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Really the Blues (1946)

door Mezz Mezzrow, Bernard Wolfe

Andere auteurs: Bernard Wolfe

Andere auteurs: Zie de sectie andere auteurs.

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2606101,462 (4.02)5
Hailed as an "American counter-culture classic," this "funny" and candid musical memoir offers a delicious glimpse into the 1930s jazz scene (The Wall Street Journal)   Mezz Mezzrow was a boy from Chicago who learned to play the sax in reform school and pursued a life in music and a life of crime. He moved from Chicago to New Orleans to New York, working in brothels and bars, bootlegging, dealing drugs, getting hooked, doing time, producing records, and playing with the greats, among them Louis Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke, and Fats Waller.    Really the Blues--the jive-talking memoir that Mezzrow wrote at the insistence of, and with the help of, the novelist Bernard Wolfe--is the story of an unusual and unusually American life, and a portrait of a man who moved freely across racial boundaries when few could or did, "the odyssey of an individualist . . . the saga of a guy who wanted to make friends in a jungle where everyone was too busy making money."… (meer)
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1-5 van 6 worden getoond (volgende | toon alle)
Started reading on beach in Spain, and almost gonged it 100 pages in. Tried again the next day, but instead of reading it as a straight memoir (it's not, or at least not a good one), I read it more in the spirit of _On the Road_ or _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ - capturing an ethos of an era, even if it means telling a story that is too good to be true.

In that light I was able to finish of the 'ol Mezz. Will have to look up the numerous songs and compositions bragged on in the text. ( )
  kcshankd | Feb 25, 2023 |
A one of a kind document, which is the best thing you can say about a book.

Milton Mezzrow (née Mesirow) grew up in the Jewish ghetto of Chicago, learned to play saxophone in juvenile lock-up, developed a deep affection for black culture, and lived a life of extraordinary acquaintances and experience. His memoir Really the Blues (1946) is a valuable piece of social history and a fascinating artifact in the American vernacular.

Mezzrow tells a story of the early days of jazz and a vibrant urban folk culture that was the consequence of the Great Migration and Prohibition and the role of Chicago as a terminus and hub. Jazz flowed out from Basin Street and Storyville as enterprising sorts escaping Jim Crow or looking to profit from the ban on booze brought new life and energy to cities from Memphis to Detroit. Gangsters, prostitutes and musicians worked the syndicate houses and speakeasies.

All the café owners we ever knew were more familiar with machine guns than they were with music.

As Mezzrow tells it, jazz appealed to the ‘unwashed and untidy,’ the rebellious; the music was synonymous with freedom, improvisation a kind of anarchism, disregarding rules and constraints. By the late-1920s, though, the ‘uncorrupted purists’ in Chicago, who looked to the south for inspiration, were losing out to big bands and written music and Tin Pan Alley. Mezzrow the traditionalist laments the evolution of the music (how easily does the anarchist turn reactionary, in the name of preserving purity), but he does acknowledge that the music of the Chicago School was derivative, ‘an imperfect reflection,’ since ‘jazz was the colored man’s music.’ He knew that the Chicago sound represented a ‘half-way house’ between the original New Orleans combos and whatever was to come.

The jazz-jive lingo by which Mezzrow relates his own enthusiastic fascination with the world around jazz music is by turns amusing and tiresome. He conjures some fabulously poetic similes. First hearing the blues hit him ‘like a millennium would hit a philosopher.’ The shoes of a criminal hanged from the gallows ‘swing easy in space, like a couple of tired crows.’ A late-1920s exodus of musicians to NY left the Chicago gang ‘sad as a map and twice as flat.’ Some bits sound like a film noir voice-over:

On my next job I found myself running with a literary ex-pug, a pistol-packing rabbi, and a pee-wee jockey whose only riding crop was a stick of marihuana.

There are passages on Mezzrow’s first experiment with opium in Detroit and on the Jimmy Noone Band’s ‘preachin’ blues’ rendered as wonderfully affective set pieces. Other stories are great good fun but sound suspiciously apocryphal—Louis Armstrong’s invention of scat singing, Bix Beiderbecke burying jugs of sour mash in the weeds around Hudson Lake summer resort, Mezzrow and his friends inventing the ‘jam session.’ There is an Appendix that provides a translation of a reefer-jive conversation between Mezzrow and a prospective client on a Harlem street corner, and a full Glossary of early-20th c. hipster terminology. Occasionally the argot got a bit purplish and I would put the book down for a few days, but it always recovered. You have to take it for what it is. Makes one wonder how the book was received when it came out in 1946.

What makes Really the Blues so valuable is Mezzrow’s distinctive take on some potent themes that recur regularly in the jazz bibliography: the notion of authenticity, popular entertainment v. art, regional styles or ‘schools,’ the evolution of jazz forms through distinct phases in a kind of punctuated equilibrium, and the thorny matter of race. By the time Mezzrow wrote the book in the mid-1940s, he had become convinced of his own negritude. As his collaborator Bernard Wolfe wrote subsequently, Mezzrow’s adoption of the black man’s music, slang, bearing and social modes was not just a case of transculturation—it was one man’s reincarnation myth.

