Chicago’s Jazz Festival turned 30 this year, news you couldn’t miss if you attended, because someone made sure to remind us every chance they had. This was imperative because this festival is one of the last pillars of jazz in the country, but as always, the organization that runs it needs money.
There was a very short-lived time, roughly from 1940-1963, when jazz came from the streets to play for the streets. A series of barriers, racism firstly, greedy managers and club owners at a close second, led to jazz clubs closing and the music disappearing from the popular scene. Somehow, it survived the 70s and the 80s (I’m really not sure how) and today, it survives as a museum piece on display, drawing roughly the same demographic as classical music.
Better than nothing, I guess.
When I do have a salary, and I pay off my student loans, and all the other loans life accrues along the way, I hope I can support the festival, and I hope my life allows me to make the Labor Day trip to Chicago every year or so to soak it all in. It’s tough to beat, really. Even at its worst, we’re looking at a free music in a park with a bottle of wine. (Oh, apparently that’s legal? Gotta love consentual crimes.)
This year wasn’t as much of a tour de force as last year was. Sonny Rollins and Ornette Coleman don’t do much for me musically anymore. I’m very concerned about what happens to these sorts of events when all the figureheads have passed on. Will Joshua Redman or Kenny Garrett be willing to headline free festivals? I’d hope so, if they care to see their music continue.
The best surprise I found at the festival was Dave Douglas‘ brass ecstasy. He hasn’t recorded that group yet, but he said he intends to. Keep an eye on that. I didn’t know a tuba could be so funky.
And while no one is interested in jazz anymore, go get Jackie McLean’s Demon Dance, one of the great last hurrahs towards the end of Blue Note’s bluest years.
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