Citation
Drifting on a read

Material Information

Title:
Drifting on a read jazz as a model for literary and theoretical writing
Creator:
Jarrett, James Michael, 1953-
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
xii, 320 leaves : ; 28 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Audio recordings ( jstor )
Discourse ( jstor )
Jazz ( jstor )
Music composition ( jstor )
Music criticism ( jstor )
Musical aesthetics ( jstor )
Musical forms ( jstor )
Musical improvisation ( jstor )
Musicology ( jstor )
Poetry ( jstor )
Dissertations, Academic -- English -- UF
English thesis Ph. D
Jazz music in literature ( lcsh )
Rhetoric -- Effect of jazz music on ( lcsh )
Style, Literary -- Effect of jazz music on ( lcsh )

Notes

Thesis:
Thesis (Ph. D.)--University of Florida, 1988.
Bibliography:
Includes bibliographical references.
General Note:
Typescript.
General Note:
Vita.
Statement of Responsibility:
by James Michael Jarrett.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
Copyright [name of dissertation author]. Permission granted to the University of Florida to digitize, archive and distribute this item for non-profit research and educational purposes. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions requires permission of the copyright holder.
Resource Identifier:
024186621 ( ALEPH )
19712563 ( OCLC )
AFK0438 ( NOTIS )

Downloads

This item has the following downloads:


Full Text











JAZZ


AS A MODEL


DRIFTING ON
FOR LITERARY


A READ:
AND THEORETICAL


WRITING


JAMES


MICHAEL


JARRETT


A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT
OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY


UNIVERSITY


OF FLORIDA


1988


































Copyright 1988

by

James Michael Jarrett





































Pam and


Boys














ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


In this most secular of ages--what we could call


Age of the Book--where both the addressor and the addressee


are demonstrably absent,


it is most fitting that pages of


acknowledgment take the form of prayers


(as Derrida would


remind us, always already answered).


In every case,


they


are benedictions posing as invocations.


Written after books


are complete,


they,


their placement,


nevertheless, stand at their beginnings;


in the liturgy of the Book,


represents a


call to personal muses that will be summarily answered.


shall not depart from this practice.


What follows is a list


of magical names which will,


henceforth,


summon forth my


words. Amen.

I took my first graduate course in English as something

of a lark. It was a course in modern American literature


taught by Dr.


Larry Broer.


actually to start,


working.


He encouraged me to continue,

To him and two other faculty


members at the University of South Florida,


owe a special


debt of gratitude. Robert Chisnell made me aware of the

tropes of Medieval drama. Joseph Bentley provided my first


- .~ -l -








My experience at the University of Florida has been


immeasurably rich.


It is, nevertheless, possible to


out a few moments that have made it


First,


single


while in my


second semester,


took


courses


offered by Gregory Ulmer and


Aubrey Williams and sat


in a class taught by Robert Ray.


subsequent work has virtually been an improvisation on motifs


raised by these men.


Next,


I would like to acknowledge the


influence of a most unlikely pair of scholars.


John Leavey


taught me to read postmodern criticism with the rigor of a


Jesuit and the eye of a heretic.


Melvyn New gave me the


opportunity to read extensively in the literature of satire


and the freedom to write a highly experimental


findings.


essay


Both genuinely cared about my progress.


on my

Last,


regard the members of my supervisory committee--Gregory Ulmer,

Robert Ray, Anne Jones, Andrew Gordon, and Robert D'Amico--as


friends, no small praise given the institutional


constraints


under which students and professors operate.


A host of people, sometimes unknowingly,


have contributed


to my work


Some to whom I


owe a special debt of gratitude


are


follows:


Richard and Yvonne Jarrett, Michael Disch,


Bruce Carnevale, Alex Menocal, John McKenzie, William Kinnally,

Michael and Lori Fagien, Don Ball, and Eric Whiteside.


Finally


wish to thank the two people who,


in vastly


different ways,


serve


as my model


for writing,


which is to
*















TABLE OF CONTENTS


page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS..................................... Iv

ABBREVIATIONS....................................... viii

ABSTRACT.................................. .......... xi

CADENZA............................................. 2

Notes.......................................... 27

CHAPTERS

1 JAZZOLOGY: A BIRD'S EYE VIEW................ 30

Warming Up a Riff......................... 31
Meandering................................ 37
Thriving on a Riff........................ 48
Just for the Record....................... 52
Out of the Tropics........................ 60
Notes......... ................... ... ... 65

2 OBBLIGATO: I GOTTA WRITE TO SING THE BLUES.. 69

Agr ments................................. 69
Obbligato................................. 84
Obbligato Played with a Borrowed Horn:
Ellison's Invisible Man and
Derrida's Dissemination................. 87
Notes..................................... 105

3 SATURA: FILE GUMBO.......................... 108

Amalgam..... ... ...... ......... .. ..... 108
Satura.................................... 124
Eight to the Bar:
Ondaatje's Coming through Slaughter,
Cage's Silence, and a Gathering of
-_ S *









Rapsody in Read: Reed's The Free-Lance


Pallbearers and Barthes's


S. ....


Notes..................................... 233

CHARIVARI: CONJUGAL WRITES.................. 239

Chasse Beaux................................ 239
Charivari................................. 267


Chasin' the Twain:


Scorsese's


New York, New York and Levi-Strauss's
The Raw and the Cooked.*.............. 273
Notes..................................... 301

WORKS CITED. ........ ............................... 306

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH................................. 319














ABBREVIATIONS



Gregory Ulmer, Applied Grammatology: Post(e)-Pedagogy


from Jacques Derrida to Joseph Beuys


(Baltimore: The


Johns Hopkin


Univ.


Press, 1985).


Whitney Balliett, American Musicians


(New York: Oxford


Univ.


Press, 1986).


Paul de Man, Blindness and Insight:


Essays in the


Rhetori


of Contemporary Criticism, 2nd ed


. (Minne-


apolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1971)


Nathaniel Mackey, Bedouin Hornbook


(Lexington:


Univ.


of Kentucky,


1986).


Joseph Kerman, Contemplating Music


: Challenges to


Musicology


(Cambridge: Harvard Univ


. Press, 1985).


CMAL


Gary Lindberg,


The Confidence Man in American Litera-


ture


(New York


: Oxford Univ.


Press,


1982T.


CTHC


Robert B. Ray, A Certain Tendency of the Hollywood


Cinema, 1930-1980
1985).


(Princeton: Princeton Univ.


Press,


Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter
Penguin, 1976).


(New York:


Diss


Jacques Derrida, Dissemination,


trans.


Barbara Johnson


(Chicag


Univ.


of Chicago,


1981)


Gunther Schuller, Early Jazz:


Roots and Musical


Development


(New York: Oxford Univ.


Press,


1968).


Ishmael Reed,


The Free-Lance Pallbearers


(New York:


Avon Books,


1967)


Marjorie Perloff,


The Futurist Moment: Avant-Garde,


Avant Guerre, and the Language of Rupture


(Chicago:


I


111


__









HCDM


Don Michael


Randel,


Harvard Concise Dictionary


Music
Press,


(Cambridge:
1978).


The Belknap


Press


Harvard


Univ.


Ralph


Elli


son,


Invisible Man


(New


York:


American


Library,


1947)


Roland Barthes


"The Grain


," Imag


e-Mus


Text,
19-T)


trans


. Stephen


Heath


(New


York


: Hill


and Wang,


"Jazz"


Alan
Word,


Merriam and Fradley H


" Ethnomu


sicology,


. Garn


(1968),


"Jazz--The


385-86.


Martin


Williams,


Jazz


Tradition


(New


York:


Oxford


Univ


. Press


, 1970).


Hayden


White


, Metahistory


Nineteenth-Century


: The Hi


Europe


storical


(Baltimore:


Imagination
Johns Hopkins


Univ.


Press,


1973).


Jacques


Derrida,


Grammatology,


trans.


Gayatri


Chakraborty


Spivak


(Baltimore:


John


Hopkins


Univ.


Press,


1976).


Len Lyons, The
Jazz on Records


Best


(New


Jazz


York


Albums:


A Hi


: William Morrow


story of
and Company,


1980).


Walter


Ong,


the Word


Oralityh
(London


eracy:


: Methuen,


The Technologizing


1982) .


Edward W.


Said,


Orientalism


(New


York:


Vintage


Books,


1978).


Phono


Roland Gelatt,


The Fabulous


Phonograph 1877-1977,


(New


York:


Macmillan


Publishing


1977)


Fredri


Jame


son,


The Politi


Unconscious


: Narrative


as a Soc


ially


Symboli


(Ithaca


: Cornell


Univ


ess


1981).


Claude
duction


John


Levi


to a


-Strauss,


Science


and Doreen


The Raw


Mythology,


Weightman


(Chicago


the Cooked


Volume
: Univ.


: Intro-


trans.


of Chi


Press


, 1969).


cago


1


Y I


1


_


I









Sub


Dick


Hebdige,


Methuen,


Subculture:


The Meaning


1979).


