英日対訳・マイリー・サイラス「Miles to Go」


英日対訳:5章(前半)Moving to Higher Ground by W. Marsalis




The Great Coming-Together 



Swing dancing ― the highest possible vertical expression of horizontal aspirations. 





One time, when we were playing in Kansas City, Missouri, Governor Bob Holden invited us to lunch. It just so happened that lunch coincided with a very important University of Missouri basketball game. To be honest, we wanted to stay in the hotel and watch the game. When we got to the governor's mansion, in Jefferson City, I noticed something in the governor's eyes that told me he, too, would have been watching the game if we hadn't turned up. I very gingerly asked him if he was a basketball fan. He brightened up right away. “Come on, man,” he said. “The game is on upstairs.”  


We saw the game, then came down to eat. We talked, and he told me he came from a small town in which there were no black citizens. As a kid, he had developed some unusual illness that put him in the same hospital room with a black kid his own age who suffered from the same sickness. They got to know and like each other. It sounded like just another “Negroes I know” story to me until the governor looked at me and said, “We all know black and white folks. The question I have for you is why are we always reduced to telling these cliched stories? Why is mutual recognition and discovery of community never the national story?” 



A couple of years later, Louisiana State University won the national football championship and Southern University won the championship of the black Southwestern Athletic Conference. Two schools from the same town. Baton Rouge went crazy. A jubilant Wess Anderson called me from right in the middle of the daylong celebration that culminated in both marching bands playing the national anthem together on the steps of the state capitol. “Certainly, you'll see it on the evening news,” he said, laughing. We agreed there was no way it would be covered unless a riot broke out. We did not see it on the news. And no one remembers it. 




The kind of mutual recognition and discovery of community that the governor called for and that those marching bands blaring side by side on the state capitol steps represented is an essential element of jazz. It's as if the music were engineered to expose the hypocrisy and absurdity of racism in our country. 



Each colonial power created different social circumstances for the people it conquered. The French mixed and mingled. The Spanish mixed and murdered. The English mixed and made believe they didn't. Armed with logic, law, and a Christian mandate “in the name of Jesus,” they all administered a tough brand of salvation. There were African slaves almost everywhere in the New World, but in the United States the slave was a shackled counterbalancee to the personal freedoms that defined America. He was written into the Constitution as three-fifths of a man. His bondage was so lucrative that it became a national enterprise and cast a shadow over the spiritual identity of the country. It still does. 




Even a bloody Civil War and an unfinished civil rights movement one hundred years later have not resolved the problems caused by the legacy of owning people in the land of the free and by the segregation that followed emancipation. Slavery compromised our political system, our financial integrity, our morality, and our cultural life. We espoused all this idealism, all this morality, and all these noble core concepts: equal justice for all, “all men are created equal,” and so on. I guess all sounded better than some. 



Here comes the problem. Jazz ― America's greatest artistic contribution to the world ― was created by people who were freed from slavery, people who were the very least of society. Now, that's happened in other cultures, too. Brazil, for example. In The Masters and the Slaves: A Study in the Development of Brazilian Civilization, Gilberto Freyre identified the national significance of the samba. Because the samba defined the Brazilian spirit, it should be considered a definitive national music, he asserted, and because it came in part from Africa, to be Brazilian was therefore to be part African. 



Freyre wrote this in 1933, at a time when white intellectual circles in the United States just could not bring themselves to accept the Negro in any serious central to our common heritage. We have paid a heavy cultural price for that oversight.  



Jazz is not race music. All kinds of people play it and listen to it. They always have. But you can't teach the history of jazz without talking in depth about segregation, white bands and black bands, racism, sex, media, and the American way. We still tend to look at things in black and white. Martin Luther King, Jr., is seen as a leader for blacks, even though he led Americans of many kinds and colors. The civil rights movement is perceived as a black movement when it was really a national movement toward a national goal: actualizing the Constitution. So, too, with jazz. 



