellington’s company when he was in
England. Whether the pleasure was mutual
I do not know, for the charm of the man is such that he could only silence the
most effective of “Some of These Days.” Most
composers would have become embittered by such treatment, but not so the
Duke. He knows that variety shows
provide the wherewithal to retain his orchestra. That being so, he must make sacrifices in one
direction and nurture his brain-children in his spare time. It is to his eternal credit that he does it
with good will.
Perhaps it is his humour which preserves him from
bitterness. His sense of humour is just
right; not excessive, not irrevocably intellectual, not cruel. His laughter is not reserved for the climax
of an anecdote. The humour of “Ducky
Wucky” can only be fully appreciated when you have seen Ellington’s complete
smile—complete in the sense that it is the expression of his inmost
feelings. He smiles sincerely. His humour makes him tolerant, and only on
two occasions have I known him to be vexed; one of them was when he was
describing the relative amount of applause awarded to “Lazy Rhapsody” and
“Tiger Rag” at a concert arranged specially for those interested in his music,
and then his annoyance was directed, not against the audience but against the
organisers of the concert who promised him a receptive audience and whose
optimism was unjustified. (I am afraid
that we differed at that point: my
sympathies were all for the courageous “Melody Maker” people who must have
suffered a painful disillusionment.) The
other occasion was when, after playing at a dance at Bolton, the driver of his
car lost the way home and eventually deposited him in Liverpool at about six
a.m. Even that mishap did not perturb
him very violently, and after he had slept he treated the matter as a
joke. “I can drive a car and I can read
signposts, so I don’t see why I should have paid that guy to do it,” was his
only remark. He is the best tempered of
men, and his indignation is only roused by circumstances which justify it.\
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| Jack Hylton meets the band |
His activities as a composer excepted, he is inordinately
lazy. Whether this is inborn or an
acquired habit of sleeping whenever an opportunity occurs in his most exacting
life, I do not know; I suspect it is a combination of both. Certainly, he is the nearest living approach
to Rip Van Winkle, for there cannot be another man who can sleep for so long at
a stretch. Combined with an absolute
lack of any time sense, this attribute has caused many anxious moments to his
managers. To refuse to admit the claims
of the clock is from a worldly point of view sheer madness; Duke had to have
his keepers. Unfortunately, the
“head-keeper” was no mean exponent of the art of sleeping either, and I well
remember one particularly exciting morning when we had to catch the 11:40
train. At 11:39 I had given up hope and
relinquished the compartment, but half a minute later a white cap with Mr.
Ellington underneath it came sauntering along.
Apparently at 11:30 he had been in bed.
I may add that he was staying at the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool, and
that exchange station is right at the other end of town!
The characteristic which endears him to everyone is his
modesty, for there is nothing sham about it.
He does not deprecate his own music, for as is right he believes in it,
but he finds no pleasure in talking has succeeded. Abuse
“Sophisticated Lady” to the point of obscenity, and the reply will be, “You
don’t like it?”; or praise “Old Man Blues” to the skies and the reply will be
either, “Yes, Barney plays marvelously in that,” or “Look, what’s that building
on the corner?” Constructive criticism
he welcomes, but he evades discussion of the points at issue. From all members of his band, I have heard
the same tribute: “The Duke’s a grand guy; he’s never changed.” All the limelight and publicity leave him
unspoilt. He is so utterly natural, so
absolutely devoid of affectation, that no success could harm him. His interest in life, the people around him,
and the little events of the day preclude any possibility of egotism. His work takes up the remainder of his waking
hours.
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| At the London Palladium |
His faith in his own music is not a relative faith. He never stops to consider whether it is worse than this or better than that. His praise for the work of other composers is never affected by the fact that he himself is a composer. One night when I was looking through some records in his dressing-room, I found, hidden between a Bach fugue and a Don Redman record, Spike Hughes’ “Sirocco.” I turned to Duke and asked his opinion of it, and for the next few minutes I was regaled with a glowing eulogy of Hughes’ work in general and “Sirocco” in particular, a speech so sincere that it might have come from a young student of music. It was from that moment that I realized his essential bigness, and I felt pity for the little critic who had, in abusing his music, called him “shoddy.”
So far only the lazy charm of the man has been mentioned;
that is the side of his character which is discernable. But behind these delightful attributes is a
power which is felt subconsciously rather than discerned, the power of a great
artist. He strength of character needs
no emphasis; it does not prod you in the stomach, for it does not require a
focal point for its force. He commands
by suggestion, for on the vast majority of occasions his suggestions are
obviously right; if they are not and it is explained to him why they are not,
he agrees instantly. That is how he
rehearses his orchestra. Command a man
to do something and he may refuse; command his respect first, and a mere hint
may be enough. Only greatness can
command that respect, especially among artists.
Sincerity in itself is not greatness, as the more extreme
romantics would have us believe, but greatness is not possible without
sincerity. Ellington’s sincerity is a
part of his life; when he says “Thank you,” he is grateful, for he is intensely
of any kindness toward him. It is that
sincerity combined with a refusal to admit defeat which must have helped him
out when jazz was scorned even more than is so today, and when only the
inanities of “Rhapsody in Blue” were considered worthy of attention—presumably
because it displays a great deal of misplaced cleverness and is
“symphonic.” It is that sincerity which
has brought forth the best from his men, which as kept the orchestra together
for an unprecedented length of time, and which at length has begun to reap its
reward. The music of Duke Ellington is
the voice of a man, proud of his race, unaffected, far above the petty worlds
of “commercial art” and hero worship, a man whose companionship elevates those
with whom he associates toward his own level.
When I read again the lives of many great artists with their drink and
their women, my regard for him is the greater. It is a fine thing indeed when the artistic
temperament exhibits itself as it does in the case of the Duke.
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