【英日対訳】ミュージシャン達の言葉what's in their mind


英日対訳:6章(1/3)Moving to Higher Ground by W. Marsalis


Lessons from the Masters 

第6章  名人達から教わったこと 


Formal education of the first order: playing in public with the great John Lewis. Because of the pressure of playing onstage, one concert is worth two months in the practice room. 


最高の教育の機会 - ジョン・ルイス大先生との共演。本番の舞台上で演奏するというプレッシャーのおかげで、1回のコンサートで2か月間練習室に籠り切って身に付くものと同じものが得られるのです。 


What I love most about Negro spirituals is how they put Moses and Jesus, Ezekiel and Abraham, together in time and then say, “I spoke to them,” as if that time were now. 



For me, all history is now. For some reason, this notion is not accepted in the fields of jazz education, performance, or criticism. Instead, we get the oversimplified story of steadily growing musical “evolution” that jazz writers like to tell and retell: impoverished infancy in New Orleans around the turn of the twentieth century; raucous adolescence in Chicago and New York through the twenties; big-band swing in the thirties; the birth of bebop in the forties; and then a profusion of schools and counterschools, each moving the music further and further from its blues roots. 



The best musicians know this music isn't about “schools” at all. Like my father says, “There's only one school, the school of 'Can you play?'” It's about the individual men and women who can honestly answer yes to that question. 



Many of the most valuable lessons I've learned about jazz were imparted by way of stories. Colorful storytelling makes for a community feeling around and through the music. Jazz concerns people and what they do. Just saying the name of a particular musician evokes the whole of their person embodied in their sound. Sometimes older musicians will sit around, giving a roll call of people you never heard of, saying where they were from, and then raving about the way they played this tune or that: “Yeah, man, Little Bobby Moore was a mean motor scooter. Ask Dizzy. He'll tell you. Bobby came into a place with his horn, people start hiding theirs.” 



Sometimes you learn from masters by what they do. In the late 1980s, we played a concert opposite Pearl Bailey, and she brought me a gift to show how gracious musicians used to be when they headlined concerts together. She made a point of telling me that's what she was doing, too. Not that I actually buy gifts for people at jazz festivals ― but I think, even all these years later, that I should start. 



Tony Williams played with Miles Davis's band when he was seventeen or eighteen. He could sing entire albums ― everyone's solo. He was a very intense man, self-contained and private. But he had some great observations about music and musicians. He told me he noticed that the musicians with the best time didn't tap their feet when playing. Because when you're tapping your feet every rhythm you play becomes a polyrhythm, a feat of coordination like rubbing your stomach patting your head.  

トニー・ウィリアムズが、マイルス・デイビスのバンドでドラムを叩いていたのは、彼が17、18歳の頃でした。彼はアルバム全曲 - 一人一人のソロも、空で歌うことができたのです。気性が激しく、人とは打ち解けないし人付き合いもしない性格でしたが、音楽とそれを奏でるミュージシャン達に対する観察力の素晴らしさを、随所で発揮していました。ミュージシャン達というものは、最高に調子が良い状態の時は、演奏中に足踏みをしないことに気付いた、と彼は僕に教えてくれたことがあります。というのも、そもそも演奏中に足踏みなんかしてしまうと、出てくるリズムが、ポリリズムと言って、腹をさすりながら頭をポンポンとはたくような、妙チキリンなものになってしまう、というわけです。 


The master drummer Elvin Jones was one of the most soulful men in the world. I would get to his house around eleven or twelve at night, and his wife, Keiko, would have the lobster and sushi ready and the sake flowing. We went on several tours together. I loved him like a father. Once we were playing so hard my lips started bleeding. I didn't want to tell him that I thought he was playing too loud. Finally, I got up the courage to tell him. He started at me for a while and then said, “All you had to do was say something. Ain't nobody on earth above being told something.” 



Rehearsing a jazz piece requires diplomacy. You need the musicians to want to play your music. You have to walk that thin line between criticising and aggravating. They are, after all, making up a lot of, especially the drummer. A dispute with the drummer is a serious thing. The composer, bandleader, and consummate musician Benny Carter was one of the most elegant men in jazz. He was refined, clear, and very serious about the music. I once saw him get testy with a drummer who wasn't playing what he wanted. They went back and forth and things became a little wordy. Benny diplomatically ended the mouthiness by saying, “Use your own good taste. Use your own taste.” The arranger and tenor saxophonist Frank Wess, who had been a mainstay of the Count Basie Orchestra, took another approach: He would inquire, “Why are you motherfuckers playing so loud?” and wait for the volume to come down. It did. 



