Sascha Feinstein, the editor of this series of exceptional conversations “with Critics and Biographers,” describes himself as an “amateur saxophonist”. However its decidedly on the literary front where he’s made his mark, including this latest volume. The Professor of English at Lycoming College in Williamsport, PA, is a prolific poet, essayist and editor with a true insiders feel for jazz and its innerworkings.
Sascha’s previous jazz-focused books include Ask Me Now: Conversations on jazz & literature; Jazz Poetry: From the 1920s to the Present; and A Bibliographic Guide to Jazz Poetry. In 1996 he founded Brilliant Corners: A Journal of Jazz & Literature, which is where our paths first crossed. A man after my own heart, he also hosts the radio program Jazz Standards, on WVIA, the NPR station for central Pennsylvania. As an honored conversant in Writing Jazz, the overall scope as well as the genesis of his series of inquiries was intriguing, so we asked Sascha Feinstein some Independent Ear questions.
Independent Ear: This is a fairly unique book, in terms of conveying the origins of these writer’s pursuits, and the inspirations/motivations and methodologies of those who write/have written about jazz.
What was your overall mission with Writing Jazz and conducting this series of interviews?
Sascha Feinstein: As you know, I founded Brilliant Corners: A Journal of Jazz & Literature in 1996, and
every issue concludes with an interview. The first ten years of interviews were reprinted in the
book Ask Me Now: Conversations on Jazz & Literature. Ten years after that, I tried to publish a
companion volume, but it kept getting rejected because publishers weren’t interested in primary-
source materials (as inane as that may sound). So the interviews accumulated. Then I thought of
focusing exclusively on nonfiction prose—a cleaner package, if you will—and SUNY Press
snapped it up.
This focus naturally resulted in some fascinating comparisons. You and Bob Blumenthal,
for example, both write liners for rereleased recordings, but your approaches—at least in terms
of considering the original liners—are almost antithetical. A. B. Spellman was a significant
figure in and advocate for the Black Arts Movement of the 1960s; Stanley Crouch dismissed the
movement entirely. It was interesting to hear how Martin Williams was warmly referenced by so
many. In other words, I very much like how these writers are not only talking to me but, in this
context at least, seem to be talking to one another as well. The book includes an outstanding
index (which I did not compile) that can guide readers to some of the overlapping people and
issues.
IE: Among those writers you interviewed for Writing Jazz, you chose a varied lot – including
some otherwise identified as academics, archivists, poets, presenters, etc. How did you
determine who to interview for this book?
SF: Some of the choices, no lie, had to do partly with geographic constraints. Prior to
COVID, I insisted on conducting the interviews in person, which meant, basically, meeting with
people on the East Coast. That said, I’ve only chosen authors whose work I admire. And, as you
point out, I’ve tried to broaden the discussions of jazz-related prose by engaging a range of
writers. I think that’s as important as embracing the range of jazz itself.
An aside: Some of the people interviewed in Ask Me Now should join the jam session of
Writing Jazz, especially Amiri Baraka, Gary Giddins, and Dan Morgenstern.
Generally speaking, I try to choose people whose work has been enormously important, if
not essential, to jazz-related literature. One cannot discuss the history of jazz criticism, for
example, without acknowledging the contributions by Whitney Balliett and Stanley Crouch.
Linda Dahl’s work on women and jazz was groundbreaking. Robin D.G. Kelley’s biography on
Monk may be the greatest jazz bio to date. Bob Blumenthal remains one of our most astute
writers of liner notes. Ricky Riccardi on Pops, John Hasse on Duke, you on Randy Weston,
Farah Griffin on Lady Day, Maxine Gordon on Dexter—one cannot have a discussion about the
literature on those jazz luminaries without including these writers. Mic drop.
IE: Some of the titles for each interview chapter are fairly self-explanatory; such as “Evidence”
for Thelonious Monk biographer Robin D.G. Kelley and “The Archival Mind” for Ricky
Riccardi, whereas others at first glance may be viewed as a bit more abstract: “Breaking Down
the Gates” for Linda Dahl, “But I Know What Time It Is Now” for Hettie Jones, or “If You Can’t
Do Better, Might as Well Just Stay Away” for the Hanging Judge, Stanley Crouch. How did you
come up with those?
SF: I primarily write and teach poetry, so titles matter to me. I think they should be engaging.
“Evidence” worked nicely, I thought, because, yes, it’s a Monk tune but it also enhanced what
Robin insisted upon: meticulous research. And Ricky’s understanding of Pops is Rain Man-like
(the guys at Mosaic Records refer to him as Rickipedia) so “The Archival Mind” seemed
appropriate.
