Jazz - Lewd or Ludens?

'He's constantly renewing himself through the music' was a Billy Strayhorn assessment of Duke Ellington, the colossus of twentieth-century music. Strayhorn, as Ellington's co-composer and arranger, was certainly well placed to make such an assessment. Ellington was constantly renewed through his phenomenal creativity. By drawing on the creations of artists such as Ellington, we too are renewed, or re-created.

EARLY DAYS
For as long as I can remember, music in general - not least jazz - has been for me an important source of that process of renewal, of re-creativity. As a teenager with an evangelistic fervour to share my enthusiasm for jazz, I sought permission from my headmaster to form a jazz club. At the time there was an interest in revivalist jazz. It was largely of minority interest, but in the words of Francis Newton, 'there were probably few grammar schoolboys, attenders of youth clubs, and other youth organisations who had not become familiar with it.' In Britain the focus for this interest centred largely on our own so-called 'trad bands' with vocalists often modelling themselves on earlier jazz pioneers. My aim was to create a forum in which, without the ideal of being able to play, we could at least explore this passion beyond the exigencies of the British commercial offerings.
I believe my headmaster entertained a colourful if somewhat disturbing image of jazz, arising from his knowledge of the environment out of which much of it had developed. Certainly he did not share my enthusiasm. To him the image projected by jazz was incompatible with that of the respectable grammar school. All school societies had to be supervised by a member of staff. He was confident that no member of staff would supervise a jazz club. I was prepared for this: the art master played drums in a local band and, given official approval, he had already agreed to accept responsibility. His back to the wall, the headmaster then insisted that it must be called 'The Modern Music Society', and that we should not restrict ourselves solely to jazz.
Here was an irony I later savoured. The proposed change in title was in tune with the thinking of some of the luminaries of this art form, one which by this time had become an international musical language. 'Jazz' as a category has long been recognised as too restrictive. Saxophonist Ornette Coleman classified himself 'as a composer who also performs music'. In a radio broadcast in 1968, Duke Ellington made a similar observation. 'We've all worked and fought under the banner of jazz for many years, but the word itself has no meaning. There's a form of condescension in it.' To Ellington there were only two categories of music: good and bad. There is no doubting the category into which his music is classified. Igor Stravinsky, Percy Grainger, Constant Lambert and Leopold Stokowski are among those who, in different ways and at different times, acclaimed him one of the greatest living composers.
While agreeing that problems arise from its use, I will continue to use the word 'jazz', solely for ease of description.