Even though musicians themselves were segregated, the way they learned music was not. Stan Getz was going to be influenced on the tenor saxophone by the style of whosever music he was attracted to. He was ambitious, he had talent, and he wanted to be the best. Since, in his field, the best was black, he was going to check that out. Miles Davis was influenced Freddie Webster, who was black, and Harry James, who was white. Louis Armstrong's style was influenced, of course, by his mentor Joe “King” Oliver but also by the style of cornet virtuosos such as Bohumir Kryl and Herbert L. Clark. That's how music is. You hear something you like, and you want to play it. What somebody sounded like was much more important that what he or she looked like, especially in the years before television. Our strange obsession with race has devoured most of his history. Instead of focusing on the greater coming-together that jazz represents, the obsession has always been “Who owns this music?” 



That obsession is still alive and well in America, still wasting everybody's time, still undercutting the spirit of jazz. 



It began early. Because the knowledge and intelligence and human depth of jazz demonstrated so clearly the absurdity of the treatment of black people, there was immediate intellectual pressure to denigrate it. Every avenue was taken. One path was to ignore it: Jazz was created by black people; black people were worthless, so there was no need to take notice of it. Another was to trivialize it by associating it on-screen with cartoons or sex scenes ― jazz was only good as background music for children's programs or “doing the do,” a strange combination that became more closely linked in the video era. You could also make sure it was never taught in institutions. Until the civil rights movement you could actually get expelled from some schools, even Afro-American ones, just for playing jazz in a practice room.  



Then, there was patronization and condescension. A standard history of music in the twentieth century holds that there are three major influences: Stravinsky, Schoenberg, and “jazz.” Not Ellington or Armstrong but an entire idiom likened to two individuals in European music. 



Sometimes jazz was confused with minstrelsy or lumped in with commercial dance music; in The New York Times today it is still categorized under “Jazz / Pop.” Now it's taught in hundreds of institutions, all around the country, but disconnected from the Afro-American story. (The American story is also ignored, for that matter.) 



訳注:ミンストレルショー(minstrel show) 



There were less obvious cruelly humorous assaults on it, too, like calling New Orleans music “Dixieland,” which managed to identify it with the Confederacy's battle hymn: “You play about freedom but we'll make it an homage to your enslavement.” And there are the direct modern assaults on what are thought to be the brown-skinned elements of the music by those who denigrate the blues and hold that swing ― the rhythm that defines jazz ― is archaic, regardless of how it's played. This forwards the notion that we've innovated ourselves into European art music or some poorly played melange of Latin-Indian-African music. 



One of the most insidious attacks on the music came from people who saw themselves as its friends. Jazz arouse, the hipsters said, from spontaneous feeling. Anybody can do it, Allen Ginsberg wrote. “Just pick up a horn and blow.” If that's the case, of course, jazz has developed at random and has no aesthetic objectives other than freedom. 



The “modern equivalent of the beatnik philosophy is the contemporary hipster's love of “all” music. The party line goes: “I like everything. What is jazz, anyway? Whether something is jazz or not makes no difference.” The music has no meaning for those cognoscenti. And if something doesn't have meaning, you can't teach it. The no-meaning, no-definition philosophy so successfully attacks the central nervous system of education that you don't even need the other approaches to prevent future generations from playing, enjoying, and being nourished by this music. 



Homer was famous for just two books, the Iliad and the Odyssey. Yet the Greeks agreed there was so much in them that for centuries they interpreted and reinterpreted those texts, seeking a clearer understanding of what it was to be Greek ― and to be human. Jazz can provide the same panorama of insights for Americans ― or it could if Americans were encouraged to understand it. There's very little argument anymore about its central place in our national heritage. Yet, Americans don't seem able to agree on something as basic as a definition of jazz.  





We now have such a poor relationship to jazz that the world has become less precise than it was when the music was invented. Now, no one knows what it is, really. We've gone from kind of knowing something about it, through years of playing and discussing it, to concluding that it has no real meaning. The result is that we can't teach it, because no one can figure out when you're not playing it. We work hard to make it as mysterious and obscure as possible, as if hiding it will keep us from confronting some important truth about our way of life. There's a secret: jazz. 