Style


(London:


Umberto
Indiana


Eco, A
Univers


Theory


Press


Semiot
1976)


(Bloomington:


MacDonald


Americ


Smith Moore,
an Identity


Yankee


Blues


(Bloomington:


: Musical


Univ.


Culture
Indiana


Press,


1985)














Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School
of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy

DRIFTING ON A READ:
JAZZ AS A MODEL FOR LITERARY AND THEORETICAL WRITING

By

James Michael Jarrett


August,


Chairman: Gregory L.


1988


Ulmer


Major Department: English

A pun on Charlie Parker's composition "Drifting on a

Reed," my title points to three questions which guided this


study.


First,


what happens when


jazz enters the discourse


of this culture


Next,


to what extent is j


azz


an effect of


representation


Last, and most important,


what could it


mean to employ jazz


as a model for writing?


To engage these questions,


examine representations of


z in literature and film.


Specifically,


working from a


critical posture associated with postmodern literary theory


and taking Gunther Schuller's study,


Early Jazz,


a departure


point,


survey musicological


treatments of


jazz and locate


four multivalent images--rhapsody,


satura,


obbligato, and


charivari--which mark the entry of


jazz into discourse.


r a f I t a a. S S









jazz.


accomplish


this


task,


pair


four


works


critical


theory with


texts


four


employ


examples


are Jacques


azz


Derrida


fiction.


The critical


s Dissemination,


John


Cage'


Silence,


Roland


Barthes


s S/


and Claude


Levi-Strauss's


Raw


the Cooked.


The fictive


texts


analyzed


are


Ralph


Elli


son


Invis


ible


Man,


Michael


Ondaatje'


Coming


through


Slaughter,


Ishmael


Reed's


The Free-Lance


Pallbearers,


Martin


Scorsese


film New


York,


York.


The purpose


this


pairing


to demonstrate


how the


tropes


jazz


can


employed


as models


conceptual


zing


and writing


critical


theory.


Throughout


this


study


assume


that


acoustical


patterns,


they


are


to be perceived


counted


as music


noise),


must


be mediated,


that


our


experience


such


phenomena


s necessarily


constrained by modes


representation


operative


particular


culture


specific


culturally


sanctioned


representations.
















He suddenly became awar


that th


weird, drowsy throb of the


African song and dance had been swinging drowsily in his brain
for an unknown lapse of time.
--George Washington Cable


Musi


are in


is an oversimplification of the situation we actually
.


--John Cage














CADENZA


My feeling--or my doubtlessly ineradicable prejudice


writer--is that nothing will endure if
that our present task, precisely (now


as a


it remains unspoken;
that the great literary


rhythms I spoke of are being broken up and scattered in a


series


of distinct and almost orchestrated shiverings,


to find a way of transposing the symphony to the Book


: in


short,


to regain our rightful due.


For,


undeniably,


true
bras


source of Music must not be the elemental sound of


ses


, strings,


or wood winds,


but the intellectual and


written word in all it


s glory--Musi


of perfect fullness and


clarity,


the totality of universal relationships.
--St6phane Mallarm6


Couldn't I
of a tune


try.


. Naturally,


. but couldn't I,


it wouldn't be a question


in another medium?


. It


would have to be a book:


don't know how to do anything else.
--Jean-Paul Sartrel


One story told by jazz aficionados--probably the one most


frequently repeated--goes like thi


A socialite asked Louis


Armstrong to define jazz.


He replied,


"Lady,


if you gotta ask


what


you'll never know."2


Coming from an entertainer who would one day be accused


of obsequiousness


(charged with playing the role of Uncle


Tom), Armstrong's rejoinder seems puzzling--uncharacteris-


a S. .3 .t .. -









sycophantic bluestockings.


entertainer,


Or else,


the normally sanguine


feeling especially zealous about his art,


merely expressing a heartfelt conviction.


In either


was


case,


though, whether prompted by frustration or conviction, Arm-


strong's motivations are essentially irretrievable.


importance of hi


declaration lies neither in its putative


origins in an individual psyche,


nor in its correspondence


with some "real"

verbal structure.


object--jazz music--but


It is,


in its status as a


in the words of Kenneth Burke, an


allegory: an interpretation of one semiotic system by the


terms of another.3


Quite obviously,


is not


jazz


(although,


through an imaginative act of "reframing," we might be able


to hear it as such).


The issue,

jazz speaks, wh


it has made


jazz speak.


then, at least for my purpose,


iat does it say?


is this: when


To engage this question,


necessarily involve myself


in several large issues in


aes-


thetics and,


then,


initiate an investigation into what might


be called the discourse of


jazz,


studying representations


jazz in literature


(nonfiction and fiction)


and film


(Martin


Scorsese's New York,


New York).


Throughout this study I


assume that our experience of


jazz is not simply a matter of


acoustic


but that,


like any other experience, musical


otherwi


is contingent upon, mediated and constrained


by, prior representations.


Jazz,


it turns out,


is an idea









and presence in and for the West."4


Detailing this history


and tradition is a task this study assumes.


Students of


literature and critical theory will


immedi-


ately notice that my real subject here is the problem of


representation and that my study is redolent of


tively indebted to)


White'


(if not posi-


such well-known, applied studies as Hayden


Metahistory and Said's aforementioned Orientalism,


like the authors of these texts,


I seek not to formulate


a veridic discourse about some autonomous object


(which has


been, and, often still is,


the goal


of musicologists, histor-


ians, and Orientalists), but to theorize a group of texts


which constitute a body of knowledge.


I examine systems of discourse;


from Said, analyze "the text's surf


Like White and Said,


to take another phrase

ace, its exteriority to


what it describes"


(Or, 20).


My emphasis


s does differ from


theirs,


however.


White character


zes


historical texts as


"in reality formalizations of poetic insights that analytically

precede them and that sanction the particular theories used


to give historical accounts the aspect of an


xii).


zes


'explanation'"


His elaborate schema, which systematically organ-


the ways rhetorical tropes are formalized--transformed


into plots,


arguments, and ideologies--bears this out.


Said


regards Orientalism as "a distribution of geopolitical aware-


nPCC in-n Asacd-h~Pi r


crhnlv a r 1 v nnnnm r -


Snri n1 nnaI rl


hisctor-









sustained argument bear this out.


Imagine


jazz as the


musical and written dissemination of several culturally engen-


dered images or,


in Barthes's designation,


symbolic codes,


and I


trust that this


essay


will not only bear this out,


will


convince the reader that,


when applied to the study of


jazz texts


(and, by extension, any kind of text), postmodern


critical theory is not merely adequate for analysis


s (i.e.,


verification)


but for invention


as well.


In short,


then,


White foregrounds the logic of consciousness


("a historical


thinker chooses conceptual strategies by which to explain or


represent his data"--MH,


x); Said foregrounds the logic of


ideology

energies


(the "intellectual, aesthetic, scholarly,


[which


and cultural


went into the making of an imperialist tradi-


tion"--Or, 15);


foreground the logic of writing.


But again,


this is a matter of emphasis.


written representation seriously:


three texts treat the


first, because writing


always signifies a strategy of circumscription, whereby some

thing is forced to submit to the institution authorizing the


written text;


second, because writing always signifi


strategy of production,


whereby a thing is made to come into


representation, made to make sense.



II









code.


First,


it is a commonplace.


It refers to,


but at the


same time summarily refuses to define or sanction, an accepted


body of knowledge about ja

of language to obscure mor


zz, and it points to the "capacity


than it clarifies in any act of


verbal figuration"


(MH,


37).


In other words,


through the


rhetorical figure of aporia


(literally "doubt"),


jazz has


been brought


into language,


imbued with an ironic voice that


tacitly acknowledges a preestablished and normati


knowledge, and, paradoxically, afforded "a basi


tific or moral authority."5


body of


in scien-


Armstrong, a sign functioning


as a metonym for the sign


jazz, alludes to and,


thus, affirms


an inarticulable body of knowledge and an ever-receding epis-

temology for the express purpose of warranting an authorita-


tive, but highly problematic,


withdrawal from discourse.


Next,


as a gnomic expression,


a speech formula repeatedly


appropriated by members of a subculture


(which I shall call


"the jazz community"), Armstrong's rejoinder reflects and


reinforces social relationships.


Taking a phrase introduced


by Malinowski and theorized extensively by Jakobson,


tions phatically.


it func-


It conveniently divides the world into


two groups,


those who do not know what


jazz is and those who


no longer ask, and it sententiously reaffirms a set of shared


assumptions


(cultural codes or connotations)


about the nature


of the music.6


Nevertheless,


the double bind it


- P- I- .


expresses--







7

example, Barthes observes that language manages "very badly"


"when it has to interpret music," and Elmer Bernstein


Man with the Golden Arm,


(The


The Magnificent Seven, Walk on the


Wild


virtually


revises


Armstrong's quip when he states,


"Music is particularly emotional:


if you are affected by it,


you don't have to ask what it means."7


Indeed, music is traditionally characterized


tional,


"irra-


" "unrepresentable," "largely unknowable and mysteri-


ous":


that is to say,


as a woman.