CLUB AND CHURCH
The north-east of England was the birthplace of a minor social revolution in entertainment provision in the early 1960s. Increased holiday travel abroad had widened the horizon of people's expectations of entertainment. A test case in Newcastle upon Tyne made it possible to extend licensing hours. The revenue generated by this change, and by the new ancillary gaming facilities, provided the fees for the most expensive of cabaret artists. Out of this combination of social expectation and changed legislation the cabaret club was born. In 1965 I became chaplain to the newest - and one of the grandest - of these clubs.
The origins both of the cabaret club and of chaplaincy work of this nature can be found in the last century: the former in the variety theatre and the northern workingmen's club, and the latter with the birth of the Actors' Church Union in 1898/9. The ACU is the body now responsible for the appointment of some 200 chaplains to those who are engaged professionally in the performing arts in film, television and theatre - on-stage, backstage and front of house.
Each cabaret club had its own house band of musicians who played for dancing and invariably had the additional responsibility of accompanying the cabaret. Many able musicians were attracted to the North-East for regular and lucrative employment in these clubs. After playing from a printed score for cabaret and dancing, they would often seek stimulus through an after-hours' jazz session. This is a time-honoured tradition for generations of jazz musicians. Francis Newton has described such occasions as both collective experiment and contest, and in support he quotes two musicians of an earlier generation from Kansas City. First, drummer Jo Jones explained collective experiment. 'The guys did take the time to study, and when they had found something new they would bring it to the session and they would pass it round to the other musicians . . . it was a matter of contributing something and experimentation. Jam sessions were our fun, our outlet.' Pianist Mary Lou Williams, writing about the same town at the same time, described the competitive aspect: the 'cutting' or trying to outplay someone else. She recounted a specific occasion on which Coleman Hawkins, the leading tenor sax player of the time, made an appearance in Kansas City. He had not anticipated the stiff competition from the very able tenor men already present there, who included Lester Young and Ben Webster. Mary Lou was awoken by Webster at around four o'clock in the morning. He told her to get up; it had been a long session 'and all the pianists are tired out now. Hawkins has got his shirt off and is still blowing. You got to come down.'
I am unable to match such a colourful story, but those elements of contest (albeit with less animosity) and collective experiment were also present in the north-east of England in the 1960s, and this made for some very exciting sessions. It was, though, a risky business. With each session, and especially when they improvised, the musicians' skills, reputation and pride were on the line. What is more, they would repeatedly create within each session and yet the creation, unlike that of some other art forms, was transitory, existing just for that glorious moment. As Ornette Coleman explained: 'Jazz is the only music in which the same note can be played night after night but differently each time.'
My ministry gave me access not only to some excellent music and memorable moments but also to a lively community of musicians. Very quickly friendships were forged. Some of the musicians were living in the parish where I was working. When we met jazz was not the only subject we discussed, but it was a prominent one. The familiar references to the gospel roots of jazz developed at one time into an exchange of information on jazz musicians who had been explicit in expressing their religious faith through their music. We probably talked about the bassist Charles Mingus, who liked to think of the bandstand as something like a pulpit: 'You're up there . . . trying to express yourself. It's like being a preacher in a sense.' On another occasion Mingus emphasised: 'I believe in God . . . . And that's what the music is about, man.' We might have talked about Coleman's belief that a dedicated performance was just 'showing that God exists.' We certainly did talk about saxophonist John Coltrane and what he described as his 'spiritual awakening' in 1957. There was much interest in his 1964 recording of A Love Supreme. It is a work in four parts, comprising 'Acknowledgement', 'Resolution', 'Pursuance' and 'Psalm'. Coltrane wrote: 'This album is a humble offering to Him. An attempt to say "Thank you, God" through our work, even as we do in our hearts and with our tongues.'