Some musicians insult you with humor. In the summer of 1987, Thelonious Monk's great tenor saxophonist Charlie Rouse went on the road with my quartet. He played some of the most swinging, to-the-point stuff you ever heard. He loved when we would play a wild style we called “burnout” ― faster and faster, with all kinds of drum rhythms interlocking with the piano while the bass tried to survive and hold the beat down. On night at a club in St. Louis, after I played a long nonstop solo full of fast, nonswinging 232nd notes, all high, crazy, and nonmelodic but fun to play, Charlie Rouse looked at me as I drenched with sweat, and said, “Well ... that ought to fix 'em.” 



When I really think about it, even though I was surrounded by records and musicians at an early age, my tastes were like those of any kid of my generation. Then, at some point, I began to understand that these musicians were great because of the quality of their insights and the powerful expression of those ideas. By now, I've met almost all of the great ones still alive and I've had the good fortune to play with many of them. Others I know only through their recordings. Here are some of the larger lessons a baker's dozen of the masters taught me, along with the titles of a handful of CDs worth listening to. Of course, with jazz everyone is free to find his or her own lessons. All you have to do is listen.  







I'm always asked, “Did you ever meet Armstrong?” 



“No,” I answer, “and I'm glad I didn't, because he died in 1971 before my appreciation of him developed.” I thought he was just some Uncle Tom with a trumpet. I'm glad I didn't have the opportunity to ever think disrespectful thoughts in the presence of such a great man. 



With Louis Armstrong, you have the deepest human feeling and the highest level of musical sophistication. He is down-home soul and compassion, but with plenty of fire. He is built like a bull and could knock you down and out if necessary. 



Louis Armstrong is a celebration of the freedom to be yourself. He always knew and loved himself. He embraced the things he was most proud of, like his artistry, as well as the things he knew needed work, like his command of the written language. He didn't hide. 



Pops grew up in teeth-clenching poverty as a member of the absolute lowest social stratum. He knew the bottom. He understood that poverty is not always the defining element of poor people's identities. He was raised by people who embraced life under extreme circumstances, and their hard-earned optimism was passed on to him, and then to the world, through his horn. 



When I was growing up, some of the poorest people I knew ― like my great-aunts and -uncles and my grandma ― were the most colorful. You had a good time with them. For one thing, with them you ate good: beans and rice, bacon sandwitches, stuffed mirlitons. Pops always spoke about his “eventful” childhood with great relish. 

僕が育ってゆく過程で出会った、最もお金に困っている人達、例えば僕の大叔母や大叔父といった人達というのは、最も輝いていた人達でもありました。一緒に居るのが実に心地よい人達です。美味しいモノを一緒に食べて - と言っても、豆御飯だの、ベーコンサンドだの、ハヤト瓜の詰め物ですが。ポップスは、「色々なことがあった」幼い頃の思い出話を、いつも実に楽しそうに聞かせてくれたのです。 


Now, if you are young Louis Armstrong singing in a boy's quartet, every person who hears your music says, “Damn, this guy is something!” Then you get arrested for fooling around with a gun on New Year's Eve and sent to the Colored Waif's Home for Boys. You start playing cornet and quickly become better that all the rest of the kids. They are looking at you and saying, “Little Louis is unbelievable.” There were many great cornetists in the New Orleans of his youth, and he listened with the ear of a genius to what all of them played. Not only did he hear what they were playing, he heard what they were trying to play. And, eventually, he played both. 



His sense of self-worth grows every time he demonstrates his genius in a different environment. He's always the best ― and by a lot. He learns music faster than other people do. He can hear harmonies better. He invents more memorable melodies than any other teenager. He's more in tune. Everybody is begging him, “Show me how to do that.” He's outplaying grown men all over New Orleans by the time he's seventeen. 