Rock and roll has a meaning. Hip-hop, salsa, samba, tango ― they all conjure up a distant sound. But nowadays, jazz is misconstrued as all of them, or none, or … who knows? But if the music is to mean something to Americans, then its various components must reflect aspects of our way of life. Individual sounds are important, but so is the sound of the group. The process of many becoming one on a bandstand is similar to the path taken by a Korean or Nigerian immigrant when becoming an American. They have to want to be. The process of swinging ― of constant coordination with things that are changing all time ― is modern life in a free society. But above all else, it is a choice. 




Another obsession born of racism is the endless search for the answer to an essentially pointless question: Who does this music belong to? To try to answer it, you have to engage in the futility of deciding which color of person plays it best. Well, if Louis Armstrong was the best and he was dark-skinned, then jazz must be the province of the dark-skinned Negro. But who is the next dark-skinned person who plays as well as Louis Armstrong? And are there some light-skinned musicians and some white ones ― Bix Beiderbecke, for example ― who are better than the next dark-skinned trumpet player in line? Who is the dark-skinned soprano saxophone player who plays better than the light-skinned Creole Sidney Bechet? Nobody. What percentage of black blood do you have to have to qualify? What about Django Reinhardt? He's a gypsy from Belgium. 



What makes a person an authentic jazz musician? Does he or she have to be black and descended from slaves? If that's the case, what about all the black jazz musicians who couldn't play as well as white musicians like Jack Teagarden or Buddy Rich? They weren't black enough? If that's the case, are certain fields ― like competitive swimming or orchestral music ― overwhelmingly dominated by whites because blacks just can't compete? Or is it the cultural conditioning that makes groups of people comfortable with a reductive vision of what they can and cannot do? “For some inbred reasons out of your control, you won't make it, so don't even try.” In the NBA, European players fare better than white Americans do. Is it because their skin is less white or because cultural acceptance of black players' innate superiority is not a part of their upbringing? 

本物のミュージシャンだ、という決め手は何か?肌が黒くて先祖が奴隷であることが必要条件か?となると、ジャック・ティーガーデンやバディ・リッチのような白人ミュージシャンと同じレベルの演奏が出来ていない黒人ジャズミュージシャン達はどうなんでしょうか?「十分黒人とは言えない」ということか?となると、ある特定の分野 - 例えば競泳や管弦楽など - で圧倒的に白人が強いのは、黒人に単に競争力がないからなのか?それとも自分の能力に対して狭い料簡を持つことに甘んじてしまうのは、文化の置かれている状況のせいなのか?「生まれつきなんだから、自分じゃどうしようもない。やっても無理なんだから、やるなよ」アメリカのプロバスケットボールの世界では、同じ白人でも外国人であるヨーロッパの選手の方が活躍しています。肌の白さが足りないからか?アメリカの白人選手は、黒人選手の持って生まれた優れた点に対して、これを受け入れようとする文化的背景を育まずに育ってきたからなのか? 


On the other side of the coin, the Negro was conditioned to accept and expect less for so long, it became a way of life. In the early days, black people were so completely segregated and suppressed that there was never even the opportunity to sense freedom. For jazz musicians, the first chance to feel equal ― and even superior ― came when white and black musicians began playing together after hours. Social order on the bandstand is determined by ability. Therefore, people like Coleman Hawkins and Rex Stewart were idolized by musicians of all races. 



Jazzmen such as Louis Armstrong, Sidney Bechet, and Duke Ellington began to go to Europe, where they were treated like human beings off the bandstand, as well. They experienced a kind of freedom Afro-Americans didn't enjoy at home. They could have relations and relationships with any type of woman and, of course, because they were musicians, all kinds of women found them interesting. When they returned to America they were lionized and walked with a certain swagger. They dressed well and had their own way of speaking. They earned decent money and played what they wanted to play. These men began to understand that, around the world, their music had come to stand for democracy and freedom. 