Although I cannot recall all the musicians who were mentioned in our conversation about jazz and faith, I know that we did not talk about Duke Ellington. I remember with great clarity being amazed many years later to learn that, at that very time and unknown to us, Ellington had accepted an invitation to play a concert of sacred music in San Francisco's Grace Cathedral. It was to be a contribution to the celebrations for the Cathedral's consecration. His autobiography, published a year before his death, bore the title Music Is My Mistress. Through what he came to call his 'Sacred Concert' he was introducing that 'mistress', his music, to the other 'mistress', his faith. That, entirely coincidentally, was an accurate description of what was developing out of our own conversations.
My original suggestion was that some of the pieces we had discussed might be performed in concert in church. The better suggestion came from the musicians themselves. They would play their own music if I would produce the words. With a little help from a friend, I did. The theme was 'God's actions in history and today'. It started with the Bible and progressed from there giving examples of the Holy Spirit at work in the world, with the final section - 'Alabama Today' - reflecting on the issue of racial harmony in 1966 America.
The music was to be provided by six very talented musicians then working in the cabaret clubs: alto saxophonist Ron Aspery, pianist Bob Stephenson, vibraphone player Jack Gibson, bassists Roy Babbington and Kenny Wright, and drummer Ronnie Pearson. Jo Jones' 'collective experiment' was a notable mark of this ensemble. When we met for practice, each individual would suggest themes to illustrate passages of the text. In an atmosphere of mutual encouragement, agreement would be reached, the music would be played and I would talk through the text. It could, however, never be a full rehearsal. Allowance had to be made for improvisation on the day.
The press coverage during the week leading up to the performance on the eve of Whitsunday 1966 was not encouraging. The church's sacristan, a respected member of the congregation, told a reporter she thought it was 'terrible'. 'I don't think jazz music is reverent. I don't think it blends in with the sacredness of the church . . . . Still, I shall be here . . . .'
She was there on that sunny Saturday afternoon, along with an audience of about a hundred or so others. The atmosphere was charged; the musicians played as I could never have expected. We planned for an interval to follow the account of Jesus' crucifixion. This section would end with the familiar account of Jesus' death and the music would be tacit. On the day of the performance I spoke those words and then, totally unexpectedly, Ron Aspery grabbed his saxophone and released a piercing wail. I knew my movement from the church was to signal the start of the interval but, for what felt like several minutes, I could not move. When eventually I did, I walked outside the church into the sunlight and was soon joined by a hundred people walking around the church grounds in total silence, lost in their own thoughts, reflecting on what they had just experienced.
A rousing Resurrection theme introduced the second part of the programme, and so on to Alabama. At the end of the performance, the vicar, a Fellow of the Royal College of Organists, rushed to the organ where he improvised as never before. It could have been an expression of relief that his young curate had not, after all, been the cause of a scandal in church! I prefer to believe, however, that he had been inspired by the afternoon's experience.
My assessment of the event can justifiably be dismissed as biased. Let me, then, quote from an account by Luke Casey, a journalist who was present. 'The jazzmen played music such as has never been heard in church before. It was sweet like the voice of angels, harsh like the crucifixion. It soared all the way to heaven and sank to the doors of hell.' Through it all there came the story: 'one that chilled, moved and inspired . . . told . . . as though it was the first time ever. Yet it was the old, old story of God.' Of the musicians he wrote: 'Like many other people they were not particularly strong Christians. Yet after the session they all declared that "something wonderful" had happened to them.' Drummer Ronnie Pearson told him: '[It] really happened here today. I wouldn't care if I didn't play at the club for another year, just to have experienced that.' Ron Aspery's description of the aim and experience was reported as: 'to put over how God had revealed himself to men, and that is exactly what I think happened today. It was marvellous.' One of the musicians told me that, far from 'cutting', he did not even think about impressing - the music just flowed through him. Almost word for word, he had articulated drummer Billy Higgins' experience that 'Music doesn't come from you, it comes through you.' This is an experience common to all art forms.
Luke Casey also interviewed the sacristan; or rather, she sought him out. She had the grace to tell him: 'It was magnificent. I don't mind admitting I was very wrong indeed.'

