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Spontaneous Composing:
The Simple Complexities of Dave Brubeck’s
Jazz at Oberlin
By Paul Cox ’92
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| The following excerpts from These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You) |
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the Conservatory |
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Listening Room |
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 "This
is incredible music, jazz or whatever, and you should buy it."— Down Beat review of Jazz at Oberlin |
Dave Brubeck is a jazz legend.
And what becomes a legend most? In this case, not glamour or fame or any of the familiar trappings associated with them, but a solid, singular, resonating body of work that has stood the test of time and seems destined to do so forever.
Acclaimed for his work as a pianist and bandleader, Brubeck is perhaps best known for his innovative compositions, among them the groundbreaking Blue Rondo à la Turk, In Your Own Sweet Way, The Duke, and Unsquare Dance. In fact, Brubeck refers to himself as “a composer who plays piano,” and his body of compositions — which includes cantatas, a Mass, works for solo piano, and ballets, not to mention his early studies with the French composer Darius Milhaud — attest to his mastery of the art.
But boy, can he play the piano.
When he is improvising, we sense that Brubeck is spontaneously composing. It is as magical a thing to hear on a recording as it is to hear live.
Beginning in the early 1950s, Brubeck the pioneer took jazz to college, introducing the genre to a whole new audience — the American undergraduate. Previously, jazz was kept under the smoky wraps of the nightclub.
On March 2, 1953, Dave Brubeck and his Quartet (Paul Desmond, alto sax; Lloyd Davis, drums; Ron Crotty, bass) blasted the roof off Finney Chapel with one of the first of these college jazz concerts. From that two-hour-plus performance came the landmark album Jazz at Oberlin. Released that year by Fantasy Records, Brubeck’s own label, Jazz at Oberlin captured the spirit of a college jazz concert — and the reactions of the youthful, exuberant, and newly initiated audience, people who were probably too young to get into a nightclub.
Taken with other, similar Brubeck albums from that era, aptly titled Jazz Goes to College and Jazz Goes to Junior College, I find I cannot overstate the importance of this new audience on Brubeck’s career. These young people became lifelong supporters and consumers, buying even the most adventurous albums, ones the record companies never thought would sell, such as Time Out, which was made up of all new works and which used an abstract painting by S. Neil Fujita on the cover, all controversial propositions at the time. But Brubeck’s audience was there — like a California gold prospector, he discovered them and he mined them — and they were hungry for his work.
Jazz at Oberlin was a huge album for Brubeck and Fantasy. The album is made up entirely of standards: Perdido, Stardust, These Foolish Things, The Way You Look Tonight, and How High the Moon. There are no original Brubeck works on this release, but we hear a glimpse of what’s to come in his solos, which are carefully structured and crammed with a barrage of ideas. Not only does Brubeck quote from Stravinsky and innumerable jazz standards, but he also weaves funky counterpoint, canons, and classical ornamentation into his solos. With so much, dare I say, content, what’s a listener to do? I played the album over and over, probably 10 times, just to absorb the subtlety within his solos.
Brubeck’s two most famous recordings (Blue Rondo à la Turk and Take Five), as jazz historian Ted Goia points out, fuse complexity and simplicity. This fusion has remained a trademark of Brubeck’s music. Blue Rondo, inspired by Brubeck’s travels in Turkey, is in a complex 9/8 meter, but uses catchy vamps (or repeated segments) and approachable tunes to make the complex seem simple. That ability to shift between a simple tune and a complex, polytonal riff within the same solo is what makes Brubeck a profoundly creative musician.
These Foolish Things
One of the things I love about this album is that we have the privilege of hearing the audience’s reaction to quotes used in solos. The album conveys a stunning sense of communication between audience and performers. In particular, Brubeck works the audience into a frenzy with his carefully crafted solo, which he begins with a quiet utterance of a tune and moves into a huge, cataclysmic climax with massive parallel chords. The slightly out-of-tune piano gives his sound a barroom patina.
Perdido
The clean, driving swing of Crotty and Davis drives this tune and pushes Desmond to new heights, literally. Desmond visits the upper range of his alto sax in the opening solo, and the audience raves. Brubeck takes over with a dramatically shaped solo. What gives this particular solo its true character is Brubeck’s use of silence. He’ll be going along, and then pause or slow the pace as if creating a kind of musical speech. Near the end of his solo, he plays softly, barely touching the keys. I can envision the audience leaning forward, hanging onto every note. Dramatically, Brubeck and Desmond launch into a canon-loaded, jazzy baroque flourish to close out the tune. Judging from the applause of the jazz-hungry students, they were riveted by Brubeck and Desmond’s musical panache.
Stardust
Desmond introduces the head of one of the most performed standards with silky elegance. Restrained and mellow, his solo is a study in clarity. When I was a kid listening to Desmond’s recordings, I always thought his sound and style were incredibly clean. They’re a perfect match here, with Brubeck and Desmond closing the tune with quiet introspection, as if singing the lyrics:
Though I dream in vain,
In my heart it will remain,
My stardust melody,
The memory of love’s refrain.
The Way You Look Tonight
During the opening, while Brubeck is playing the theme, Desmond provides a classic obbligato line. This is followed by Desmond’s solo, which is actually an extended riff on a theme from Stravinsky’s Petroushka! This juxtaposition of familiar quotes from classical music in a jazz setting is an absolute reflection of the reality at the time of this recording: Brubeck was playing on a stage that had seen the likes of innumerable orchestral and choir concerts, but no jazz.
How High the Moon
Brubeck opens with an extremely soft introduction, a stunning contrast to the driving swing that follows. Drummer Davis revs up the group with impeccable time (despite playing the concert with a fever of 103 degrees). It is easy to tell this was the last tune of the concert; the audience is riled up and laughing at quotes in Brubeck’s solo (e.g., Ain’t She Sweet). Brubeck builds a ferocious solo with shifting musical textures: At one moment he’s playing huge block chords; in the next, he’s pointing out a simple tune — again, the complex meets the simple. To close the evening, Desmond and Brubeck enter another of their canons, as if playing a game of musical tag. It was a fitting coda.
There are only two things that I wish were different about this album. I wish I could have heard more of the audience applause before and after works. It is cut out rather abruptly on the recording. I also wish Brubeck’s piano had been better miked (or miked at all?). There is a distance in the recording, and I miss Brubeck’s vast range of dynamic nuance and varied musical ideas.
Nonetheless, Jazz at Oberlin is still a priceless slice of history.
James Newman ’55 and a small cadre of inspired, intrepid students brought Brubeck to Oberlin in 1953, a controversial move, since jazz was not yet part of the curriculum and garnered little respect within the traditional musical establishment. Times have changed. After Brubeck’s October 4 concert, he’ll be presented with an honorary doctorate from the Oberlin Conservatory—a fitting honor 50 years later.
Paul Cox ’92 is a percussionist and assistant curator of musical arts at the Cleveland Museum of Art.
