“Silence speaks volumes”
 
by Jim Galloway
 
Volumes have been written about jazz: much of it by mediocre writers, some of it by musicians (but in fact written by “ghost writers”), a few by musicians who really could write—John Chilton, Art Hodes, George Melly and Dick Sudhalter come to mind immediately. Above it all, in the rarified atmosphere at the top of a mountain of words about jazz, sit a select few superior non-musician writers with both insights on the music and the writing skills to express themselves. Whitney Balliett, Gary Giddins, Philip Larkin and James Lincoln Collier, whether or not you agree with everything they say, are among those who have created worthwhile jazz literature.
 
Right here in Toronto we have Mark Miller, for years an outspoken and often controversial columnist for The Globe and Mail. Miller now dedicates himself to writing books on jazz—eight of them so far, all stamped with his trademark relentless research, attention to detail and love of language.
 
High Hat, Trumpet and Rhythm is his latest, and, in typical fashion, Miller does not go for an obvious easy target, but has chosen the life of singer, trumpeter and dancer Valaida Snow, whose checkered career was at its height in the ‘20s and ‘30s. It is a fascinating account of a controversial life, made even more colourful by the many embellishments of reality contributed by Ms. Snow and unearthed by Mr. Miller. My hat goes off to Mark for his ability to get an insight into what must have been a challenging subject, and his talent for turning it into a fascinating read.
 
Books dealing with people and events are one thing, but writing about how music sounds is an entirely different ball game. How do you convey what a piece of music sounds like?
 
If I say that Warm Valley played by Johnny Hodges is beautiful, it doesn’t begin to describe the emotional impact of the sounds. Words, at best, are inadequate. Language is abstract—a combination of sounds to help us communicate with each other.
 
Perhaps we should have embraced the concept of Eskimo languages, which have, for example, multiple words to describe snow. An editorial in The New York Times of February 9, 1984 gave the number as 100!
 
On the other hand, overly esoteric and flowery language can be more unsatisfactory and inappropriate; so maybe “beautiful” isn’t so bad!
 
Then there is the technical approach to writing about the music—ok to a degree if the reader has a working knowledge of music, but unable to describe the nuances that make jazz personal. Much as I love language, once more words are lacking and, in any case, no matter how well chosen they are, words don’t interpret music. Nor do they interpret one of music’s essential ingredients—silence.
 
The Romans used two words in referring to silence – tacere and silere. Not quite up there with the Inuit, but giving two very different meanings to the word. Tacere meant to shut up, as in interrupting, and had negative connotations—the silence resulting from cutting off someone in mid-sentence.  On the other hand, silere, the word where our silence comes from, had a quiet connotation and meant the kind of quietness that can be positively enjoyed.
 
It is this type of silence, in the form of pauses and rests, without which music would be meaningless. Try to imagine a chorus by Louis Armstrong or Charlie Parker with no pauses between any of the notes and you will quickly realise how important space is.
 
In today’s society there is almost constant noise, often in the form of “music” to which nobody is listening; it forms an intrusive backdrop of sound in stores, elevators, restaurants, ball games, you name it. Our technology does away with silence; if there isn’t noise around us it is because of a technical malfunction. Silence is an enemy of commerce and is something you have to seek out away from public spaces.
 
Small personal protests are the only recourse and if I go into a restaurant or store with a music/noise level that offends my ears, I simply leave. Nobody cares, but I feel better.
 
In music, some composers—such as John Cage—have taken the use of silence to extreme measures. His composition 4’33" is made up of three movements performed without a single note being played. It was perceived as including the sounds of the environment that the listeners hear while it is performed, not just four minutes and thirty three seconds of silence.
 
I grew up—although some of my friends might question that—when The Goon Show was breaking new ground in radio comedy and I used to treasure a 78 rpm record that they produced. On one side was a song called I’m Walking Backwards For Christmas, Across The Irish Sea. The flip side was Silent Night and it consisted of three minutes of silence.
 
Happy Listening!