Novelist Fatima Shaik,


The Mayor of New Orleans, acknowledges this when she has her


character, Walter, declare,


and truth is too,"


"Music and love is both women


and thus echo Nietzsche's formulation,


"Truth is a woman."

of film music, note


Carol Flinn,


is it when she w


in her study of the discourse

rites: "the tendency to


align music in general with the feminine circulates extensively


across


a wide range of critical


celebrates it.


theory."8


He imagines the drum


And Duke Ellington


as a woman,


"its form a


womb,


its skin a maidenhead";


in his autobiography, Music Is


My Mistress,


Music i


Music


Music i
Simple,


in a poem entitled "Music," he writes:


a beautiful woman in her prime,
a scrubwoman, clearing away the dirt and grime,
a girl child
sweet and beaming,


A thousand years old,


Cold


sleet, and


scheming.9


Although this stanza and the ten which follow it make one


A









Jazz,


it seems,


"organizes"


its discourse by advancing


"a real or feigned disbelief


in the truth of


its own state-


ments"


(MH,


37).


It inscribes, even shrouds itself with


mysteriousness


(aporia/unsigni f abilityy.


It does thi


several levels:


the level of employment or narration


(the


Armstrong anecdote),


the level of poetics or figuration


(Ellington


engendered metaphor),


the level of


ideology


(the implications of an epistemology based on inarticulable


"experience,"


a secularized version of divine revelation)


and the level of exposition or argument


demonstrate).


(as I


will later


And it lays claim to a double enigma.


It can


be neither notated on a score, nor represented in words.


classical music cannot be put into words, or


the argument


goes,


it can,


nonetheless, be notated


(here and elsewhere I


employ the term classical music and,


occasionally,


if I


want


to convey a hint of


irony,


the proper noun Music


as an inclu-


sive term referring to the entire European musical tradition).

In fact, notation and classical music are related reciprocally;

the development of each is unthinkable without the other.


Jazz, on the other hand,


is characterized


as wholly other.


Certainly,


this claim demands scrutiny; we must return to


Before we do that,


however,


we shall consider another


bold claim--one made by Mallarm6 in the 1890s.


It functions


as a pedal point for my study.10


He wrote:


"Mystery is said









The jazz community,


like all subcultures, differentiates


itself


from the larger culture:


by marking off a body of


knowledge--what Julio CortAzar had one of his bohemian char-

acters in Hopscotch self-righteously proclaim "a repertory

of insignificant things"--that distinguishes and situates


(albeit problematically)


an "inside" and an "outside" audience,


by protecting and policing this body of knowledge by


repeating it in the form of gnomic codes or references to


specialized repertori


es.


Indeed, as anyone familiar with


the hit parade


(or the rankings of Cash Box, Billboard, Radio


and Records, and Rolling Stone)


understands,


repetition consti-


tutes


(creates and reflects)


recognition.


When a subculture,


out of all the utterances made by its member


particular


, grants one


statement the status of "proverb," recognizes it


as meaningful,


it does so by repeating it.


Or conversely,


when a subculture, out of all


the utterances made by a single,


highly-regarded member,


repeats one particular statement,


that


statement acquires meaning;


it becomes a proverb.


Repetition, as numerous theorists argue, has consequences.


According to Benjamin,


it "emancipates the work of art from


its parasitical dependence on ritual,


question of


" displaces the whole


"authenticity," and brushes "aside a number of


outmoded concepts, such


as creativity and genius, eternal


value and mystery."


For Attali.


writina specifically of the









price system. "13


We shall concern ourselves with,


perhaps,


less utopian themes and look at two effects of repetition:

the destabilization of the notion of author and the notion

of meaning.


If a statement gets repeated, gains recognition


proverb or cultural code,


exc


then it must give up its


lusive product of a single consciousness.


claim


Proverbs,


by definition,

subcultural) t


express agreed upon


:ruths.


(if only


For the materialist,


localized or

they are products


ideology.


For the metaphysician,


they are utterances of


Truth.


Therefore, elevating


lowering)


Louis Armstrong's


rejoinder to the level


(or raises)


of proverb, paradoxically,


reduces


its author to one--but only the first--in a


to cite an "already-written" truth about


jazz.


series


Repetition


retrospectively transforms the author of the phrase,


"If you


gotta ask,


you'll never know,"


into a


"collective and anonymous


voice


" the voice of


jazz


(s/z,


18).


The phrase itself


tionships,


is transformed into a system of rela-


completely independent of what one literary theor-


ist, Paul


de Man, describes


of a presence."14


Practically,


Theoretically


it means only what,


"the substantive assertions

y, it can come to mean anything.


but everything that,


"collective and anonymous voice" of


azz


will allow.


As an


i ma 1 rl mnl tB nn 4- a r A nn n h a aa I l o t nf mt i nrt


1 ^jyc~ h ^^ mn a n i









nevertheless,


unalterable and,


through work or help from on


high,


discoverable.


Obviously,


I must delineate what


I mean by this now-


mysterious voice of


jazz and investigate its textual-political


machinations,


but before I begin that task,


notice that the conditions


(e.g., cutting,


the reader must

spacing, and graft-


ing)


which operate on Armstrong


rejoinder--making it possible


and destabilizing it at one and the same time--moving


from an "original" utterance created in the moment to a cita-

tion of the "already formulated"--all derive from an economy


of repetition


(writing in the broad sense)


and operate on


all texts


(including thi


oneJ.


Far exceeding any narrowly


circumscribed boundaries of


tions,


language or writing,


t


of what has been called a theory of general


hese condi-

textuality,


serve as tropes--collectively, as models or rhetorics--by which


post-modernist theory conceptualizes


(produces or


imagines)


the world.


Rather than suggesting a theory which regards


music and language as different effects of similar conditions


(formalism)


or as isomorphic systems


(structuralism),


hence,


graspable through some especially sufficient metadiscourse


of science


(a master


language for consumers),


they suggest


the possibility that debates over referentiality


also must pass through)


(which we


can be finally displaced by a theory


of textual nrondctinn thAt wnnli, rnarA Ar 1 nnianom anAi micin









By the term trope I,


of course,


not only refer to "turns"


or "tricks"


used loosely,


language, but allude to a musical term which,

signifies any interpolation or embellishment


"of text, music, or both into a liturgical chant"


As one will recall, most scholars hold that


(HCDM).


it was from such


tropes--the Quem quaeritis texts--that medieval drama


developed.


Bevington writes:


According to a ninth-century monk from St. Gall named


Notker Babulus,


"tropes" had begun as word


ess


musical


sequences with which the singers in the choir would
embellish the vowel sounds of certain important words


in the service.


alleluia in the in
the Easter mass.
of this sort had b


One such word,


troit


for example, was the


(opening processional chant)


Babulus reports that musical tropes
become so elaborate in the ninth century


that words were added to make the sequences easier to
memorize.15


But,


and this


is the rub,


tropes were amplifications of holy


texts--the liturgy and the scriptures.


They signified a


rupture in the Church'


s hegemony,


for taken collectively,


they tended towards gl


osso


lalia or plurality.


They allowed,


some might say encouraged,

(literally "misuse"), "the


the rhetorical figure of catachresis


Manifestly absurd Metaphor designed


to inspire Ironic second thoughts about the nature of the


thing characterized or the inadequacy of


the characterization


itself"


(MH,


37).


And just


surely as the Protestant Refor-


mation


(in 1517 Luther affixed his 95 theses to the Schloss-


kirche at Wittenberg)--itself a trope writ large--they opened









glossed.


practice--what


surprisingly,


we could


impli


call


cations


politics


tropological


mnemonics


logic


embellishment--proved


much


Roman


Church


to bear.


the Council


Trent


(1545-63),


con-


sidered abolishing


"all


music


service


other


than


plain-


song,


" and


ended


suppressing


"all


four


tropes


sequences"


(HCDM).


Drama,


course,


continued


to be


thorn


the side


both


Catholics


Protestants.


My main


point


here


relatively


straightforward.


like


White,


we follow the practice


"traditional


poetics


and modern


language


theory"


postulate metaphor,


metonymy,


synecodoche,


irony


four


basic


tropes


figurative


language,


then


representations


music


are


easily


classified


ironic,


preci


sely


because


they


tend


to draw


attention


inadequacy


their


own


representations.


They


are


"'senti-


mental'


Schiller's


sense


'self-conscious


arti-


ficial


(MH,


term,


37) .


though,


emphasizing


we notice


the medieval


obvious--that


jazz


use


always


conceived as


operating


according


logic


i.e.,


tricks


turns


embellis


hment


broadest


sense


the word)--and


we understand


that


very


notion


trope


already


implies


a more-or-i


ess,


self-conscious


deploy-


ment


the musical


written


sign


s arbitrariness


, then


our


work


has,


actually,


only


begun.