THE ELLINGTON EXPERIENCE
In 1968 I was appointed full-time Chaplain to the Arts and Recreation in North-East England, which allowed more time for work with artists of all art forms. We converted a former rectory into an arts centre where those who were engaged professionally in the arts could meet and experiment. Musicians, skilled and adept at improvisation, played a leading part in some of the sessions, especially those with visual and performing artists.
There were more opportunities to develop what had been started on that Whit Saturday two years earlier. On one occasion the text came from Markings, the spiritual journal of Dag Hammarskjöld. The ensemble consisted of piano, bass, drums/percussion and one front line saxophone doubling on flute. Peter Ayton, who played bass, remembers well the experience as they responded 'through improvisation to some extremely profound spiritual writings. This was coupled with performing in church, complete with all its aesthetic and spiritual ambience, to offer further succour to the extemporisation.' Once again the reaction of both musician and audience bore testimony to the power of this music in this setting.
One of the first entertainers I met as chaplain to the cabaret club was Will Gaines, a dynamic exponent of be-bop, the high speed style of tap dancing that has close associations with jazz. He had grown up in Detroit alongside some of the most important jazz musicians such as pianist Tommy Flanagan and guitarist Kenny Burrell. Among others Will had worked with were the saxophonists Lucky Thompson and Sonny Stitt. In 1969, a few years after we met, he worked with Ellington and his orchestra in a concert in Bristol - part of Ellington's Seventieth Birthday Tour. The piece which Will Gaines danced came originally from the major show My People, that Ellington had conceived and composed in 1963. The piece was called David Danced, and illustrated the reference in the Second Book of Samuel to David dancing before the Lord with all his might (2 Samuel 6).
It was not until 1982, eight years after Ellington's death, that I realised the significance of this. Will invited my wife and me to St Paul's Cathedral where, as part of the Festival of the City of London, there was to be a further attempt to present items from Ellington's sacred music, and Will was again to dance David Danced.
I was to learn there that Ellington's Sacred Concerts were very important to him. He had said, quite simply, 'This is personal, not career. Now I can say out loud to all the world what I've been saying to myself for years on my knees.' His deep and abiding faith sprang from his mother. From her he derived his love of the Bible. He used to claim that he had had three educations: 'the street corner, going to school and the Bible. The Bible is the most important. It taught me to look at a man's insides instead of the outside of his suit.' His was a simple faith, but a powerful one. Those who knew him knew this.
In the programme for the first Sacred Concert, in Grace Cathedral in 1965, Ellington wrote: 'As I travel from place to place by car, bus, train, plane . . . taking rhythm to the dancers, harmony to the romantic, melody to the nostalgic, gratitude to the listener . . . receiving praise, applause and handshakes, and at the same time, doing the thing I like to do, I feel that I am most fortunate because I know that God has blessed my timing, without which nothing could have happened - the right time or place or with the right people. The four must converge. Thank God.'
That first Sacred Concert had two British performances: in 1966 in Coventry Cathedral and the following year at Cambridge's Great St Mary's Church. In 1968 all but one of the compositions were replaced for his second Sacred Concert which was performed at the Cathedral of St John the Divine in New York. His third Sacred Concert was premiered in Westminster Abbey in 1973, the year before he died.
The concert in St Paul's Cathedral in 1982 was organised by Derek Jewell. Then jazz critic of the Sunday Times and an Ellington biographer who knew him personally, Jewell brought to the task both a knowledge and an awareness of the importance of this music to Ellington. He chose carefully those who were to take part, just as Ellington had always done. The music was played by the Alan Cohen Big Band, which had the finest available musicians, including pianist Stan Tracey and saxophonist John Surman. It was hosted and narrated by actors Rod Steiger and Douglas Fairbanks Jnr respectively. Among the featured singers were Tony Bennett, Adelaide Hall and the Swingle Singers. Jazz fusionist Jacques Loussier took part, and the dancers included Wayne Sleep as well as Will Gaines dancing the mighty David piece.
For whatever reason, even this glittering array of talent was insufficient to ensure success. It is true that the Cathedral's acoustics merged badly with the amplification of television. Reviewing the event, Peter Vacher commented that 'therein lay the concert's ruin, with the combined evils of showbiz and Channel Four considerations overtaking its solemn and serious purpose. Sound failed and lights went down, a floor manager waved his arms and the ghost of Ellington got up and crept away.' Of course these technical difficulties detracted from the performances, but I had a different theory to explain the failure. I admitted to Derek Jewell that I had been disappointed by the concert and was relieved to hear him agree. Ellington had always insisted that only the best talent should be engaged for his Sacred Concerts. Derek Jewell had applied this criterion. Why then had it not worked?
