Duke Ellington died on May 24, 1974. Stanley Dance, fittingly, delivered his
eulogy at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York on Memorial Day, May 27.[i]
It is hard to do justice to a beloved friend, especially
when the friend was a genius of the rarest kind.
So first, the basic facts of his temporal existence:
Edward Kennedy Ellington, “Duke” Ellington, born in
Washington, D.C., 1899, died in New York, 1974.
Now some might claim him as a citizen of one or another of
those cities, but he was not. In the
truest sense of the phrase, he was a citizen of the world, at all levels of
society, by Frenchmen and Germans, by English and Irish, by Arabs and Jews, by
Indians and Pakistanis, by atheists and devout Catholics, and by communists and
fascists alike.
So, no, not even this city in which, as he said, he paid rent and had his mailbox—not even New York can
claim him exclusively for its own.
Of all the cities he conquered—more than Napoleon, and by
much better methods—I remember particularly Buenos Aires when he went there the
first time. He had played his final
concert and sat in the car outside the theatre before going to the
airport. People clutched at him through
the open windows, people who were crying, who thrust gifts on him, gifts on
which they hadn’t even written their names.
It was one of the few times I saw him moved to tears.
As a musician, he hated categories. He didn’t want to be restricted, and although
he mistrusted the word “jazz,” his definition of it was “freedom of expression.” If he wished to write an opera, or music for
a ballet, or for the symphony, or for a Broadway musical, or for a movie, he
didn’t want to feel confined to the idiom in which he was the unchallenged, acknowledged
master.
As with musical categories, so with people categories. Categories of class, race, color, creed and
money were obnoxious to him. He made his
subtle, telling contributions to the civil rights movement in musical
statements—in Jump for Joy in 1941, in The Deep South Suite in
1946, and in My People in 1963. Long
before black was officially beautiful—in 1928, to be precise—he had written Black
Beauty and dedicated it to a great artist, Florence Mills. And with Black, Brown and Beige in
1943, he proudly delineated the black contribution to American history.
His scope constantly widened, and right up to the end he
remained a creative force, his imagination stimulated by experience. There was much more he had to write, and
would undoubtedly have written, but a miraculous aspect of his work is not
merely the quality, but the quantity of it.
Music was indeed his mistress. He
worked hard, did not spare himself, and virtually died in harness. Only last fall, he set out on one of the most
exhausting tours of his career. He premiered
his third sacred concert at Westminster Abbey for the United Nations, did one-nighters
in all the European capitals, went to Abyssinia and Zambia for the State
Department, and returned to London for a command performance before Queen
Elizabeth. When people asked if he would
ever retire he used to reply scornfully, “Retire to what?
His career cannot be described in a few minutes. Where would one start? With the composer, the bandleader, the
pianist, the arranger, the author, the playwright, the painter? He was a jack-of-all-trades and master of all
he turned his hand to. Or should one start
with the complex human being—at once sophisticated, primitive, humorous,
tolerant, positive, ironic, childlike (not childish), lionlike, shepherd,
Christian…? He was a natural aristocrat
who never lost the common touch. He was
the greatest innovator in his field and yet paradoxically a conservative, one
who built new things on the best of the old and disdained ephemeral fashion.
I certainly would never pretend that I wholly knew this
wonderful man, although I spent much time in his company and enjoyed his
trust. The two people who knew him best were
his son Mercer, and his sister, Ruth, and their loss is the greatest of
all. Otherwise, his various associates
and friends knew different aspects of him, but never, as they readily admit,
the whole man. Song titles say a good
deal. Mood Indigo, Saphisticated Lady,
Caravan, Solitude, Donn’t Get Around Much Anymore, I’m Beginning to See the
Light, and Satin Doll are part of the fabric of twentieth-century
life. But the popular song hits are only
a small part of Duke Ellington’s priceless legacy to mankind. His music will be interpreted by others, but
never with the significance and tonal character given it by his own band and
soloists, for whom it was written. In
that respect, his records are his greatest gift to us. Here one can enter a unique world, filled
with his dreams, emotions, fantasies, and fascinating harmonies. He brought out qualities in his musicians
they did not always know they possessed. He had the knack of making good musicians
sound great, and great musicians sound the greatest. As the best arranger in the business, he was
able to furnish them with superb backgrounds, and as one of the most inventive—and
underrated—of pianists, he gave them inspiring accompaniment. He was in fact, more of an inspiration than
an influence, and though he made no claim to being a disciplinarian, he ruled
his realm with wisdom.
The importance of this realm did not go unrecognized, and he
was by no means a prophet without honor in his native land. He celebrated his seventieth birthday in the
White House, where President Nixon bestowed the highest civilian honor upon
him, appropriately the Medal of Freedom.
Presidents Johnson, Eisenhower and Truman had all recognized his
achievements in different ways. No less
than seventeen colleges conferred honorary degrees upon him. Other high honors came to him from the
Emperor Haile Selassie, from France and from Sweden. His likeness appeared on the postage stamps
of Togoland and Chad.
Withal, Duke Ellington knew that what some called genius was
really the exercise of gifts which stemmed from God. These gifts were those his Maker
favored. The Son of God said, “Fear not. Go out and teach all nations. Proclaim the good news to all men.” And Duke knew the good news was Love, of God
and his fellow men. He proclaimed the
message in his sacred concerts, grateful for an opportunity to acknowledge
something of which he stood in awe, a power he considered above his human
limitations. He firmly believed what the
mother he worshipped also believed, that he had been blessed at birth. He reached out to people with his music and
drew them to himself.
There must be many here who can testify to his assumption—conscious
or unconscious—of a father’s role. Those
he befriended are legion. His sense of
family embraced not only the members of his band throughout the years, but
people from all walks of life whose paths crossed his. Wherever or whenever he could, he personally
resolved for those about him problems involving doubts, anxieties, illness or
grief. Loyalty was the quality he
greatly esteemed in others, and it was generously reciprocated by him.
It is Memorial Day, when those who died for the free world
are properly remembered. Duke Ellington
never lost faith in this country, and he served it well. His music will go on serving it for years to
come.
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