彼は、様々な機会に自分の才能を世に示し、その度に自分への誇りの気持ちを膨らませてゆきました。彼は同世代の若者達から群を抜いて上手かった - それも桁外れに。誰よりも学ぶ吸収力があり、誰よりもハーモニーを聞く力があり、誰よりも心に残るメロディを生み出す力がありました。「教えてくれよ」と皆が乞うてきたのです。17歳になるまでには、彼はニューオーリンス中の大人達よりも腕を上げていました。 


Then, he joins King Oliver in Chicago, where it soon dawns on him: “Wait a second now, I'm playing better than everybody in Chicago, too.” He goes to New York to join Fletcher Henderson's band, and he sees he's outplaying all of those cats, too. He eventually gets to Europe, and everybody is in awe of his artistry. Everywhere he goes, the same thing. He thinks, “Hey, all these cats can't be wrong.” 



And everyone who heard him loved him, except for the dicty people who looked down on him because of the way he sang or because he represented impoverished, uneducated people with natural gusto. He didn't care. Why would he? He didn't have to interact with them. He damn sure didn't interact with them when he was growing up. They weren't having more fun than he was having . And they weren't producing anybody like him. So he's probably thinking, “Okay, y'all might have a lot of stuff, but you don't have anybody that can play like me.” 



Again, by a lot. That “by a lot” is very important. It's one thing if most of your colleagues play more or less as well as you do, but another thing when you get to be twenty-three or twenty-four years old and no one is even remotely as good as you are. The whole world of popular music imitated him. How many men can say that? He could go anywhere in the world and people would be trying to imitate him. And he knew it. By 1929 or 1930, everybody was trying to be like him: the Poles, the French, the English, the Russians ― everybody. He heard himself everywhere, and he was bringing joy and happiness to all those people. How does a guy like that feel? Great. 



Louis Armstrong never tried to be someone else. His playing is free of artifice. It's pure substance. Einstein is supposed to have said the equation of relativity was so simple it had to be true. Armstrong's axiom is just as fundamental: It's okay to be you. 



Louis Armstrong's sound has the power to heal. His playing is wisdom and forgiveness. He has the sound you hear in the voice of the person you go to when something really bad has happened to you. It can be your grandmama, your mama, or someone else. And that person, through her voice or touch, lets you know it's going to be all right. That feeling's in all of Louis Armstrong's music, that warmth and familiarity and the feeling that whatever you say, he will understand it ― and he will understand it from your point of view. 

ルイ・アームストロングサウンドには、癒しの力があります。彼の演奏には、自らの経験に基づく知恵と、人々を受け入れる寛容さがあります。自分に本当に不幸な出来事が起きた時に訪ねてゆく人の声の中に聞こえるサウンド、というものを、彼は持っています。「訪ねてゆく人」とは、自分のおばあちゃんだったり、おかあさんだったり、そのような人達だったりします。そういう人達は、声や手のぬくもりを通して、「大丈夫だぞ」と教えてくれます。ルイ・アームストロングの音楽全体に見受けられる、その感覚、温もり、親しみ、そして「この人には何を言ってもわかってもらえる」という感覚 - 彼には、聞く人の視点に立って理解しようとする姿勢があった、ということなのです。 


Jazz writing has created a false sense of division in our music, a superficial breakdown of innovations into ears and styles that gives the impression that the natural way of respect between older and younger folks is suspended when the younger ones invent a different way of playing. For example, you would think that the John Coltrane Quartet, exemplars of the avant-garde, would have seen themselves as far more advanced than Louis Armstrong. Well, Elvin Jones once told me that when Louis showed up at one of their gigs in a Chicago club, they all felt like children in his presence. McCoy Tyner, reflecting on that same evening, said, “That man was a king and full of great feeling.” 



Recommended Listening 


The Complete Hot Five and Hot Seven Recordings 


Live at Town Hall 


My Musical Autobiography 




ホットファイブ全集 / ホットセブン全集 










Seems like everything about the drummer and bandleader Art Blakey was a contradiction. He was a short man, but he seemed much bigger because he was so powerful. He could tell you the deepest truth and the most creative lies, both in the same sentence. He exhibited absolute integrity and spoke with moral authority on anything to do with jazz. But he also did all kinds of things that defied standards of acceptable behavior. 



Blakey was a pioneer. Intelligent, ambitious, and thorough, he went to Ghana to study African drumming. He realized that American jazz drummers were distinguished by their ability to play three or four different rhythms at one time. He would say, “Never let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” He was a Muslim long before other Americans became Muslims and was devoutly religious in his own way, even though that may sound like a strange thing to say about somebody who had all kinds of women, told the truth only if and when it suited him, and had to have his heroin when he needed it. Stuff like cognac, weed, and cocaine were just appetizers for his real drug of choice. 