There followed a number of questions in quick succession to which I attempted some answers. I suggested that the Sacred Concerts were a personal statement or testimony. Without Ellington they lost their integrity. Perhaps the integrity could be found through the objective structure of the church's eucharistic liturgy? The liturgical invitation to confession, for example, could be replaced by Ellington's Don't Get Down On Your Knees To Pray Until You Have Forgiven Everyone. Employing items from the Sacred Concerts in this way might create the equivalent of an 'Ellington Mass'.
Derek was interested. We met the following day to explore further my suggestion. We also reached agreement on where it might be performed in this form and who might play. The main problem would be finance. The costs for arrangements, rehearsals and performance would be substantial, but there could be no charge for admission to an act of worship. Sadly, Derek Jewell died before I was able to raise the necessary money. But I was determined to carry forward the proposal.
I chose the items from recordings of the Sacred Concerts, and decided where they should fit into the Eucharist. I was pleased with the result, yet I was concerned that in performance the music might be a pastiche. To my mind only one musician could save it from this: Stan Tracey, one of the greatest jazz musicians to emerge from either side of the Atlantic. As well as leading almost every ensemble from duo to octet, he also leads a highly acclaimed big band which 'mirrors his piano work in its pungent dynamism'.
In 1989, as an expression of his admiration for Duke Ellington, Tracey issued the record We Still Love You Madly. 'Duke Ellington', he told me, 'was for me one of the great musicians of the twentieth century and in the field of jazz beyond category.' The influence of Ellington on Stan's music has been well documented, as have similarities in approach. His piano playing, for example, has been described as 'pungent, percussive and harmonically daring', influenced as it is by the piano styles of Ellington and Thelonius Monk. Further, Felix Aprahamian, writing in the Sunday Times in the 1960s, described Tracey as the most individual harmonist since Frederick Delius. Thirty years earlier Ellington had himself enjoyed the same comparison, made by Constant Lambert in the New Statesman and by Percy Grainger before Ellington had heard of Delius!
There could, then, be no one better qualified and more sensitive to the task than Stan Tracey. Will Gaines effected our introduction and I outlined my plan. Stan was immediately enthusiastic.
While still trying to raise the money, I sought the support of Peter Baelz, the then Dean of Durham, for the work to be premiered in Durham Cathedral with the Cathedral choir singing some of the items. His enthusiasm matched that of Stan himself. But the Master of the Choristers at first rejected the idea. For him this music was totally inappropriate for a church. Only after further discussions with the Dean did he reluctantly agree.
These preparations would have been quite futile without the necessary finance. A chance meeting with Lord Palumbo, then Chair of the Arts Council of Great Britain, provided the immediate impetus. He, too, was enthusiastic and passed on the information about the proposal to a friend who was a jazz aficionado. This led to the surprise arrival of a cheque for a substantial contribution to the costs. Additional support came from Northern Arts, and then, at the last minute, from Durham County Council. Stan immediately started work. First, the recordings had to be transcribed because there were no printed scores available. For jazz this is not unusual. As Francis Newton noted: 'Most jazz scores, if they exist at all, are . . . rather simple and rough approximations, which leave at least the detail of tone, rhythm, inflexion, and the like to the jazz instincts of the players.' This was a major task out of which Stan produced arrangements for his fifteen piece orchestra; arrangements which capture the spirit of Ellington without slavishly reproducing every note, so that the musicians can be engaged in 'a process of discovery, rather than a series of achievements'. As such, the Mass was to be a living creative art form rather than a pastiche.
The musicians engaged by Stan Tracey always read like a who's who of British modern jazz, including both a range of major soloists and some of the foremost section players. The premiere in Durham Cathedral on 6 October 1990 was no exception. With Stan Tracey on piano were saxophonists Peter King, Jamie Talbot, Art Themen, Alan Skidmore, with baritone saxophonist Dave Bishop; trumpeters Guy Barker, Henry Lowther, John Barclay and Alan Downey; trombonists Malcolm Griffiths, Chris Pyne and Geoff Perkins; bassist Dave Green and drummer Clark Tracey. The choir was augmented by jazz vocalist Tina May, who sang some of the solo parts, and, of course, Will Gaines was engaged to dance the David piece.
Two days before the event James Lancelot, the Master of Choristers, and I travelled to London for the rehearsal of the orchestra at the Black Bull in Barnes. Once James heard the orchestra he was fully converted!
