Cool, red October is for settling in at night with some music — jazz — with the windows ajar, a light rain falling, and the curtains stirring with a lazy motion. Ah!
By the late 1970s, I was transitioning from rock and moving on to folk and jazz. My first forays into jazz had been my parents’ dusty 78s in the basement: Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller and Artie Shaw.
At that time, I was also delving into the writings of Jack Kerouac and The Beats, which led me to the jazz of the 1950s. Quintets and bebop replaced big bands and swing. Berets and sunglasses replaced Shaw’s signature white tuxedo.
In case you’re wondering, this brief music lesson does lead somewhere: The act of cultural appropriation, or the adopting or adapting of the cultural production associated with a particular racial or ethnic group by persons outside of that group.
For the past several years, cultural appropriation has been a flashpoint issue, causing some to point angry fingers at others: “This is our music, style of dress, or art, not yours!” “Cancel culture” is the next step downward for those who dare to cross a border.
Cultural appropriation isn’t, however, some great evil. It is, rather, usually the very mechanism by which culture is created, first and foremost by and for the individual. Cultural appropriation is a creative force, and the world of jazz of the ‘50s, holds many examples.
Callen “Cal” Tjader was the son of vaudevillians who settled in California in the early ‘20s. After serving as a medic in the Navy during World War II, Tjader began to experiment with Latin-infused jazz, mastering that form and style on the vibraphone, despite the fact that both of his parents were of Swedish descent. Was he wrong? Give a listen!
For decades, I’ve been a devotee of Ella Fitzgerald. She was Black, yet she had a tremendous career interpreting songs by Irving Berlin, Cole Porter, George Gershwin and Johnny Mercer. All white. Was she guilty of cultural appropriation? If so, do we “cancel” Ella Fitzgerald?
As for Johnny Mercer, he was born in Savannah, Georgia in 1909. As a youth, he became steeped in the Black culture of his time and locale. He had Black playmates; he snuck into local Black church services for the sermons and the music; and he purchased recordings of Black performers, Louis Armstrong for one, from Black businesses in Savannah.
Indeed, you can hear the influence of Black music in Mercer’s hits such as “Blues in the Night,” “That Old Black Magic,” and “Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive.” As a result, Mercer enriched American popular culture for all.
Admittedly, the jazz world of the ‘50s does contain a thorny problem in regards to cultural appropriation. Lord Buckley was not a musician, but a comedian and social commentator. He affected the dress and mannerisms of an English aristocrat, but when he launched into one of his jazz-infused, hipster monologues, he often adopted the vocal mannerisms of an ultra-hip, Black street philosopher-poet.
Some Black entertainers of his time, however, saw his performances as being demeaning. While I am genuinely sympathetic towards his detractors, I still laugh at Buckley’s high-speed monologues, such as “The Hip Gahn” (on Mahatma Gandhi), “Governor Slugwell” (on American politicians), and “His Majesty, the Policeman” (on, well, the police).
Due to ignorance, fear, and the internet, we live in a divisive and isolated world, composed of micro-states whose borders are defined by race or ethnicity, sex or gender, or simply by our own petty prejudices and personal misconceptions of the world. Too many of us spend our days and nights with our faces fixated on our smartphones, yet are we really communicating with each other?
Cultural appropriation, seen here as a creative act, allows for such borders to be crossed. Knowledge of others different from ourselves can be acquired, dialogues established, and respect for our various cultural differences and practices cultivated.
Since music is aural, perhaps an image is needed here. Culture is like a flowing river composed of sights and sounds, words and colors, movements and shapes. Its shores, borders, are open to all. Dip in your cup, drink deeply, and then share it with someone.
John Vukmirovich is a Chicago-area writer and book reviewer.
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