Free The History of Jazz by Ted Gioia

efforts of big band leaders Fletcher Henderson and Benny Goodman, who adapted it to meet the new tastes of the time. In the mid-1930s, Morton settled in Washington, DC, where he ran an unsuccessful nightclub on U Street—the club changed names every few months in a fruitless attempt to attract a clientele—and continued to hatch schemes for reviving his music career.
    In 1938, he succeeded in doing just that, spurring his comeback through an audacious move marked by all the trademark Morton excesses. “It is evidently known, beyond contradiction, that New Orleans is the cradle of jazz, and I myself happened to be the creator,” opens a celebrated letter Morton sent to Downbeat magazine. 19 The conclusion of this long-winded epistle put everything into perspective, or at least into a Jelly Roll perspective:
My contributions were many: First clown director, with witty sayings and flashily dressed, now called master of ceremonies; first glee club in orchestra; the first washboard was recorded by me; bass fiddle, drums—which was supposed to be impossible to record. I produced the fly swatter (they now call them brushes). Of course many imitators arose after my being fired or quitting. … Lord protect us from more Hitlers and Mussolinis.
     
    The letter is signed, “Jelly Roll Morton, Originator of Jazz and Stomps, Victor Artist, World’s Greatest Hot Tune Writer.”
    Similar letters were sent to other parties, and before long Morton had established his position as, if not the inventor of jazz, at least its most noteworthy cause célèbre. Further attention came on the heels of the Library of Congress recordings conducted by Alan Lomax. If the Downbeat letter presented Morton as blusterer, the Lomax interviews offered a more compelling account of his achievements. In his playing, singing, theorizing, and reminiscing on these sessions, Morton left behind one of the most spellbinding documents in the history of jazz music. An era comes to life, revivified under the sure touch of his fingers as they glance over the keyboard and sketched with oratorical aplomb by Morton’s hypnotic voice. Whether as huckster or historian, Morton was a persuasive talker, and record companies were again listening, after the long dry spell of the early and mid-1930s. He made the best of these new opportunities. In particular, a series of intimate recordings, released under the name “New Orleans Memories,” showcased not only his strengths as a composer (most notably on “The Crave”) and pianist, but also his less-known skills as a vocalist. His singing here, as well as on the Lomax sessions, is deeply moving and suggests that, under different circumstances, Morton might have made his name in the music world without touching the keyboard.
    Morton enjoyed his new status as an elder statesman of jazz for only a few short years. Late in 1940, following the death of his godmother, Morton drove across the country in inclement weather, with his Lincoln and Cadillac chained together. He was concerned that some diamonds that were in his godmother’s possession might be stolen (as events turned out, his fears were confirmed). He stayed on in California, working sporadically as a musician, but soon fell ill. On July 10, 1941, he died in the Los Angeles County General Hospital.
    The jazz world still has not come to grips with this complicated figure from its earliest days. Morton has served as the inspiration for a novel and has been depicted in a Hollywood movie, excoriated in a Broadway musical, commemorated in modern dance choreography, and psychoanalyzed in liner notes, essays, and articles. Most of these efforts, however, latch on to one side of this variegated personality, usually emphasizing the braggadocio, the gems and flashy wardrobe, or the underworld trappings, painting Morton as some sort of Crescent City Mack the Knife. Too often the music, which is the real diamond in this psychological abyss, gets lost in the process. Even the