Wolfe was a Korzybski enthusiast who served a stint as secretary to Leon Trotsky in Mexico and later as the private pornographer of an Oklahoma oil millionaire. His article “Ecstatic in Blackface: The Negro as a Song-and-Dance Man” (written in 1947 for the French journal Les Temps Modernes) appears as an appendix to the NYRB edition of Really the Blues. According to Wolfe, Mezzrow had fetishized the ‘simple and natural’ ways of the black man, his effortless ecstasy, his ‘genius for relaxed, high-spirited, unburdened living,’ and Wolfe wanted to shine a light on Mezzrow’s negrophilia. Where Mezzrow saw spontaneous emanation, Wolfe saw calculated performance. There is, observed Wolfe, ‘a nimble interplay of image, reflex, and false face across the caste lines which is death to all real spontaneity.’ The more a white audience relishes the Negro on stage as ‘authentic,’ the more must the Negro performer cling to the masks which they (whites) take for real faces. The truth about the Negro performer is that he is required to be a Negro impersonator. (John Howard Griffin’s Black Like Me provides discomfiting confirmation of the point.) Mezzrow seemed to have fooled himself, as the black man must fool the white man.

The ‘creative’ Negro, far from being his own spontaneous self, may actually be dramatizing the white man’s image of the ‘spontaneous’ Negro.

Wolfe sensed that a shift was underway in the 1940s—

…the extent to which (the Negro) really feels himself to be what the white man thinks he is is dwindling, and the extent to which he pretends to be this or that, to achieve certain effects among certain groups of whites, is on the rise. And in that murky space where the mechanical fades into the willful lies the source of most Negro art forms. If the shift is ever completed the mask will be thrown off entirely and a startling new crop of art forms will mushroom.

Bebop was coming to the fore just as Wolfe was writing, and so his observations carried a remarkable prescience.
  JazzBookJournal | Feb 8, 2021 |
I picked this up after it was mentioned in Diane di Prima's "Memoirs of a Beatnik", which I had read recently. It's a decent read, with a lot of the interest lying in the fact that the author was describing a time when jazz was blossoming, and the language, attitudes, and culture that went with that. The language was probably most interesting to me, all of the slang and such, and the glossary in the back is super helpful. Who knew that before Harry Potter, "muggles" meant marijuana cigarettes! Pretty funny in my opinion!
As for the negative, the overall tone of the writing is braggadocios and filled with name dropping, in a way that started to feel almost "Forrest Gump" like. I mean, Mezzrow hears a piano being played, opens the door, and there is Jelly Roll Morton! He talks back to Al Capone! He unknowingly makes friends with the notorious Purple Gang! It just goes on and on like that, making it feel like fiction, or at least a lot of truth stretching! Oh yes, and he writes quite a bit about what a good jazz musician he is. No humble pie for this guy!
Despite all of that, I did like the read. He really captures the "scene" and true or not, I was glad to pick it up! And I'll never think of muggles in the same way again. :-) ( )
1 stem Stahl-Ricco | Mar 23, 2018 |
Mezz Mezzrow, clarinetiste oublié aujourd'hui, nous fait revivre les premières heures du Jazz et le Chicago d'Al Capone ! ( )
  jd.crouhy | Sep 7, 2011 |
Published in the late 1940s, this book had to be a huge influence on the Beat Generation writers - and yet, that comes as a surprise because who's heard of this man or his book? Presented here is the life of Mezz Mezzrow - "the guy, behind the guy" in the Jazz world. Drug addict, drug pusher, and good friends with - and musical director of - Louis Armstrong, Mezz tells the story behind the scenes of the jazz explosion of the 20s and beyond. Written in Harlem vernacular, you don't need to understand jive to dig his story, you can simply dig the language itself; however, if you're not a jazz aficionado, the many people/musicians Mezz writes about will be completely foreign and seem somewhat insignificant to the plot-line - but how can one equate one's life with a plot-line anyway? All in all, a good document of the counterculture of the 20s. ( )
1 stem NateJordon | Feb 26, 2009 |
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» Andere auteurs toevoegen (28 mogelijk)

AuteursnaamRolType auteurWerk?Status
Mezz Mezzrowprimaire auteuralle editiesberekend
Wolfe, Bernardprimaire auteuralle editiesbevestigd
Wolfe, BernardSecundaire auteuralle editiesbevestigd
Duhamel, MarcelVertalerSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
Gautier, MadeleineVertalerSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
Giachino, EnzoVertalerSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
Gifford, BarryIntroductieSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
Miller, HenryVoorwoordSecundaire auteursommige editiesbevestigd
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Hailed as an "American counter-culture classic," this "funny" and candid musical memoir offers a delicious glimpse into the 1930s jazz scene (The Wall Street Journal)   Mezz Mezzrow was a boy from Chicago who learned to play the sax in reform school and pursued a life in music and a life of crime. He moved from Chicago to New Orleans to New York, working in brothels and bars, bootlegging, dealing drugs, getting hooked, doing time, producing records, and playing with the greats, among them Louis Armstrong, Bix Beiderbecke, and Fats Waller.    Really the Blues--the jive-talking memoir that Mezzrow wrote at the insistence of, and with the help of, the novelist Bernard Wolfe--is the story of an unusual and unusually American life, and a portrait of a man who moved freely across racial boundaries when few could or did, "the odyssey of an individualist . . . the saga of a guy who wanted to make friends in a jungle where everyone was too busy making money."

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