“Your music changed my life!” –Francois Cluzet (from the film “Round Midnight”)
The film “Round Midnight” tells the fictional story of a jazz saxophonist, Dale Turner, an American expatriate living and playing in Paris, France in the year 1959. He is befriended by a French jazz enthusiast, Francis Borler, an ardent fan and supporter who ends up offering Turner food, shelter, money, and management.
As Turner, real-life jazz legend Dexter Gordon gives an amazing performance-one that would garner him an Oscar nomination. His world-weary demeaner, measured cadence, gravelly voice and expressive eyes give his character a sense of tragedy, even before his self-destructive lifestyle choices catch up with him.
Similarly, Francois Cluzet is just as excellent as Borler. His is a jazz fan so enraptured by his idol’s artistry that he can overlook Turner’s shortcomings-at least initially. Time and again, he lends support, whether its with a meal, a few francs for cigarettes, or bailing him out of jail or the psych ward.
The film is revered by many as one of the definitive pictures dealing with the lives of jazz musicians and the everyday issues they face. The story is based on the real-life friendship between French jazz critic and author Francis Paudras and legendary jazz pianist Bud Powell. It also borrows anecdotally from the experiences of saxophonist Lester Young and even some of Dexter Gordon’s own life, too.
Upon viewing this film recently, when Cluzet utters the line at the top of this essay, I was struck by how close to home this felt. If I have not uttered these exact words to some of the musical heroes that I have met, I have certainly thought it.
This week saw the passing of another real-life musical legend; guitarist Jeff Beck. Although unfamiliar with his catalog (I am ashamed to admit), I am very much aware of his influence and importance.
Starting in the 1960s, Beck came up with a bumper crop of talented young British guitarists who were all steeped in the tradition of American Blues. His peers included none other than Jimmy Page and Eric Clapton, both of whom would serve stints in the seminal blues-rock band The Yardbirds-sometimes concurrently with Beck.
Beck would go on to greater fame as a solo act, although he continued to support a vast array of artists including Kate Bush, Van Morrison, Tina Turner, Stevie Wonder, Stanley Clarke, and Herbie Hancock. His musical journey took him into the realm of R&B, progressive rock, fusion jazz and beyond. In the process, he firmly established his reputation as one of the greatest guitarists of all time.
On the surface, one might not think that a film about jazz from 1986 and a British blues rock fusion guitarist born in 1944 would have much in common. But, the coincidence of Beck’s death with my viewing of the film, and in particular coming across this line of dialogue, got me thinking about the place of music in my life and what my musical heroes mean to me.
Any time a public figure passes, whether it be a famous film star, or a head of state, or a monarch, or a well-known painter, or beloved author, it can be a challenge for those who follow their work to process the loss. Especially poignant are the losses of public figures who are relatively young and/or whose careers on the ascent.
Music has always had a central place in my life. For as long as I can remember, I have been an active listener and consumer of recorded music. My mother, a classically-trained pianist and private teacher, used to work at Ford Auditorium-the former residence of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. From a very young age, I got to attend concerts with her there. This, and her playing of classical recordings in the home, fed my interest in listening to and seeing live musical performances.
Later, I started to collect music. First, it was on cassettes. Then, it was on vinyl. Then, CDs came into vogue. And finally, vinyl came back into favor. (I still buy new music on CD and vinyl).
Out of college, I worked for almost 10 year in music retail. This further served to educate me on different musical styles. But, more than anything, it expanded my music collection many, many times over.
As my tastes changed and developed, I continued to attend live concerts. Also, I started to perform music with cover bands, concert bands, rock groups, jazz groups, funk outfits, in community theater productions, on cruise ships and elsewhere.
In addition to collecting, performing, and listening to music, I was intrigued by musicians themselves. My musical heroes have led fascinating, and sometimes tragic, lives. I would regularly buy magazines and books related to the musicians that I most admired. Artist biographies and autobiographies started to compete for space on my bookshelves.
Time and again, music changed me. Music changed my life in amazing and unexpected ways. Listening to Dexter Gordon made me want to take up the saxophone and play jazz.
Discovering the music of Ornette Coleman gave me the courage to think in unconventional ways and to be fearless in my approach to improvisation.
Listening to Charles Mingus and Frank Zappa made me realize that you could create music that was serious and funny, caustic and cutting edge, all at the same time.
Listening to Glenn Gould made me feel connected to a spiritual source, a Higher Power.
Music was no casual thing for me. It was something that was intrinsically woven into the fabric of my DNA.
As such, I feel it acutely when one of my musical heroes passes. Yes, of course, it serves as a painful reminder of my own aging and eventual demise. But beyond that, it silences their gift. Forever.
So, when a Jeff Beck (or a Jimi Hendrix, or a John Coltrane, or a Glenn Gould, or a David Bowie) passes, those of us who queued up for his concerts, and rabidly purchased his every album, and sought out magazine articles featuring interviews with him, and combed through YouTube looking for archival footage of him from decades-old television specials or music festivals, feel the loss as though it were the loss of a sibling or best friend.
It goes beyond the music; beyond just a casual listen. It becomes a gateway to a community of like-minded souls who also enjoy and appreciate the artist…in the same way.
And yes, of course, there are the inevitable posthumous releases of live recordings, aborted studio projects, b-sides, oddities, and various and sundry musical tidbits that completists and collectors can and do regularly consume. There may still be unreleased masterpieces lurking in the vaults waiting to see the light of day.
So, in that sense, an artist’s death does not necessarily stop their output of musical releases. In fact, it may open the floodgates for a spate of new material.
But, never again will we have the experience of seeing and hearing that artist perform in a live setting.
And, those who were not there will simply never know…
I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel. -Maya Angelou