We need


to write


trope


I













In "The Rhetoric of Blindness,"


"real" Rousseau,


de Man maintains that the


opposed to Rousseau's misinterpreters


(whether Starobinski, Raymond,


or Poulet--the unwittingly


blind--or Derrida--the wittingly aberrant),

implications and consequences" of general t


understood "the


:extuality--"the


semiotic and non-sensory status of the sign"--and that,


the Essay on the Origin of Languages


(which had the original


title, Essai sur


le principle de la ml1odie), he reversed


"the prevailing hierarchy of eighteenth-century aesthetic

theory" by asserting "the priority of music over painting


(and,


within music, of melody over harmony)


in terms of a


value-system that is structural rather than substantial"


127).


(B&I,


As partial evidence for this contention, de Man produces


the following passage from Rousseau's Essay.


What is impor-


tant, for our purposes,


is its restatement and extension of


an oft-repeated analogy between music and language, which,


by underscoring points I have already introduced,


further


illustrates the destabilization of meaning necessarily accom-

panying a theory of representation that privileges the conse-


quences of general


textuality.


No sound by itself posses
allow us to identify it:


ses


absolut


s high or


attributes that


low,


loud or


soft with respect to another sound only.


By itself.


IKL.









In this system of signs,


rellement,"


where "un son n'est rien


"the musical sign," writes de Man,


. natu-


"can never be


identical with itself or with prospective repetitions of


itself."

stance"


It i

(B&I,


volatile,


128):


"not being grounded in any sub-


characterized by aporia.


On the one hand, music


a moment,
meaning;


is condemned to exist always


as a persistently frustrated intent toward


on the other hand,


it from remaining within the moment.


this very frustration prevents


(B&I,


129)


Walter Ong makes a similar observation when he states,


"Sound exists only when it is going out of existence.

not simply perishable but essentially evanescent."17


It is

And


Sartre's character Roquentin writes:


For the moment,


the jaz


playing;


only notes, a myriad of tiny jolt


there i


no melody,


They know no rest,


an inflexible order gives birth to them and destroys
them without even giving them time to recuperate and


exist for themselves.


They race,


they press forward,


they strike me a sharp blow in passing and are obliter-


ated.


would like to hold them back,


but I know if I


succeeded in stopping one it would remain between my


finger


only as a raffish languishing sound.


accept their death;


I must even will it.


impressions stronger or more harsh.


I must


I know few


(Nausea, 21)


But whereas Ong


(as part of his program to distinguish orality


from literacy)


and Sartre


(as part of an extended analogy)


emphasis


the unique physical properties of sound, de Man


general


izes


its semiotic implications to make a point about


textuality.


Ong states,


"[N]o other


sensory


field totally


resists a holding action, stabilization,


in quite thi


way"









"Like music,


language is a diachronic system of relation-


ships"


(B&I,


32).


In effect,


de Man


reverses


the commonplace,


"Music works


like a language," to read,


"Language works like music,"


declares the conventional superordinate/subordinate relation-


ship between language and music problematic


(if not void),


and suggests a fundamental or, at least, an imaginable homology


between language and music.


Like Mallarm&,


he enlarges the


boundaries of the written word to admit mystery--a domain


formerly


ass


signed to


(structuring) music.


Indeed,


insofar


an analogous


(even homologous)


rela-


tionship between the workings of music


systems can be maintained,


and language as sign


the adage "music is a language"


(with the metaphorical


vehicle,


language, structuring our


conception of a tenor, music)


can be reversed and pressed


into a new metaphorical


(allegorical)


arrangement.


Music


can serve as a vehicle structuring a tenor,


"language," and


language can be


(to employ a highly suspect verb)


imaged


a music--the relational play of difference, a matrix of possi-


abilities.


But,


here again,


there are consequences.


When we


admit a metaphorical reciprocity between music and language


--aver


that "music is a language


a music"--or allow that


language may be a subordinate category of a superordinate


cateaorv. music.


-c -


in sffs nrt-, ArPclar0 tha t e ho rla*-i n ncin









cultural/political necessity--not substance.


a metaphysics of presence,


Unhooked from


from an unshifting, ontological


base


(or tenor),


the words we employ and the syntagms we


construct fall under a logic of


structural relativity conven-


tionally reserved for explanations of music or,


in Derrida


employment of the term,


writing.


He states:


For some time now


. one


says


"language" for action,


movement,


ness,


thought,


reflection,


experience, affectivity,


"writing"


consciousness


etc.


unconscious-


Now we tend to say


. to designate not only the physical


gestur
tion,


of literal pictographi


or ideographic inscrip-


but also the totality of what makes it possible;


and also,
face itsel


beyond the


signifying face,


the signified


And thus we say "writing" for all that


gives rise to an inscription in general, whether it is
literal or not and even if what it distributes in space
is alien to the order of the voice: cinematography, chore-


ography,
tural "w


of cour
writing."


, but also pictorial, musical, sculp-
One might also speak of athletic writ-


ing, and with even greater certainty of military or
political writing in view of the techniques that govern


those domains today.


this to describe not only the


system of notation secondarily connected with these


activities but the


essence


and the content of these


activities themselves.18


Thus,


before ensconcing "music"


as the new term of privi-


lege,


we must call for a deconstruction of the binary opposi-


tion music/language


(a project only suggested here),


one


that would stage the question: To what degree is the term


music


(as a key term in a particular system)


"broached/ruptured/held incomplete by that element


semantics?


closure as


[writing?


which the system must exclude in order to find


a system and yet is necessary for the functioning









logocentrism


("writing reined in by metaphor, metaphysics,


theology"--OG,


would need to demonstrate


(write out)


the "structurally and axiologically determined rela-


tionship"


assumed between language and music


(OG,


27);


the means by which one set of phenomena--the "identity


category" music--is made to differ from another set of

phenomena--the "identity category" language;20


and the historico-metaphysical effects of


(maintaining)


such a system of difference.

More practically, such a study could ask such questions as:

1) Can we read music as an effect or continuing realiza-


tion


(exploration and repression)


writing or recording


(i.e.,


the possibility of


hypomnesia or "artificial


memory")


2) Can we demonstrate that


"recording technologies"


(from


musician's guilds and griot society


compact discs)


to sheet music and


traditionally perceived as supporting


music were actually the conditions for the possibility


of music?


For example,


standard notation,


is it possible to show that


ostensibly developed


an efficient


means for recording music on paper, carried beyond its


goal and made classical music possible?


Contrariwise,


can we demonstrate that recording technologies make

music impossible by undoina orevionlslv rstahlih a enn rn-









Thelonious Monk,


one of the founders of modern


jazz


(bebop),


was also one of


its dismantlers.


Is building


and dismantling a simultaneous operation?


Given "that historicity itself


is tied to the possi-


ability of writing"


(OG,


27),


what


is the historical


relationship between music


and writing


(Acriture:


inscrip-


tion in the narrow sense of


the word)?


What modes of


representation have been privileged or disallowed when

writing about music?

4) To what extent is the history of music--as one version


(one track)


of a


(multi-tracked)


history of recording


technologies--a series of


ideological strategies cal-


culated to contain


(repress)


the effects of new recording


technologies by forcing those effects to bolster or

disguise the vulnerable points of previous technologies.


Do the recording technology


associated with music


(from apprenticeship to digital sampling)


anticipate,


duplicate, or follow technological changes in other


areas of culture?


And how far can one generalize from


the compositional strategies associated with music


(writing in the broad sense of the word)


to compositional


and apply them


tasks in other disciplines?


6) Music is often characterized


a nonrepresentational


semiotic system.


Quoting Eco.


it "presents. on the one









denotative value (trum

are syntagms or entire


pet signals in the army)


'texts


and there


possessing pre-culturalized


connotative value


('pastoral'


'thrilling


' music,


etc.).


meaning


The question is,


(denotation and connotation)


by what process do we assign


to such a system?


And should we conceive of music as a semiotic system


that normally


lacks meaning


(i.e.,


as an exceptional or


deficient language)


or as a system where overdetermi-


nation--a surfeit of meaning--is labeled lack, until

such time as cultural restrictions generate a semantic

effect.

The project outlined by these questions--an elaboration or

application of structuralist and post-structuralist thinking


applied to music--is part,


begun pro-gram: grammatology.


but only an extension,


In fact,


of an already


as Eco maintains,


"the whole of musical science since the Pythagoreans has

been an attempt to describe the field of musical communication


a rigorously structured system"


(TS,


10),


then grammatology


could be regarded as the discordant overtones of just such an

attempt--that is, unless we read musical science as an ever-


vigilant effort to dampen the grammatological implications


its own endeavors.