The other three? Well, Linda talked at length about getting past those who guard legacies,
for one reason or another. She called them Gate Keepers, so the chapter title essentially invoked
her imagery. The one for Hettie Jones is, of course, a lyric from the tune “I Didn’t Know What
Time It Was.” In her interview, she returned to various events where the timing just wasn’t right:
the culture’s reaction to her interracial marriage, a publisher’s inability to see the importance of
writing about interracial heritage, and so on. (In her words: “It’s a drag being ahead of your
time.”) But all that unpleasantness was now largely behind her, and she spoke with such
marvelous focus and confidence and humor. Thus: “But I Know What Time It Is Now.”
Stanley, no surprise, was the opposite of Hettie in terms of a welcoming demeanor. We
were to meet in a Manhattan bistro (not his apartment) and he kept me waiting—a long time. (He
eventually arrived with a sack of dirty laundry.) The vibe was clear: “I’m not concerned about
wasting your time, and you better not waste mine.” But he got into a groove pretty quickly, and
the overall feel of our conversation, it seemed to me, was one of challenge: If you’re in the arts,
you’d better have the goods. I mean, he was a verbal Sonny Liston, you know? But at the end of
our exchange, he inscribed my copy of Considering Genius with great warmth. I’ll treasure that.
IE: A few of those you interviewed have been consistent jazz publication contributors through
their career, while others have made their marks primarily as book authors. How did you
determine to have such a diversity of interview contributors to this book?
SF: There have been various reasons and differing circumstances. Some people I’ve known
personally for years; others I sought out. In the case of Maxine Gordon, it was partly good
fortune: We were both speakers at the Satchmo Jazz Fest in New Orleans, and I found out that
we would be in neighboring towns that coming summer. Sometimes I’m trying to fill a gap. For
example, I had previously interviewed a number of people associated with the Black Arts
Movement—Baraka, Jayne Cortez, Haki Madhubuti, Sonia Sanchez, to name a few—so
interviewing A. B. Spellman was way overdue. He’s also someone whose writing deeply
educated me, especially regarding freer forms of jazz that were way beyond my teenage ears.
Jazz literature has been absolutely dominated by male voices, and I thought it was important to include Maxine, Farah, Hettie, and Laurie Pepper. I believe in diversity, provided that it’s
grounded in respect.
IE: Ultimately, as far as this book’s place in the overall jazz book bibliography, what impressions
did you hope to make on the readers of this book as far as the overall craft of Writing Jazz?
I treat all the interviews as working texts, which is to say, they’ve been heavily edited by
me and the author. I want fluid narratives, as well as formal breaks for cadences and
introspection. I eliminate repetitive material and aim to conclude each piece with something
resonant, in keeping with the final notes of an album. There is a lot of crafting in this book, but
never at the expense of the authors’ intentions.
Often, I eliminate my questions altogether so as not to be a distraction. This was
particularly important with the Whitney Balliett discussion. We were friends, and I’d admired his
interviews for decades. We met in his Manhattan apartment. I figured this would be a breeze. But
Whit just wouldn’t talk! I was getting all these monosyllabic answers . . . Man, I wasn’t prepared
for that, and I had to do a lot of “knitting.”
Conversely, you might consider my last interview with the poet Michael Harper (not in
this collection). In the first hour and forty-seven minutes, I asked exactly two questions—neither
of which he answered! (As a different poet said to me once: “I know I’m a windy Elder.”) Those
conversations require an entirely different set of editorial skills. But, again, the point is to make
these discussions readable, enjoyable, memorable. I want readers to feel as though they were in
the room, too.
IE: Were there any surprises or major revelations in your writer inquiries?
I was thoroughly surprised when Bob Blumenthal said he gave his ratings for The Rolling
Stone Jazz Record Guide by pulling albums from the shelf and giving the number of stars over
the phone. My eyes went wide when Maxine Gordon explained how Dex discovered how
Wardell Gray was murdered. Very tentatively, I referenced Art Pepper’s racism in Straight Life,
and Laurie jumped in: “Oh, definitely—Art was a racist.” (When the interview first appeared in
Brilliant Corners, several people wrote, “OMG! You went there, and she went there!”) I belly
laughed when Robin described Nellie Monk completely dissing Mary Lou Williams. Laughter
isn’t a revelation, necessarily, but it’s always a welcomed surprise.
It’s possible I haven’t been more surprised because I really do my best to research the
people I talk to: books, articles, interviews, you name it. I want to be ready for conversation to
turn in interesting directions. And, to speak very personally, it’s a delight when that legwork is
acknowledged. I’m thinking of Tom Piazza saying, “Wow—it’s odd that you know that,” or you,
Willard, saying, “I’m glad you picked that out.” It makes me feel as though I’ve done right by
the author.