Though he was often high, being around him taught you not to judge people, because you couldn't judge him. He was such an original, you loved him for who he was. He also would make it clear that you never know enough about people to judge them. You only know what appears true to you. Art Blakey was like the old cliche about the tip of the iceberg. What he showed you was a very small portion of what was actually there. 



He started out with big bands and knew how to orchestrate the drum parts to give an arrangement dramatic flair. He didn't read music but could make you think he could, because after hearing an arrangement once or twice he knew the whole thing. And he would improve it ― an important skill for drummers, who get little written music or instruction. Drummers must be free to make choices or the music will be stiff. An arrangement might call for some hits or accents, but drummers determine which cymbals to use, where to put the big beats of the bass drum, and how to build intensity or bring it down to a whisper. Drummers provide the grooving pulse of Africa that inspires dance and the percussion colorings that add flavor to European concert music. 



“Bu” ― that's what we called him, short for Abdullah Ibn Buhaina, the Muslim name he adopted ― had superhuman endurance. He loved to brag, “Everybody that got high with me died fifteen years ago.” He got stronger as the tours went on. Catch him at four in the morning on the last days of an eight-week tour of Europe and you'd really hear something. During my first tour with his band we drove from New York to Houston, played a gig, and drove straight to L. A. and onto a bandstand. He was seventy-something and didn't even blink. We were forty to fifty years younger and tried as hell. 



He taught you with his feeling. He had so much power and strength and belief that you would learn the meaning of playing just from being around him. But for all the informality and naturalness of his approach, he was meticulous about rehearsing and concerned above all about the enjoyment of the audience. “Play with dynamics because the people respond to drama in the music. And dynamics create drama. Rehearse this music thoroughly. Why should people pay to hear a sad, sloppy, unprepared performance!” 



He was a big fan of you figuring things out. This is an important characteristic of great jazz bandleaders. They tell you, “Listen.” And if you say, “I don't hear it,” they say, “Well, don't play.” If you keep not hearing it, they send you home. In rehearsal, Blakey would play with the same intensity he brought to a gig, and when you commented on it he would say, “I only know one way to play.”  



As an accompanist, he was a master of architecture who knew how to use dynamics in support of a soloist. From a whisper to a roar, his signature effect, the “press roll” went from a tiptoe to a full-out stomp in two seconds. He was not afraid of giving others the spotlight. He was a generous,inspirational leader who got the most out of his musicians by giving them a platform to do their thing. 



Once every four or five months, when we would get out of hand or forget he was the leader, he would call us together and cuss us out: “You motherfuckers aren't playing shit. It's an honor to have a job playing this music and you obviously think this is a fucking game. This is the Jazz Messengers! Clifford Brown. Lee Morgan. Freddie Hubbard. And now your sad, nonplaying ass! We would look down and get quiet like children. But is was okay, because we knew he loved us and this music. 



And then one day, he would say, “It's time to go get your own band and spread the music. If you get stranded out there and you need to make some money or something you can always come back. We are here.” He ran his band like a family. Cats would come back. 



When we used to play at Mikell's in New York, all the drummers would come: Papa Jo Jones, Philly Joe Jones, Elvin Jones, Louis Bellson, Max Roach, Buddy Rich ― it's like they had a club, a drum thing. We would say everybody else died, but the drummers stayed alive. It's not true now, but in the early eighties generations of drummers were still alive and swinging. And they all turned out to see Bu. He expressed his love for the whole jazz tradition in his sound, in his feeling, and in the music we played. He'd have horn players playing shout choruses and people playing riffs ― even though it was a small band. I feel like he always wanted to get back to the big band. He loved that music. I regret that I didn't know how to arrange for big bands when I was with him. I wish he was with us now. 



It's hard to explain the love you feel for the bandleader who brings you out when you're young and inexperienced. He takes a chance on you and you never forget it. Jazz musicians say, “He brought me out here,” and that means a whole, whole lot. 