On the afternoon before the evening Eucharist the orchestra performed Stan Tracey's own masterwork Genesis, a suite in seven parts based on the creation narrative from the Book of Genesis. Reviewing the work, Anthony Troon describes Tracey as 'one of our most abundantly inspired composers' and further comments: 'The curious thing is that, while it does not plagiarise Ellington in any way, the shade of the Duke sits somewhere in the middle of it, snapping his fingers and narrowing his eyes against the cigarette smoke. Ellington would have loved it madly; alternatively, he would have hated it because it was not his creation.' Between each movement I inserted the relevant verses from the Book of Genesis together with poetry chosen by David Jasper, including works by Henry Vaughan, Dylan Thomas, William Blake, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Dante and Ezra Pound. Professional actors Edward Wilson and Val McLane were the readers. The original reason for the performance of Genesis was financial. As it was a concert we could charge for admission and any profits would help to defray some of the costs of presenting the Eucharist. In the event it was itself a great artistic success, 'in every way worthy of such a magnificent setting'.
In his address at the Eucharist Peter Baelz, by now Dean Emeritus, focussed on the importance of offering: 'There is something deep within the human spirit which wants to offer, to give of its utmost and best, not so much to celebrate human achievement as to signify the presence of ultimate mystery. More than once [Duke Ellington] made reference to God's juggler who, having no skills in music or in song, offered the only skill he had, and in the silence of an empty church stood before the high altar and juggled to the greater glory of God, and to the astonishment of a chance observer. In discerning, developing and sharing our gifts of nature and grace we align ourselves with the creative and redemptive purposes of the One whom we call God, and in offering them in worship we participate in his continuing work of making creation whole and holy.' Ellington's music was, he said, 'a music of memory and hope. Finding its own place at a particular time and in a particular culture, it nevertheless speaks universally to the human condition. And so speaking it takes its proper place in a universal sacrifice of praise and thanksgiving.'
Peter Baelz had certainly captured the spirit of the occasion; the common experience that what was taking place encapsulated that spirit of praise and thanksgiving. It was, without doubt, both a profoundly spiritual experience and a musical triumph, as well as being a fitting tribute to the greatness of Duke Ellington.
Pete Martin reviewed the occasion for The Guardian: 'Critics of Duke Ellington's music have been rather hard on his extended pieces, and few have enthused over the Sacred Concert which became his preoccupation late in life. Such works, it is said, lack structure and development. . . . What this view neglects, however, is that Ellington's sacred music was conceived as explicitly functional - its purpose being to accompany and stimulate worship, to engender a sense of both humility and transcendence. The congregation of Durham Cathedral on Saturday night had a rare and precious opportunity to experience the power of Ellington's inspiration. The problem of structure was solved . . . by the simple but brilliant expedient of setting a selection of the Duke's sacred music in the context of a full-scale Mass. . . . Stan Tracey arranged [the pieces] with evident respect, and the whole memorable event was realised by Tracey's orchestra with the Cathedral choir and soloists. The occasion seemed to draw a response from the musicians which surpassed even their usual impressive standards, as they evoked the spirit of the Duke while telling their own stories. . . . I'm sure that there were many in the Cathedral on Saturday who felt Ellington was present among them.' Another reviewer referred to the occasion as 'quite unforgettable', adding 'the Cathedral's eleventh-century Romanesque setting proved uncannily conducive for jazz, both when the orchestra blended with the Durham Cathedral Choir and when this great big band simply rocked in rhythm.'
My aim of bringing together jazz and the cathedral choral tradition of music had worked well because of the high quality of each and through mutual respect. It was a triumph both for Stan and for James Lancelot, who by now was very enthusiastic and eager to repeat the experience. Over the next few days, we received very many letters of appreciation.
World-renowned saxophonist Peter King, whose 'glorious floating alto solo on Come Sunday' lives on in the inner ear, expressed his immense admiration for Stan Tracey's achievement and told me that, for him, it was 'unlike any other occasion, both moving and awesome'. For Tracey himself, this opportunity to play Ellington's 'sacred music in Durham Cathedral was one of the most uplifting moments in my career'.
James Lancelot lent his voice to the demand for it to be repeated and, in May 1993, it was. The occasion was a combined celebration: the 25th anniversary of the Chaplaincy to the Arts and Recreation and part of the celebrations of the 900th anniversary of the laying of the foundation stones of Durham Cathedral.
Once again it was a great success. Of the many expressions of appreciation let one suffice. Professor Dick Watson, an expert on Victorian hymnody and a member of the Archbishops' Commission on church music, attended the performances both in 1990 and 1993: 'The first time I found the "Ellington Mass" to be extraordinarily exciting, and felt therefore that the second time I would be disappointed. In fact, I did find it less exciting because I knew what to expect, but I now found it deeply satisfying spiritually. It was on the second occasion that the integration of the music and the Mass particularly struck me.'
Further performances followed, at Dewsbury and in Ely Cathedral. The Ely event was reviewed in Jazz UK:

As a committed atheist, I had to keep reminding myself that the Anglican Eucharist service which took place in Ely Cathedral . . . was not a jazz concert. . . . That this was a large congregation, not a jazz audience, was fascinating, for they were clearly responding to much of the music . . . and when dozens of communicants filed up to take Bread and Wine while Stan ruminated in that unaccompanied Ellington solo style of which he is a master, I actually wished I could join in. The robes, the smiling faces, the incredible beauty of one of Britain's finest cathedrals, right down to dear old Will Gaines leading the Dean . . . and all the rest down the aisle after the final David Danced Before The Lord, like some beatifically smiling Pied Piper, was pure joy. A wonderful, uplifting evening of rare beauty.

This was a familiar expression of the experience from each venue. Each time, new ground was broken. Those who came for the music, and particularly to hear Stan Tracey, were caught up in the spirituality; while those who came because it was an act of worship were caught up in the music.
The Ely performance was recorded for BBC's Radio 4 to be broadcast as part of its programme of Sunday morning worship. Drastic editing was essential and was executed with great skill but, sadly, much was lost in the process. Nonetheless, the BBC received many letters of congratulations. They also, it should be added, received a few letters from some who felt that this music was inappropriate for church worship. Déjà vu!

THEOLOGICAL REFLECTIONS
On being asked to describe the effect of jazz in church, I instinctively reach to borrow from Miles Davis' words in dismissal of critics: 'Who can tell what love is?' Through the occasion, the setting and the musicians with their skill, sensitivity and insight we have experienced what Ellington described as 'mystical moments': those occasions when performers' muses 'were all one and the same'. The listener also has a part to play. As John Coltrane recognised, 'the audience in listening is in an act of participation. . . . And when somebody is moved as you are . . . it's just like having another member of the group.'
Words are inadequate to express this experience, but I am struck by the similarities between jazz and the church. Each has grown, for example, out of a liminal environment. In Neil Leonard's words, jazz for its part has existed 'on the fringes or in the cracks of the social structure . . . flourishing in egalitarian, simply organised groups and guided mainly by peers, they operate at a remove from many ordinary responsibilities and preconceptions and freely question conventional standards of behaviour. Their climate is charged with potency and potentiality that encourages experimentation, spontaneity, improvisation and imagination in art and conduct.' A deep sense of understanding and fellowship grew out of these circumstances.
Yes, 'improvisation and imagination'. Improvisation plays an important part in this because, as Francis Newton points out, 'it stands for the constant living re-creation of the music, the excitement and inspiration of the players which is communicated to us.' Imagination is important as 'the ability by which human beings make present what is absent. It is at the root of the intellect. . . . It enables me to make present what is in fact not immediately present to me. It is also the ability to dream. . . . It is, too, the root of action. Because the imagination is a feeling and a feeling after, it is pre-conceptual. It allows images and symbols to do the work of communication before the intellect tries to order them and give them coherence and connection. Imagination is creative.'
Similarly, it is out of a liminal environment, either actual or metaphorical, that many Christians have found what Miles Davis has described as 'a continuing process of discovery'. This could be a description of the journey of faith, and for this improvisation and imagination are also necessary.
Pianist Dave Brubeck described improvisation in jazz as 'about the only form of art existing today in which there is freedom of the individual without the loss of group contact'. As Christians, we are the players, improvising like the musicians by listening to the other players and making our contribution within the clearly-agreed rules by which we play.
This concept of play is rooted in the depths of our very being. Hugo Rahner argues that play is a neglected strand running through the Bible. In the account of creation in the Book of Proverbs, for example, Divine Wisdom is depicted as 'at play' at the creation of the world. 'When he fixed the heavens firm, I was there, when he laid down the foundations of the earth, I was by his side, a master craftsman, at play everywhere in his world.'
Divine Wisdom at play. This element of play has, then, to be seen as an essential element in God's nature. In fact, Psalm 104 speaks of God relaxing by romping in the sea with Leviathan, and an old rabbinical tradition similarly depicts God as spending the last hours of daylight playing in the sea with this monster.
For Rahner, 'the picture of God rejoicing over the completion of the world still has about it something of the delight taken by the artist in his own free-roving fancy and so keeps alive the idea of play'. At creation God established order, an order which is in marked contrast to the chaos of much human existence. Music gives a voice to that order and can also fuse together into a spiritual unity the joy and sadness of our human condition within creation. In all great music we can perceive an act of playing; one which includes a childlike awareness, just as the child at play combines celebration with a committed seriousness. This reminds us of Jesus' injunction that we become as little children.
God at play. This is our God in whose image we are made. Deus sapiens. Deus ludens. But we are homo ludens before we are homo sapiens. Sadly, in our work-based society that element of play is only allowed to be peripheral to what are often misrepresented as the essentials of life. The musician stands out in marked contrast to this, because music is a form of playing. It is no accident that in most languages the word used for play is the same word as the one used for playing a musical instrument. The jazz musician is in tune with this, employing the imagination and playing through the improvisation. In the eucharistic setting with Ellington's music, the combination of dance and music expresses this powerfully. This was highlighted in a letter to me from Edward Wilson, Director of The National Youth Theatre, who had been present at the 1990 performance. 'The Mass,' he wrote, 'so often a ceremony of great solemnity, should also be an occasion of great joy and exuberance. There can be no more potent an example of this than when the great jazz hoofer, Will Gaines, literally dances for joy at the conclusion of the Mass in the setting created from Duke Ellington's music.' The ending to the traditional Latin Mass, Ite missa est is thus replaced by Ite et ludite - Go and play.
When we play jazz, or influence its playing by our receptive listening, we can be tuning in to something very precious and at the very depths of our being. When this takes place in church we can be consciously or unconsciously aware that homo ludens is truly made in the image of Deus ludens.