The resilience and fortitude of true American pioneers is in that music. And it's in it for the black and the white musician. But back home, onstage and even in the recording studio, they were still separated. Among black people of consciousness there was always deep resentment that couldn't be wiped away with a smile and a “Yassah.” The more conscious they were, the madder it made them. The more education they had, the angrier they became. This continued injustice diminished their enjoyment of life. These people dedicated their skills and energy to undoing the system that so soured their public experiences. 



Writers, publicists, and fans proclaimed Benny Goodman the “king of swing.” Now, he had a damn good band, but even he didn't think that's who he was ― not with Duke Ellington and Count Basie also on the road. Goodman went along with it ― who wouldn't have? ― but it didn't feel right. Now, what if you were a black musician and you wanted and deserved to be the king of swing? Then, it irritated you a lot. Duke Ellington lived through Paul Whiteman being heralded as the king of jazz in the twenties and Benny Goodman being called the king of swing in the thirties. 

文筆家達、出版業者、そして音楽ファンはこぞって、ベニー・グッドマンを「スウィングの王様」と称しました。確かに彼の率いたバンドは、とてつもなく良い楽団でしたが、当の本人は、その様な自覚はありませんでした。それは当時同じく活躍中だったデューク・エリントンカウント・ベイシーについても同じでした。グッドマンはそう呼ばれることを受け入れていました - 受け入れない人などいるわけがありません - しかし自分は相応とは感じていなかったのです。もし皆さんが黒人ミュージシャンだとして、自分はスウィングの王様となるに相応しいと思いたいですか?多分そういう思いは皆さんを大いに困惑させるのではないでしょうか?デューク・エリントンはその生涯の中で、1920年代はポール・ホワイトマンが「ジャズの王様」、1930年代はベニー・グッドマンが「スウィングの王様」と、それぞれ称されていたのです。 




What if you wanted to be in the movies but not as a maid or servant? What if you wanted to sing at the Metropolitan Opera ― and you really had the talent? Then it killed you. A lot of people playing jazz were those kinds of people. 



The whole of jazz, black and white, was a refutation of segregation and racism. The white musicians were some of the least prejudiced people in our county. There's a famous story of a 1926 contest at the Roseland Ballroom in Manhattan between New York's own Fletcher Henderson Orchestra and its white counterpart from the Midwest, led by Jean Goldkette. Scores of musicians gathered for the showdown. Most of them bet on Henderson, whose ranks included Coleman Hawkins, Rex Stewart, and Benny Carter. But Goldkette ― with Frankie Trumbauer and Bix Beiderbecke ― carried the day. 

黒人にとっても白人にとっても、ジャズは全て、人種の隔離や差別は間違えていると訴える術でした。白人のミュージシャン達は、我が国では、最も偏見を持たれない人達の部類に入っていたのです。有名な話を一つ。1926年、マンハッタンのローズランドボールホールで開かれたバンドコンテストは、地元ニューヨークのフレッチャー・ヘンダーソン・オーケストラと、中西部から来た白人で構成されるジョン・ゴールドケット率いる楽団との対決でした。ミュージシャン達の点数が集計されました。蓋を開けて見れば、大半の票が投じられたのはヘンダーソンオーケストラ - コールマン・ホーキンス、レックス・ステュワート、そしてベニー・カーターを擁する - だったものの、ゴールドケットの楽団 - こちらはフランキー・バウアーとビックス・バイダーベックを擁する - が結局勝利します。 


“They creamed us,” Rex Stewart remembered. “Those little tight-ass white boys creamed us.” But both leaders had listened intently to the other's band, and after the battle Goldkette hired Henderson's top arranger, Don Redman, and Henderson commissioned Goldkette's arranger, Bill Challis. The next time the two bands met they battled to a draw. 



Now, that's a beautiful story because it details the triumph of the underdog white musicians, the black musicians admitting they'd been outplayed, and both leaders being more interested in music than race. But what happened time and again when Negro won? He was denied, or his victory was attributed to his “natural talent.” 



