Preservation Hall is a haven for Jazz music. It was founded in the 1960s as a place to preserve the craft and support the musicians as the genre was losing popularity. Today, the historic venue hosts about 60 of the finest jazz musicians on a rotating basis. I remember seeing this night on the syllabus when I was deciding which Maymester to apply to. I couldn’t wait to experience such a pillar of music history.
All nine of us arrived 45 minutes early so we could be first in line for the much more affordable standing tickets. The venue was clearly aware of its image. From painted “dirt” on the windows to the distressed wooden doors with brand new hardware, it feels a little like a theme park in its recreation of a classic Jazz club.
The musicians came out to impressive applause for such a small venue, wearing nothing more than would be expected of any of the other street musicians in the quarter. As they took their places, the trumpet player quietly introduced himself, drawing everyone in. The room got quieter than the French Quarter ever is, with a nearby piano and the newly added air conditioning being the only things competing with his voice.
The music began just as relaxed as the musicians seemed. They almost seemed ambivalent to the audience. This feeling actually gave more space for the improvisatory nature of Jazz. The musicians were in constant communication with each other through their body language and eye contact. There didn’t seem to be a well-established setlist, but they still had smooth entrances and crisp cutoffs.
The music was fantastic. Each of them was clearly very talented, and they all had a chance to be featured as they passed around solos. Yet, there was something that felt different. There was such a barrier between the musicians and the audience. We had all gone to see a “perfect example” of what Jazz is. The musicians played well-rehearsed songs while the audience barely swayed along, only some of them in time. It lacked the exploration and freedom that Jazz embodies.
“You were both changing direction with every sentence, sometimes in the middle, using each other as a springboard through the dark. You were moving so fast it was unimportant to finish and clear everything. He would be describing something in 27 ways. There was pain and gentleness everything jammed into each number.”
Michael Ondaatje begins to describe this experience in an abstract way. He uses metaphors of rivers, fires, and other wild natural elements, exploring new paths. He describes the messiness, mistakes, and newfound direction that come from these misses. He describes being overtaken by the spirit of the music, with the notes just flowing out. All of these descriptions begin to capture the jazz I thought we were going to hear - music that is an exploration.
This is why Buddy Bolden is revered among musicians. While you won’t find him in the charts or on the radio, his influence is everywhere. This was confirmed in the way band leader and trumpeter Branden Lewis’ eyes lit up when we told him we were learning about him for our class. He was happy to hear about our thoughts on one of the pioneers of the genre, while acknowledging that Bolden was a complicated character.
Something about Preservation Hall lost this freedom.
“He was never recorded. He stayed away while others moved into wax history, electronic history, those who said later that Boldon broke the path.”
A few days later, I found myself on Frenchman Street, sometimes known as “the locals’ Bourbon Street.” Quieter and nestled into the neighborhood, this street is full of Jazz clubs and live music without the souvenir shops. It is full of all kinds of art in a way that feels a little bit less performative. I first stopped into a record shop. It was chock-full of local music. Each table had a record or CD player with headphones for you to “try before you buy,” all under the watchful eye of the shop cat.
A little bit further up the street, I stopped into the Spotted Cat Music Club. I was immediately taken by the soaring clarinet solo I walked in on. Despite its place as a core jazz instrument, I hadn’t heard much of the instrument in New Orleans so far.
There were seven musicians in all, but they all handed off parts like a conversation. They communicated with their notes like a call and response. It was playful. They challenged each other the whole time, receiving audible reactions from the band and audience alike when they tripped someone up. They were hardly mistakes, just new points to jump off of. The room breathed as one the entire time. Everyone was involved, and everyone moved in time, unlike Preservation Hall. This was the Jazz I had been looking for.
Jazz is a genre, but its more than that too. Jazz is a feeling, an experience, a freedom. Preservation Hall has its place. It has preserved, celebrated, and supported the music and the musicians that make the music through difficult times. I still think it deserves the reputation it has. However, the idea of preserving “what was,” is diametrically opposed to the freedom and exploration that Jazz embodies.
“He tore apart the plot - see his music was immediately on top of his own life. Echoing. As if, when he was playing he was lost and hunting for the right accidental notes.”
We need places like Preservation Hall, but we also need places like the Spotted Cat Music Club. We need places for music to run wild, for creative freedom to be celebrated.
Michael Ondaatje describes this in the form of Coming Through Slaughter, as well as the content. He assembles the book like a scrapbook of sorts. It is creative and exploratory; it doesn’t fall into standard conventions. Ondaatje includes standard prose, third-person dialogue, first-person narrative, song lyrics, representations of pictures, and stream of consciousness. This creative form does more than just tell the story; it outlines Jazz itself. We are immersed in the freedom of Jazz and Bolden’s exploration. I found this in the Spotted Cat Music Club more than anywhere else in the city.