The word I would use to summarize him comes from the title of one of his albums: Indestructible. That's how he was. So we were all shocked when he died. I remember his memorial service at the Abyssinian Baptist Church in Harlem. He had all his wives and children there, a lot of wives and kids. The feeling was so good and everybody played an laughed at stories about him. We all loved him because he gave so much of himself to the music and to us. He represented the ultimate feeling of jazz: easy come, easy go. Not judgemental. He was strict with the discipline of his own playing, with how he expected you to play, and with the consistency of the swing. But he never said, “You have to be like I want you to be.” He taught the value of integrity and the power of choosing to have it. 



Recommended Listening 




Free for All 


A Night at Birdland, Volumes 1 - 3 








バードランド(訳注:ニューヨークの名門ジャズクラブ)の夜 第1集~第3集 







A few years ago I ran across Ornette Coleman in a music store. We talked for a while and then he told me, “Don't go back.” Now, it was interesting he would say that, because he himself starts from way back. He exists outside the liner history of the music, at once ahead of his time and way behind it, before jazz began. He plays the way someone might have played before people figured out how to improvise on harmonies, back when they just played melodies and vocal effects. His music is a great tool for teaching improvisation to younger kids because it's rich in melodic content and it doesn't require you to know harmony.  



He originally based his style on Charlie Parker's. You can hear that in his early tunes like “Bird Food.” But he was looking to play with the gestural diversity of talking. He also has a characteristic cry. The title of one of his most haunting songs, “Lonely Woman,” also evokes his unmistakable sound. He is a supreme melodist, maybe the most melodic musician in jazz history. He intelligently constructed a style that showcased rapidly changing emotional states instead of changing harmonies. 



For a time, he stuck to traditional forms, mainly blues and rhythm changes, but he soon abandoned them altogether in favor of pure improvising without bar lines ― just a free flow of melody. As a young man, he lived for a while in New Orleans. One of his great drummers, Ed Blackwell, played with my father in the 1950s. Blackwell said Ornette would tell him not to play in four- or eight-bar phrases. Always searching for a more spontaneous and actual interaction, he would say, “Don't finish my phrases, man,” because he was not playing in even-numbered groups of bars. He was playing in one. 



His style was innovative because the playing of free-flowing melodic ideas discourages the ad nauseam regurgitation of melodic cliches that fit common harmonic patterns. It was restrictive, however, because harmony is one of the four great avenues of musical expression (the other three are rhythm, melody, and texture), and one of the greatest challenges in jazz improvisation is creating new melodies through harmonic progressions. Ornette challenged the significance of that skill. Many of his avant-garde disciples lacked his melodic gifts and familiarity with the blues. They never developed the ability to play harmony and ended up imitating the free improvisation of European concert music. The confusion between jazz improvisation and free improvisation intensified after Ornette's emergence and led some respected writers to actually believe that Europeans were now the real jazz innovators for improvising in their own non-blues-based tradition. 



Over the years, Ornette has maintained the same style of playing. Every now and then he creeps over into the European avant-garde. But he still has that heartbreak in his sound, that genius for blue melodies, and that fire and rhythmic danceability over swing rhythms that make him a jazzman at heart. 



He teaches the power of empathy. When you're talking to him, you feel that, somehow, he already knows all of what you are saying and can see and respond to its deeper meaning. He listens so well that you wonder, “Damn, how does he know that much of what I'm feeling?” Ornette hears all the nuances and is attentive to every little scrap of information, every gesture. He teaches us to pay attention to underlying details. Somebody raises his eyebrows ― that's in his playing. Somebody wants to glance at his watch but doesn't do it because he is conversing with someone he respects. He doesn't want the other person to think he is bored, so he is caught between listening and glancing. Ornette Coleman can play that, too. He can interpret the subtleties of our interactions more completely than any other jazz musician ever has. 



He can hear what you're playing, too. I know that from going to his house and playing with him. Many times when you are speaking a musical language, you become frustrated because your colleagues don't understand what you're saying. You leave spaces and there is no appropriate response. You play softly. They play loudly. You play polyrhythms. They barge ahead. You ask after a solo, “What was I playing?” They say, “Huh?” Ornette not only heard what I was playing, he heard what I was thinking about playing. His way of improvising often tells us much more than the approach of many musicians who have a more complete knowledge of music. Ornette shows us that genius is not bound to orthodoxy. You can be a genius any kind of way. 



Recommended Listening 


The Shape of Jazz to Come 




Change of the Century 




ジャズ 来るべきもの