Jazz exposed the good ol' American tradition of racial injustice. Musicians would have been stupid not to know it and feel it and be embittered by it. Generations of people had been victimized in the most profound and petty ways, from being hanged from trees to being forced to call a child “Mr.” So-and-so. But, even though musicians felt the sting of racism even more acutely because their connection to art made them more insightful, most did not say. “This is some bullshit so let's re-create some more of it.” Instead, jazz musicians concluded, “This is some pure D bullshit. Let's not re-create that in any way.” 



Most of my own anger about racism came from growing up in Kenner during and after the civil rights movement. It felt a bad, bad taste in my mouth, and I expressed it. But all of the great jazzmen I knew, from Art Blakey to John Lewis to Walter Davis, Jr., believed people were simply people. I'll never forget how Art Blakey got on me for speaking disrespectfully about alto saxophone player Phil Woods. And he was right. At some point all of that has got to stop. And you don't have to kiss anybody's behind to be a part of stopping it. When you really get to the philosophy of Monk or Charlie Parker, they were not trying to say that the black man was greater than the white man; they were saying, “By being for everyone, our music absolutely refutes the racism that poisons our national life.” 



Dizzy Gillespie told me, “Bebop was about integration.” He said that his and Charlie Parker's objective was to be integrated. Dizzy told me this around 1980, when I wasn't thinking about integration at all. “We'll get to that time,” I thought. “We don't need to be integrated.” 



I had a problem with integration that went back to childhood. In 1969, when I was eight years old, my mother sent me to an “integrated” Catholic school in Kenner to honor the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr. There were just two of us, me and my friend Greg Carroll, in a sea of white kids. Now, when you were one of just two kids going into a school full of students ― and teachers ― who were going to mess with you constantly, you did not want to be integrated. You couldn't come to another conclusion unless you were a masochist. The constant barrage wore on you and created a new kind of fatigue. My father once told me that he didn't encounter many white people growing up, so they didn't have a chance to disrespect him. Of course, the general abuse was so pervasive he shaped his aspirations to it. But he'd grown up in an entirely black world; he couldn't sit in the front of a streetcar until he was twenty-six years old. Before I started going to an integrated school, I hadn't encountered many white people, either; when a white man turned up at your door in Kenner, the kids on the block would want to know what your father had done to get into trouble. And when I did encounter them, it didn't go down well. Nicknames like “Bozo,” “Hershey Bar,” “Burnt toast” ― that was “Good morning,” “Hello,” and “Welcome.” 

「統合」と言うものについては、僕は子供の頃の遺恨がありました。1969年、僕が8歳の頃、母は僕を、ケナーにあるキング牧師記念「統合系」カトリックスクールへ入学させたのです。白人の子供達が大多数を占める中、黒人は僕と友人のグレッグ・キャロルのたった二人だけ。もし皆さんがこの「たった二人」だったら、「統合」されたくないはずです。何しろ生徒も先生もこちらを日常的にいじめてくる連中で溢れかえっている学校なのですから。いじめられるのが快感、というなら話は別ですけれどね。絶え間なくいじめの集中砲火を受けていると、それまで経験したことのない疲労感に襲われました。父はかつて言っていたのは、自分は大人になるまでの間、さほど多く白人と出会う機会が無かったので、蔑みを受けたこともなかったとのこと。勿論、社会全体としての不当な扱いは広く行き渡っており、父もそれに適合するようにはなっていました。しかし父は、完全に黒人しかいない環境で育ってきていましたから、26歳になるまではずっと、路面電車の前の方の席に座ることは許されませんでした。僕にしても、統合系の学校へ通いだす以前は、白人と出会うことはあまりなかったのです。ケナーでは、白人が家の玄関口にやってくると、その界隈の子供達はこぞって、その家の父親がトラブルに巻き込まれるような何かをしでかしたのではないか?と知りたがったものでした。そしていよいよ白人との出会いと言うものが本格化し、事態は良い方向へは進みませんでした。「Bozo(おバカさん)」「Hersley Bar(ハーシーのチョコレートバー)」「Burnt Toast(黒焦げのトースト)」といったニックネームは、「おはよう」「こんにちは」あるいは「ようこそ」といった挨拶程度の物言いだったのです(白人側にとっては)。