NOTES

1. Nat Hentoff, Jazz Is, p. 26, quoted in Neil Leonard, Jazz: Myth and Religion, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987, p. 58.
   
2. Francis Newton, The Jazz Scene, Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961, p. 245.
3. John Rockwell, All American Music, p. 190, quoted in Leonard, Jazz: Myth and Religion, p. 33.
4. Derek Jewell, Duke, London: Sphere Books, 1978, p. 25.
5. N. Shapiro and N. Hentoff, Hear Me Talkin' To Ya, p. 264, quoted in Newton, The Jazz Scene, p. 72.
6. ibid. Duke Ellington also referred to 'cutting contests where you defended your honour with your instrument' (Jewell, Duke, p. 213).
7. Robert I. Fitzhenry (ed.), Say it again Sam: A Book of Quotations, London: Michael O'Mara Books, 1996, p. 311.
8. Hentoff, Jazz Is, p. 64, quoted in Leonard, Jazz: Myth and Religion, pp. 47-48.
9. Brian Priestly, Mingus, pp. 114, 192, quoted in Leonard, Jazz: Myth and Religion, p. 49.
10. Nat Hentoff, The Jazz Life, London: Panther, 1964, p. 211.
11. John Coltrane, A Love Supreme, notes from record sleeve (1964).
12. As reported by Luke Casey, The Northern Echo, May 1966.
13. ibid.
14. Len Lyons, The Great Pianists, p. 127, quoted in Leonard,
15. Jazz: Myth and Religion, p. 41.
16. See Paul Klee's simile of the tree, in his essay 'On Modern Art', in Robert L Herbert (ed.), Modern Artists on Art, New York: Prentice Hall, 1964, pp. 76-77.
17. The Northern Echo, May 1966.
18. Peter Ayton in a letter describing the event, September 1997.
    Jewell, Duke. p. 181.
19. ibid., pp. 27, 33.
20. ibid., p. 182.
21. Peter Vacher, Jazz Journal International, 1982.
    
22. From Jazz: The Essential Companion, quoted by Chris Yates for programme notes in Ellington in Durham 1990.
23. From New Grove Dictionary of Jazz, quoted by Chris Yates for programme notes in Ellington in Durham 1990.
24. New Statesman, quoted by Jewell, Duke, p. 68.
25. Jewell, Duke, p. 60.
26. Newton, The Jazz Scene, pp. 20-21.
27. ibid., pp. 98-99.
28. Anthony Troon, in The Scotsman.
29. Pete Martin, reviewing Genesis in The Guardian on Tuesday 9 October 1990.
    
30. Dean Peter Baelz and Canon Ronald Coppin had throughout been encouraging and supportive of my plans for the Ellington setting. Sadly Peter Baelz was to retire before the plans were realised, but John Arnold, his successor, continued to offer the same support and agreed to invite his predecessor back to preach at the premiere.
    
31. From Peter Baelz's address in Durham Cathedral on 6 October 1990.
    
32. Pete Martin's Guardian review of Tuesday 9 October 1990.
    
33. Chris Yates, 'Newcastle Notes', in Jazz in the North East, issue 18, jan/feb/mar 1991, p. 5.
    
34. ibid.
    
35. Quoted by Jon Williams, 'Cherished Ambitions', in Choir and Organ, April/May 1995, p. 27.
    
36. Item included in 'Scene and Heard', in Jazz UK, Jan. 1997.
    
37. Hentoff, The Jazz Life, p. 215.
    
38. Priestly, Mingus, p. 137, quoted by Leonard, Jazz:
39. Myth and Religion, p. 54.
    
40. Frank Kofsky, Black Nationalism and the Revolution in Music, p. 226, quoted by Leonard, Jazz: Myth and Religion, p. 69.
    
41. Victor Turner, quoted by Leonard, Jazz: Myth and Religion, pp. 25-26.
    
42. Newton, The Jazz Scene, p. 130.
    
43. Peter Baelz, A Serious Business: A Theatre-Church Consultation (papers from a conference sponsored by the Actors' Church Union), 1989, p. 67.
    
44. Hentoff, The Jazz Life, p. 177.
    
45. Brubeck, quoted in Fitzhenry (ed.), Say It Again Sam, p. 311.
    
46. Hugo Rahner, S.J., Man at Play, tr. Brian Battershaw and Edward Quinn,
47. London: Burns & Oates, 1965.
    
48. Proverbs 8:27-31 (Jerusalem Bible).
    
49. Psalm 104:24b-26 (Jerusalem Bible).
    
50. Rahner, Man at Play, p. 21.
    
51. ibid., p. 61.
    
52. For the references to 'play', I owe much to the following: Rahner, Man at Play; Johan Huizinga, Homo Ludens, London: Paladin, 1970; Josef Pieper, Leisure, the Basis of Culture, tr. Alexander Dru, London: Fontana, 1965; Harvey Cox, The Feast of Fools, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1969.