Rousseau,


as we have seen, announces


(and,


in Derrida's


reading, summarily suppresses


- a


imatoloav when he works an









issues


assoc


iated


with


in The


Rational


Social


Founda-


tions


of Musi


when


speculates


the question:


"Why


polyphonic


tone


well


system develop


harmonic-homophoni


the widely


music


diffused


modern


preconditions


polyvocality


only


the Occident


A Theory


Semiotics


Eco writes:


We note


that


scarcely


until
been


a few year
influenced


s ago


contemporary


current


mus


icology


structuralist


studi


, which


are


concern


with


methods


themes


that


absorbed


three


century


years


es ago.
musical


Neverthel
semiotics


ess


been


definite


establi


s 'pedigree'


the pioneer


J.J.


works


Nattiez


shed


a discipline


developing
et us quote


in Musique


new
the
jeu,


aiming


perspectives.
bibliography
5. 1971. As


find
Among
elaborated


relationship


music
1967),


pref


betw


cultural


Ruwet


ace


(1959,


een


music and


anthropology,


1973)


The Raw


lingui


see


Levi


stics
Jakob


-Strauss


the Cooked)


between


son


(1964,


(1965,


Outlines


new


trends


are


to be


found


Natti


(1971,


1972,


1973),


Osmond-Smith


(1972)


(1972,


other


1973),


(TS,


Stefani


(1973),


sseur


10-11)


list


Attali,


Noise


we should

; David


Sudnow,


yven more

Talk's


recent

Body: A


studies


Meditatio


Jacques

n between


Two K


keyboards;


Joseph


Kerman,


Contemplating Music;


and Wendy


Steiner,


, The Sign


in Music


and Literature.


In Appli


ed Grammatology,


work


theory


zing


pedagogical


application


a mode


writing


longer


subordinated


speech


thought,


" Gregory


Ulmer


identifies


three


phases


grammatol


ogy:


history


writing


(still


under


way),


eory


writing


(one


vers


now


formulated b


errida).


i ..


. -


U~IU U


1








seeks to maneuver the discourse of


musicology,


jazz--representations in


literature, and film--into a position from which


this goal could be actively pursued.



IV


Jazz cognoscenti


will immediately notice the "origin"


of my title.


easy


pun on Charlie Parker's composition


"Drifting on a Reed,"


it points to three questions which


directed my endeavors.


First,


what happens when


jazz


(imaged


metonymically


as a reed)


realm of reading


effect of


Next,


representation


enters discourse


to what extent i


(e.g.,


(imagined


jazz always an


of phonograph records or


writing), and to what extent do jazz music and jazz literature


enjoy a reciprocal relationship?


Finally, and most impor-


tantly,


what could it mean to employ jazz


a model for


writing


(composition and improvisation)?


In order to engage these questions I read widely in the


literature of


jazz, and in


so doing,


I noticed and, finally,


isolated four multivalent tropes which,


a set, provide


azz


with a rhetoric


They are the images of


the obbligato


or agreements,


the satura or amalgam,


the rhapsody or


counterfeit,


the charivari


or chasse beaux.


Marking


the entry of


jazz into discourse,


these images


(examples of








level.


But this is not all.


They also enable what I


come


to label


jazzology


(musicological methodology applied to the


study of


jazz).


That


they make possible the "serious"


study of


jazz and disrupt such a study--and they provide us


with a model for writing;


indeed,


they have already been proven


as generative


(agents of dissemination).


organize my dis-


cussion by these tropes.


In the first chapter,


touch on the broad theoretical


issues raised by an investigation of the discourse of


jazz,


spell out what I mean by a "grammatological" study, and explain


my methodology.


Chapters Two through Five are organized by


the four tropes and form the body of my essay.


has two main parts


Each chapter


(with one transitional section).


first part locates a particular trope in the nonfiction liter-


ature of


jazz and analyzes how it has been employed to generate


a referential--i.e., scientific--effect.


Here,


like White,


I demonstrate that the supposedly scientific text is predicated

on a conceptualization of phenomena that is "generally poetic,


and specifically


linguistic,


in nature"


(MH,


ix), and I argue


that nonfiction representations of


jazz most often work by


disguising their


literary-rhetorical base


(i.e., suppressing


ideologically disenfranchised connotations of

fiers which make representation possible). T

points evident I stage an especially close, i


the very signi-


o make these

intentionally









surveys of what a literary scholar would call


jazz criticism


exist,


and since no study has taken the literature of


jazz


its sole object of study,


beginning with Chapter Two


the first part of every chapter


necessarily detailed.


second part of each chapter,


however,


is much sketchier,


in the interest of suggesting a broad range of approaches to


a wide range of materials,


choose to recommend departure


points, actually critical positions, from which one could


play out full-fledged grammatological experiments.


Here,


match the trope I located in the nonfiction literature of

jazz with exemplary literary and theoretical texts, and briefly


suggest


how the literary


(i.e.,


the belletristic)


representation of


jazz can be conceptualized--i.e.,


organized


and disrupted--as the play of these highly efficacious images,


how these same tropes


("turns"


or "tricks")


occupy


the concerns of postmodern critical theory


The pairings of


texts made in the second, more experimental parts of Chapters

Two through Five are most easily represented by the following

figure:


CHAPTER TWO
OBBLIGATO
Ralph Ellison
Invisible Man
Jacques Derrida
Dissemination


CHAPTER THREE


SATURA


Michael Ondaatje
Coming Through Slaughter
John Cage
Silence


CHAPTER FOUR


CHAPTER FIVE









Briefly,


obbligato,


both what


is obligatory and merely


an ornament,


raises the issue of composition and improvisation.


The refrain


"What did I


do to be


so black and blue?" and the


Rinehart episode from Ellison


s Invi


sible Man, are examined


with a view towards writing obbligati


on these texts rather


than writing a "theme" about them.


The experimental


essay


which results from this study takes its lead from Derrida


Dissemination which,


a whole, advances the "thesis" that


the concept thesis is untenable:


a hermeneutic of dissemination


could replace a hermeneutic concept of polysemy.

Satura, a word originally signifying a mixture or medley,

and the word from where we get the English word "satire,"


contests and,


yet, maintains distinctions between the pure


and the amalgam.


Cage's Silence is read


a manifesto declar-


ing modern music's reinvestigation of satura


a generative


trope, and Ondaatje's docu-novel


is advanced


as a model work,


repeating the image of the satura on both the syntagmatic


and paradigmatic


axes.


This section surveys fictive represen-


stations of


jazz music through a model derived from Cage and


Ondaatje.


Rhapsody works off notions of


symphony and order and


problematic


the opposition "counterfeit/genuine."


Ishmael


Reed's work


taken


a rapp


(an counterfeit coin that passed


for current


in 18th-century Ireland),


i.e.,


as a genuine


w i









(classical) musical score"


and that "to unlearn the readerly


would be the


same


to unlearn the tonal"


(s/z,


30).


The Charivari


represents the ritual/political employ-


ment of noise


(noi


comes from the Old French word "nausea").


The Raw and the Cooked provides the conceptual tools for


viewing New York, New York,


a film directed by Martin Scorsese,


as a celebration and a warding off of


unnatural unions.


In its efforts to set up the possibility of a grammato-

logical reading of texts devoted to the representation of


jazz,


this study,


finally, offers the reader a choice of


thesi


s statements:


Certain literary or artistic texts, although sometimes


only intermittently, assume a grammatological


writing and "self-consciously"


theory of


employ a grammatological


methodology in representing jazz.


2) Certain literary or artistic texts,


because they


represent provisional solutions to the problem of repre-

senting jazz, can be understood or conceptualized as


creative imitations, elaborated or


improvised models,


not of some transcendental signified named Jazz,


the cultural codes that make sense


jazz


but of


(and nonsense)


in this culture.


The first thesis assumes that


jazz served as a model for


literary writing;


it finds something


mimesiss).


The second









effects, does not make analysis or "scholarship"


its goal.


Here,


instead of analyzing j


azz,


one would use it


as an occa-


sion for making a text.


of course,


is Barthes lesson


s/z.


He writes,


"[T]he goal


of literary work


(of liter-


ature


work)


is to make the reader no longer a consumer,


but a producer of the text"


(S/z,


And it is also the


lesson of the elementary school teacher who has her students


draw or paint


in response to music.


The active reader or writer


(the two can be scarcely


differentiated)


assumes something elementary:


texts prompt


texts.


Every jazz musician knows this, knows that the best


response to someone else's composition or solo is to blow


one of your own.


Sartre knew it, and Kerouac knew it.


Sartre


believed that the most adequate response he could possibly

have to listening to Sophie Tucker sing "Some of These Days"


was to write Nausea.


Kerouac, after hanging out on 52nd


Street,


listening to Monk, Bird, and Dizzy,


wrote On the


Road.


And I know it too.


Notes


1The


citations which form this study's epigraph were


taken from George Washington Cable,


Hill and Wa
town, Conn.


ng,


1957),


96, and


The Grandissimes


John Cage, Silence


: Wesleyan Univ. Press, 1961), p. 149.


at the beqinninq of "Cadenza"


(New York:
(Middle-


The epigraph


is from Stdphane Mallarm4,









2Len Lyons,


on Records


The 101 Best Jazz Albums:


(New York


A History of J


azz


: William Morrow and Company, 1980), p.


