Coda

 

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.

---

[i] Mark Tucker, ed.  The Duke Ellington Reader, pp. 381-384.

DEMS Bulletin 1996/1

Benny Aasland died April 27, 1996, eulogy by Sjef Hoefsmit

Mercer Ellington died February 8, 1996

Gordon Ewing died ?, aged 54.

DEMS Bulletin 87/2:

Eddie Lambert died on March 12, 1987, aged 56.

Lambert wrote frequently for Jazz Journal and in 1959 published a long monograph on Duke Ellington for the "Kings of Jazz" series.  Lambert took an active role in international Duke Ellington Study Group conferences; in 1985 he hosted one in Oldham, England.  He was planning another Oldham conference at the time he died.

 "He had a very short but painful terminal disease.  His many friends carried his body to the grave on March 18th.  Together with Elaine, each of us has now to pay the highest and ultimate price for having been blessed with Eddie's friendship:  never to enjoy his company anymore.  Apart of countless precious and joyful memories, he has left us the manuscript of the first real standard work about Duke's music.  He knew before he died that it will be published.  We are looking forward to not only reading his book but also very proud to be able to say:  G.E. Lambert?  He was my friend.

--Sjef Hoefsmit

We mourn Eddie Lambert who died of cancer in Oldham on March 12 at the age of 56.  His sudden and unexpected passing saddens us all.  To Elaine, we extend our deepest sympathy and hope she will derive some measure of comfort from the outpouring of love from their many friends.  Eddie was to have presented a paper at Ellington '87 and we looked forward to the pleasure of his company.   I recall how in Newark Eddie persuasively and winningly urged the Toronto delegates to     host this year's conference.  We shall pay him tribute and miss his presence.  All who knew Eddie are indebted to him for his manifold contributions as a lover of music and a human being.

--Eileen Ward

Eddie, our long time DEMS member has suddenly left us   Eddie, who was born in Oldham, England, lived there all his life, where he founded the Oldham Jazz Society (1965).  Besides his contributions to a variety of jazz mags, he wrote numerous liner notes for a great many LPs.  He was perhaps internationally recognized when his first book, Duke Ellington, was published.  Discographically, he was always ready to lend a helping hand.  Many new friends, along with numerous old ones, will remember him as the organizer and chairman of "Ellington '85," and he was expected to take part in the "Ellington -87" Toronto meeting. All DEMS members together with myself mourn Eddie's death.  His long life companion, Elaine Norsworthy, will continue the DEMS membership.  Elaine can be reached under the below mentioned addressed.  Eddie is such a great loss for all of us.

Elaine Norsworthy, 92 Hadfield Street, OLDHAM, LancsOL83EE, England

--Benny Aasland  

Duke Ellington:  A Listener's Guide.  Scarecrow Press, published December 21, 1998

DEMS Bulletin, 1997/3, October-November:  "Personal Reflections"

Klaus Stratemann  died July 21, 1997, aged 59.

"Klaus's 3 kilos book came out in 1991 [sic].  One can hardly think of a more appropriate memorial for Duke Ellington...  One evening we had dinner together.  Klaus told me how much he appreciated his warm reception in the United States.  He had not expected that, as a German (1983).  I told him that the least one could expect from people who claim to understand Duke Ellington's music would be a total freedom from any kind of prejudice."

-- Sjef Hoefsmit

"Dr. Klaus Stratemann achieved immortality in the best of all possible modes.  He meticulously and exuberantly constructed monuments of unprecedented scholarship-- his books, the 781-page Duke Ellington, Day by Day and Film by Film (1992) and the 671-page Louis Armstrong on the Screen (1996).

"Although he was an accomplished drummer and a bandleader, his doctorate was not in music.  He was a practicing dentist.  He liked to joke seriously that his dentistry was necessary to support his jazz film research and writing.

"His standards and his discipline were unrivalled, the depth and thoroughness of his research stunning...  From the tiny town of Oldendorf in Germany, he documented the film music of some of America's greatest musicians in a detail regarded both impossible and unnecessary by celebrated urban-based American and European reputed historians."

--Patricia Willard

To resolve conflicting dates and other misinformation, for over five years Stratemann read every issue of Variety from 1928 to 1974.  Then he did the same with Billboard, relying on microfilm reels from the University of Frankfort and from inter-library loans from the U.S.  To use a microfilm reader, he had to use one located in the basement of the Oldendorf bank, where he was able to do research daily after closing his dental office.  He sometimes fell asleep at the switch.

Stratemann:  "In American films, there was singing and dancing with an exuberance, especially by black artists, that I had never experienced in Germany.  All that was permitted during the war was ballroom dancing-- waltzes, polkas and march music.  I loved music, and I had to see and hear more."

He had planned initially do write the Armstrong film study, but "as I developed my material, I realized that Ellington was a more interesting subject.  His involvement was not limited to that of a performer on a soundtrack.  He was involved in a variety of roles, as composer.... as performer.... composing and playing not only his own music in the films where you see him, but just composing, period, and not being there himself, which was quite different... which you wouldn't find with Louis Armstrong.... whereas Ellington was asked to do film soundtracks, not just for Hollywood but also for commercial films, so there was the whole spectrum of his being involved in the industry.  And his music gives me much joy....  

The 1981 Exploratory reveals 41 Ellington films.   Eleven years later, Day by Day.... documents, with contracts, photographs, ads and studio call sheets, more than 70 Ellington films and videos.  "Acknowledgements" for the Ellington book run more than 1,000 words.

  He participated in the Duke Ellington study group in Washington, D.C, in 1983, but not by invitation.  "I didn't even know there was going to be a conference in 1983 until shortly before it happened, when I received one of those pamphlets that Jerry Valburn occasionally sends out on behalf of his record release program.  With it was a separate sheet which explicitly stated that Jerry's good friend Klaus Stratemann would be participating in this Duke Ellington conference in Washington, D.C.  It was the first time I ever heard about it, but I said, 'Maybe it's a good idea to go....  I don't want to disappoint Jerry.' "

Dr. Stratemann brought a rare film, The Good Old Days Are Tomorrow-- The Duke of American Music (1971-72) for inclusion with the films shown by Valburn and Ray Knight.  Klaus joined Sjef Hoefsmit and Eddie Lambert in a discussion of Ellington research.  In the years following, he attended and entertained others with films, sometime night-long Ellington film festivals.  In May 1997 at Leeds, England, barely three weeks after his third surgery to combat a brain tumor, he valiantly offered Ellington commercials on film.  Afterward, acutely aware that his physical condition had slowed his speech uncharacteristically, he worried that the presentation had been unsuccessful.

He returned to Germany immediately after the conference.  The trip to Leeds had been an unanticipated strain.  Two days later he was hospitalized.  He died on July 21, 1997, aged 59.

Duke Ellington, Day by Day and Film by Film.  Scarecrow Press, 1992.