3Kenneth Burke,


in Hayden White, Metahistory:


The Histor-


ical
John
tion


Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe


Hopkins Univ


. Pr


ess,


1973)


14-15


(Baltimor


Subsequent cita-


s from White will be designated in the body of the text


as MH


4Edward W


1978), p.


. Said, Orientalism
Subsequently cited


(New York:


Vintage Books,


as Or


Roland Barthes,


Hill


and Wang,


trans.


1974),


Richard Miller


Subsequently


(New York:


cited parenthetic-


ally by title.


6Roman Jakobson and B. Malinowski


The Raw and the Cooked:


Introduction to


in Claude L~vi-Strauss,
a Science of Mythology,


volume i,


trans


of Chicago Press,


. John and Doreen Weightman


(Chicago: Univ.


1969), p.


7Roland Barthes,


"The


Grain of the Voice," Image-Musi


Text trans.
p. 179; Eln


(New York: A.


Stephen Heath
ier Bernstein,


Barnes,


subsequently cited


(New York


: Hill and Wang,


in Tony Thomas, Musi


1973),


. 193.


1977),


for the Mov


Image-Music-Text


IMT.


8Carol Flinn,


"The


of Film Music," Screen,


'Problem'


of Femininity in Theories


(1986), 57-58.


9Brian Morton,
Ellington, Music Is


Company, 1971), p


"Percussion," Wire, April 1988, p.
My Mistress (Garden City: Doubleda


12; Duke
iy and


. 39-40.


10A pedal point consi


in the bas
other part
of Music,


continuing to sound


"a long-held note, normally
as harmonies change in the


--Don Michael Randel, Harvard Con


(1978).


Charles Mingu


cise


Dictionary


I associate the term with jazz bassist


but here and throughout this study,


assume


that the reader has neither a specialized knowledge of musical


terms nor a broad acquaintance with ja


subsequently cited


zz musicians.


Randel


HCDM.


"Mystery in Literature,"


and Pr


ose


. 32


in Selected Poetry


_ __


m m m


1


_ _~__


I


IlMallarmb,


I_









Music,
Press,


trans. Brian Massumi


1985),


106-107.


(Minneapolis, Univ.


of Minnesota


Attali subsequently cited as Noise.


14Paul de Man,


Blindness and Insight:


Rhetoric


of Contemporary Criticism,


University of Minnesota Press,


2nd ed.


1971), p


Essays in the
(Minneapolis:


. 128


Subsequently


cited


B&I.


15David Bevington, Medieval Drama


(Boston: Houghton


Mifflin, 1975), pp.


21-22.


. Rousseau,


Essai


sur


i'origine des langues,


texte


reproduit d'aprds l'4dition A. Belin de 1817


(Bibliothbque du


Graphe:


Pari


536,


in B&I,


. 128


17Walter Ong, Orality and Literacy


: The Technologi


zing


of the Word


(London: Methuen, 1982), p.


Subsequently


cited


as O&L.


18Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology,


trans.


Gayatri Chakra-


borty Spivak


(Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ.


Press, 1976),


Subsequently cited as OG.


19Robert Cheatham,


"Interview: Jacques Derrida," Art


Papers, Jan.-Feb.


1986, p


0Roger Brown,


Words and Things


(New York: The Free Press,


1958),


21Umberto Eco, A Theory of Semiotics


(Bloomington


: Indiana


University Press,


1976), p.


Subsequently cited as TS.


22Max Weber,


The Rational and Social Foundations of Music,


trans


. and ed. Don Martindale, Johannes Riedel and Gertrude


Neuwirth


(Carbondal


Southern Illinois Univ. P


ress,


1958),


p. 83


3Gregory Ulmer, Applied Grammatology: Post(e)-Pedagogy


from Jacques Derrida to Joseph Beuys


(Baltimore


: The Johns


Hopkins Univ.


Press, 1985),


Subsequently cited


. 31


n.d.),














CHAPTER 1
JAZZOLOGY: A BIRD'S EYE VIEW


Storyville nights,


tne
oser
airl
ch un
th sc


Bla
to
beb
hot
in
wal
Cop
bri


ck B
labe
op,
and
cont
tz,
enha
ngs


that g
they c
lonely
a music
of ins
the re
in Bix
Horace
or Art
small
strange
and th
room o
of mus
is tru
way th
grates


C
t


century
together


ines,
ivers
hisms
ottom
1 its
cool,
inte
rast
the z
gen a
adole
ves t
n kno
surro


a
s
s
h
w
u


c that
trument
action
Beider
Silver
Tatum,
groups,
e title
at whol
r in so
ic that
e unles
ings ar
or imm


had
and
music
ty a
bdic
ts S
rms,
coun
ctua
stup


mba,
well
cents
em na
each
nded
accep
al 78
ry cu


b




e
Im

s
e
i


where
come f
I


1
C
nd
at


id


a m
as
to
mes
ot
by
ts
'S
It


ecke, o
or Tha
repenta
mystery
and la
freeman
ie basem
horrific
there
and ja
grates


n a
which
goo
ions
mmy,
his
rpoi
jazz
ani
usic
in
geth
and
her
boss
all
with
of D
r in
d Jo
nce
ous
bels
sonr
ent
es s
are
zz i
or t


the old
rom, so
better
h was p
d enough
, and h
its Fo
style a
nt of r


only
methi
way t
rimit
h to
eresi
x Tro
nd th
omant


human mus
1 dance m
hat could
ndoza or
, with re
elodies t
d become
, families
agination
reddie Ke
ieland, a
he advent
s, the vu


nd re
record
made
of S
af6 .
lid c
rogra
like
ansmi


i
U


really universal music


ng
han
ive
mak
es,
t,
e o
ici
C,
sic
be


that
Espe
enou
e its
its
its S
their
sm an
music
, the
known


brought


ranto
gh to
own
Charl
tomp,
one,
d cla
with
-


p


Capetown,


C
ii
S
S
P1
n
u:
1'


jecti
ings
up on
aturd


ords under
use as p
intimate a
, and bit
and tast
pard or B
academic
res of Th
garities
n, a pref
ith false
the spur
y nights
11 of thi
s who thi
ushers,
d who mig
, roadblo


e
u

e
o
e


h


OIKa,
nd li
music
their


people
UNESCO,
ave gain
story,
ton, its
ts Blues
ing,
icism,
history
the


ked
c t
r a


sswords
d feel
er love
s, a co
nk John
special
lonious
f Errol
rence f


names


f the mo
n a stud
from a
k that n


ed


V


in
hat
rms,
so
ess
affairs,
election
on,
zation
Monk,
Garner
]r
d
ment,
ent's
kind
nothing


d that's the
tes or emi-
jumper,


smuggler, something that runs and mixes in.


. jazzology, deductive science,
four o'clock in the morning.


particularly


easy


after


--Julio CortAzarl







31

Warming Up a Riff


The disappearan
off a power of
Polyphonic.


of the "authorial


inscription that


s no


voice"


. triggers


longer verbal but phonic.


--Jacques Derrida2


However much post-Saussurean theory may hold to a view


language and music


non-mimetic,


ceaseless


play of


signification whose only referent is,


in Rousseau's words,


"le ndant des choses humaines," we must admit that our day-

to-day experience of language and music seems far more circum-


scribed.3


For example,


"If you gotta ask,


I may concede that the jazz proverb,


you'll never know,"


the meanings listed below.


could suggest any of


But in practice I know,


or at


least sense,


query


that Loui


("What is jazz?")


Armstrong


signifies a


retort to a socialite's

very limited set of possi-


biliti


Armstrong the Zen master.


Speculation, even the


need to ask what jazz is, precludes knowing.


Armstrong the phenomenologist.


. Mumon.


Jazz is of the order


of experiencing,


not the order of knowing.


There is a


radical split between language and things,


objects.


subjects and


Husserl.


Armstrong the linguist.


Asking "What is


jazz?" can







32

relational difference between the set of signs the partic-


ular sign


jazz


includes and the


of signs it excludes


(i.e., everything from acoustic phenomena to styles of


clothes).


The socialite who asks Armstrong to define


jazz cannot know jazz;


she is one of the "signs"


jazz


excludes.


Cf. Saussure.


Armstrong the metaphysical poet.


Given the obscene


etymology associated with the word


jazz,


the socialite's


question is the equivalent of Armstrong asking the social-

ite a question that carried with it the connotation,


"What


is copulation?"


is a knot of


irony.


The answer--coyness to the coy--

Cf. Marvell.


Armstrong the modernist.


Jazz cannot be inherited,


passed on to another


like a Persian rug.


"If you want


it you must obtain it by great labour.


It involves,


the first place,


the historical sense


* and the


historical sense involves a perception, not only of the

pastness of the past, but of its presence." Cf. Eliot.4


Armstrong the postmodernist.


If we presume to ask the


question "What is


jazz?" we have already presumed the


validity of, and an answer to,


"What


the recursive question,


We have already grounded our inquiry on


a preestablished notion of being,


i.e.,


presence.


Thus,


the initial


(typically modernist


question assumes too


r







33

statement--which cunningly, parasidically mimes the

motions of a metaphysics of presence--exemplifies a poli-


tics of


indirection


(it,


through a ruse,


teases


presuppositions), deconstructing


dental signified)


jazz


and suggesting that


(as a transcen-

it is "definable"


only


praxis,


textual strategy.


Derrida.


Armstrong the home-spun philosopher.


Lincoln,


if we


trust material given in a short play by Woody Allen,


was once asked,


"Mr.


President,


how long must a man's


legs be?"


He replied,


"Long enough to reach the ground."


Some questions require answers that make common sense


(which isn't


To this list,


so common nowadays).


I should,


Will Rogers.


but will not, add more interpretations:


an Afro-American, feminist, Marxist,


or Lacanian reading,


for example,


would work well.


Armstrong's rejoinder,


could even declare that


like his recording of, say,


"Potato


Head Blues," has the potential to mean anything


(which is to


say, everything and,


thus, nothing)


because it can be read


in an infinite number of contexts.


possible reading


ment means


But why heap on more


Everyone pretty well knows what the state-


Right?


Outside of a few institutional sites


(schools,


churches,


courts,


or the media,


where "trained"


exegetes--teachers,


iudaes. ministers and priests, and news commentators--make









And explicating an off-the-cuff


(even if


remark such as Armstrong's


is frequently appropriated), as though it were a


line of lyric poetry,


is likely to strike us as, at best,


pedantic, at worst,


completely asinine.


Why is this the


case,


though?


I suspect two reasons.


One,


the labor of expo-


sition imbues the phrase with value, and this value teases out


ideologically assigned values,


the values our culture thinks


that the phrase merits


("It


isn't a line from Pope or Keat


It's Loui


Armstrong,


for crying out loud, not Schoenberg!").


Quite obviously,


this is exactly what is happening when a


jazz critic,


for instance Gary Giddins declares,


"In four


decades of prize-giving,


the Pulitzer Committee has never


recognized a


jazz composer."6


On the one hand,


statement


calls attention to the institutional


(non)status of


jazz.


On the other hand, because it does not evoke peals of laughter


over the absurdity of


its implied suggestion,


it can be made with a straight face,

calls attention to the rising status,


that is, because


(like this study)


to the institutionali-


zation, of


jazz.


Two, exposition violates a tacit interdic-


tion forbidding speculation, undercuts the assurance that


things ar


exactly what they seem to be


(by merely assuming


the need for explanation), and,


thus,


opposes the very


logic


a "correct"


interpretation of the phrase would demand


("Pops


meant


just what he said!


The music speaks for


itself.


Asking








My point could be taken as trite,

paid to the omnipotent work of ideolog


yet another homage


ry, a restatement of


the claim that any sign of any sort is always made to mean


less than it could mean.


But it is not--that is,


not trite


and not a homage.


do assume that meaning is socially pro-


duced and constrained,


that,


in Fiske'


s words:


The meanings I


find in a


sign derive from the ideology


within which the sign and I


exist


: by finding these


meanings I


define myself


and in relation to my


Soc


in relation to the ideology
iety.7


But instead of emphasizing the constraints ideology places upon


(unimaginable but,


somehow, felt)


potential meanings--or how


ideology delimits both orders of signification


(denotation


and connotation)


or, more specifically, what I


even think about a phrase such a


can say or


my chosen example--I


would


rather trace the means by which ideology--writing as a poli-


tico-social activity--produces


(appropriates and validates)


tropes to conceptualize representations of "objective" struc-


tures in this culture.


Stated practically,


I am less inter-


ested in demonstrating how the dominant ideology has contained


potential meanings of


jazz


(although thi


s needs to be shown),


exposing the rhetoric of


jazz "as the signifying aspect of


ideology," than in naming favored images--"signifiers of


connotation"--which thi


s culture


has chosen to represent


model)


jazz to itself


(IMT, 49).


But more than this,


I am








--always threaten the hegemony of


the system that generates


them,


because in their multiplicity they reveal


that


denotation


[truth, objectivity,


the law]


s not the first


meaning,


but pretends to be so; under this illusion,


is ultimately no more than the last of the connotations


(the one which seems both to


reading),


establish and to close the


the superior myth by which the text pretends


to return to the nature of language,


nature.


(s/z,


to language as


In subsuming denotation under connotation or


in writing


out the connotations of the tropes a culture employs to concep-


tualize a given system, one will,


of course,


remain within


ideology, for if ideology or "society," as Durkheim states,


"may


. be seen as that total genus beyond which nothing


else exists," then it has no bounds, no beyond


(both terms


become problematic);


getting outside it is less than desirable,


if not positively dangerous.8


But if,


as Barthes writes,


"Connotation i


the way into the polysemy of the classic


text"


(S/Z, 8),


then reintroducing the plurality which was


banished


always ineffectually because it cannot be sent


"outside")


for the sake of


insuring univocality


(canonical


meaning)


insures the substitution of a model of production


for the


classic


model


of representation


(s/z,


4-7);


stressing


suppressed connotations


always return)


(available, once again, because they


is tantamount to forsaking "the path of the


object"


(the "study of the natur


of the


'objective'


struc-


tures of a given cultural


text")


for "the path of the subject"







Again, s

into discours


tated practically,


are enabling imag


the tropes which bring jazz

es. They successfully enunci-


ate jazz--differentiate it from other music and imbue it


with meaning for our culture.


But they also have connotations


which would disrupt discourse, difference,


Writing out of these tropes


and meaning.


(employing them as thesauri)


therefore,


not an attempt to "arrange all


the meanings of a


text


[jazz


(s/z,


in a circle around the hearth of denotation"


but an attempt to employ the discourse of


jazz as


a compositional/improvisational model for opening up,


scatter-


ing, and disseminating.


Meandering


[TIher


would be no music if language had not preceded it


and if music did not continue to depend on it.
--Claude Ldvi-Strauss


The analogy with language,
in discussing their work,


often used by improvising musicians
s useful to illustrate the building


up of a common pool of material--a vocabulary--which takes


when a group of musicians improve


together regularly.
--Derek Bailey


Who can tell




Before I


you what love is?




proceed any farther


--Miles Davis9



I should make it clear that


jazz has two types of meaning for me, arising from two orders


of signs.


First,


it has specifically musical, non-referential







38

After years of listening to Louis Armstrong, Charlie


Parker, Ornette Coleman, and other jazz musicians,


understand


and enjoy their music because I have learned the musical


language they "speak."


I have learned to make intramusical


maps;


can translate within the realm of music.


More specif-


ically, because I have learned a group of "musical" signs


(including codes of


selection and combination: e.g., a para-


digmatic code given the title of "blue" note, a syntagmati


code designated the I-VI-II-V chord changes to Gershwin's "I


Got Rhythm,"


or a musical


grammar called "tonality"),


I recog-


nize certain acoustical patterns as jazz, other patterns as


not-jazz. These signs--which produce what could be termed

musical meaning (perhaps a different order of meaning than


that produced by referential

for musicology and ethnomusic

culture," to use Alan P. Merr


signs)--form the object of study

ology ("the study of music in


s phrase).


The nature of the purely musical sign raises serious


problems for study,


though.


In the Overture to The Raw and


the Cooked, Levi


-Strauss


states that music cannot be


"the


object of linguistic discourse,


when its peculiar quality is


to express what can be said in no other way."'1

we may admit the arbitrariness of all signs, bu


For example,


t examples of


synaesthesia such


"blue note,"


"hot


jazz,"


"sweet


jazz,"


or "hard bop,"


or oxymorons such


"musical siqn"


or "sound


-C







39

language with the contradictory attributes of being at once


intelligible and untranslatable"


(R&C,


18).


So then, L&vi-Strauss would agree with Louis Armstrong.


Jazz makes sense, and it cannot be translated.


in American Jazz Music,


Wilder Hobson,


writes:


It i


often said that


jazz cannot be notated.


It cannot;


and, strictly speaking, of course, neither can any other
music. Any music is played with a "translation" of the
written note values according to tradition for that
particular kind of music and the instincts of the
performer.12


Itself a type of notation,


this statement,


it would seem,


is, paradoxically,


the only completely accurate statement


one can make about


jazz or any other type of music.


But we


are in the midst of a double bind.


Translation--in this


case,


translation


performance--implies a stable text which


has some type of prior existence and which is not


knowable as already known


so much


(hard-wired into our brains).


Given the critical positions of Armstrong, Levi-Strauss,


and Hobson,


we observe that naming sounds, designating types


or styles of music,


constitutes an impossible translation,


an employment of catachresis.


Mapping jazz onto linguistic


discourse, moving from music, a potentially analogical


code,


to words, a digital code,


not only does


jazz violence,


inevitably fails.


Translation or mapping captures only that


which is common to both


jazz and linguistic discourse.


That







40

in the following statement made by Winthrop Sargeant.


Jazz:


Hot and Hybrid


(1946),


he writes:


Anyone who has attempted to transcribe folk music .
in terms of our musical notation has observed that the
symbols traditionally used by us in writing music are


very imperfectly suited to such purposes.


somewhat similar to that of


word


The problem


recording in printed


s the precise sound values of a dialect only remotely


related to the language for which the system of writing


was created.


The task of


the musical


transcriber is,


indeed,


more difficult than the comparison would indicate,


since music involves a far more complex group of


distinctions in the realm of

The distinction here indicate


important


sound than language does.

d ["between music itself and


the usually somewhat inaccurate representation of music


that


is achieved in


symbols written or printed on paper"]


is not only valuable to our discussion in that it points
to the untrustworthiness and inaccuracy of notation as


a conveyance for


a different


jazz;


it is also important as indicating


of attitude toward the art of music


between


whose idea


s of music are often colored by notational


considerations,


whose idea


and the musically illiterate


s of music are not


folk artist


so colored.13


This


is an important passage, because it represents a set of


problems which must concern any ethnomusicology;


states the pitfalls of ethnocentrism.


it cogently


It repeats points


raised by any number of texts--e.g.,


by Vico,


Voltaire, Rous-


seau,


and Swift--written when Western thinkers began to come


to terms with what were actually the implications of explor-

ation and colonization, echoes contemporary concerns in anthro-


pology


(it was written in 1946), and anticipates issues that


would later


.e.


now


animate orality/literacy discussions


in the humanity


ies.


it also manifests all


the marks of








derives


(and to which all music supposedly strives).


Faced


with the difficult


task of extricating his logic from the


very system it would oppose, Sargeant relies on that which is


untenable to deny that on which he relies.


That


he appeals


to Music to maintain the distinction between "music itself"


and representations of music and,


hence,


opposes a logic of


repetition which,


if generalized,


could actually account for


the possibility of his argument


well


folk music.


The


point is, given full rein the logic of notation,


what Derrida


has called iterability, would destabilize both the concept


Music and the concept notation.


Thus,


in order to function


--in order to keep the concepts of notation and translation


from becoming problematic,


implicating all music and,


hence,


collapsing the distinction between notated and unnotatable


music--Sargeant's argument must stop the logic of


its own


logic.

Sargeant's argument is a jazz version of the tune harped

on by numerous philosophers from Plato to Rousseau to L~vi-


Strauss, and my argument, although much too sketchy,


be read as a


could


jazz version--a fleeting quotation in the middle


of a solo--to a tune played by Derrida in Of Grammatology


(cf. OG,


195).


Sargeant continues:


The noblest department of Western concert music
the art of composition. This art of composite
concerned directly with the creation of music


has become


on is not


(i.e.,









composer.


Actually improvisation--the art of creating


music directly with vocal


more fundamental


to music


or instrumental means--is far
than is the complex, difficult


and specialized art of planning compositions on paper.

If we may alter the familiar opening to Genesis to suit


yet another connotation:


"In the beginning was improve


station "


(pp.


32-33


Thus, Sargeant's affinity for jazz is easily explained.


among all


the music of the West,


is one of,


if not the closest


music to Music.


Rhetorically and symbolically,


jazz--the


art of the improviser not the composer--still

of the purity of an originary Music because it


shares a vestige

is created


"directly" without the mediation of a composer; compared to


classical music,


jazz has sustained fewer translations.


is primitive music in the best


sense


of the word.


This


precisely Socrates' argument for dialectics over writing in

Plato's Phaedrus, and it is Rousseau's argument for music in


his Essay on the Origin of Languages.


One might even note


that my rhetoric, although it opposes this tendency,


is contra-


dicted by my grammar,


for when I


write or seek to theorize


"representations of


jazz,"


I assume the very notion I


would


deny--namely,


that


jazz can be distinguished from its repre-


sentations,


that representation


(which,


of course,


includes


is not restricted to the written


is supplemental,


tacked


on--to the real, musical item.

Many ethnomusicologists and musicians would readily agree









In an interview conducted in 1983, he reiterated the ancient,

metaphysical argument against notation (representing music


graphically)


and carried the


jazz version of


the logocentric


position to its inevitable--Socratic--conclusion.


Here is a


portion of his statement.


MUSICIAN:


Let me also broach the issue of Con Ed and


what it has wrought on the musical landscape. It's now
ten years since your major anti-electric music proclama-
tion.


JARRETT:


Today there ar
with electronic
And I think it'


think my argument is more persuasive today.


a lot more "interesting" things happening


music than their


were ten years ago.


probably more dangerous than it was then.


MUSICIAN: What do you mean, dangerous?


JARRETT:


I mean it


is a kind of poison.


Something that


takes your connection from the soil away is a poison.


I think that for a long, long time it wi
fun, and then at a point electronic music


11 be a lot of
c will either


go away or


it will be all that we have.


it's


all we


have,


then the poison has don


its job.


Peopi


are


able to listen to acoustic


music after they've heard


electric music


I know this is true for me;


it's a


very difficult, difficult thing to get used to.


MUSICIAN


Why poison?


Why an image of sickness and death?


JARRETT: Because it's something people are doing to
themselves.


MUSICIAN:
JARRETT:


What do you become desensitized to?


feel first of all,


there doesn't need to be


art.


Even acoustic


music is,


in the end,


a secondary


thing to the spirit that animates
painting is not the most important


Likewise,


t thing;


it's what the


painter does to paint
have to take ourselves


So I don't understand why we
far away from basic, close


organic substan


acoustic


ces


instrument


that are already far enough away in
s. I know ultimately that it's a


poison that either can get worse or get better and if
it gets better we're lucky.14

Although I am tempted to devote much more space to discussing


Sargeant and Jarrett's restatements of


logocentrism,


will








over


literature, presence over writing--has,


as I have noted,


already been redressed, most notably,


in the work of Derrida


and de Man.


will emphasize,


however,


the assertions of Sargeant


and Jarrett are particularly interesting and deserve further


attention.

notation,


They approach the problem of "writing"--i.e.,

translation, and representation--from outside philo-


sophical discourse, and,

metaphysics of presence


years,


yet,


they echo the rhetoric of the


(or voice


which, for two thousand


has dominated Western ways of thinking.


As popularized


versions of continuing but ancient philosophical debates,

they readily demonstrate that the discussions animating contem-


porary critical


theory, far from being abstruse and hidebound,


reflect and speak to issues which concern culture as a whole.


Jarrett's argument is especially noteworthy.


glaring example of telephobia


It is a


(the fear of being separated


from "basic, close, organic substances that are already far


enough away").

tronic medium


And, because it is advanced against an elec-

(electronic music is a copy of acoustic music,


which is itself a copy of "spirit"),


it is particularly timely,


indicative of a larger issue producing similar arguments

used in polemics against all forms of "secondary orality":


e.g.,


television and the computer.


A generalization or exten-


sion of Sargeant's rather specific complaint,


it is powerful







45

translations--problematic mappings from one "language" to


another.


Finally,


in updating and practically paraphrasing


Socrates'


condemnation of writing,


it suggests that we


reassess


and ultimately reject L6vi-Strauss's thesis that


ability and untranslatability are sui


intelligi-


generis features of the


language called music, precisely because this claim ha


been made for speech and other "languages."


s also


As Andrei,


protagonist of Tarkovsky's film Nostalghia, puts it,


"Poetry


is untranslatable like the whole of art."


All languages,


it could be maintained,


seem to "express


what can be said in no other way."


Intelligibility and


untranslatability are general attribut


of language.


Inter-


semiotic mapping is both an impossibility and a precondition


of language,


whether one is translating from painting to


linguistic discourse,


from English to Chinese, or from the


thoughts in my brain to the typed words on this paper.


Two questions must be engaged.

uniqueness of music essential to L4

The Raw and the Cooked? And, given


Why is establishing the


!vi-Strauss's argument


, the untranslatability of


music


(not to mention all languages),


how does intelligibility


arise?


I shall answer the first and a related question--Why


must structuralism reject serialism?--in a later chapter,

but for now, notice Levi-Strauss's response to the question


intelligibility.


He writes:


He writes:







46

According to L vi-Strauss, music and mythology are natural


teams,


sys-


automatically intelligible, because they are expressions


of the a priori


conditions that make communication possible.


They are originary


languages.


Everyone understands them


(for they constitute the condition


s for understanding);


one can translate them.


Or stated differently,


"when the


mind


[individual or corporate]


is left to commune with itself


and no longer has to come to terms with objects,


it is in a


sense reduced to imitating itself as object"


product of such


(R&C, 10).


self-reflexive objectification is music


The

(indi-


vidually produced)


or mythology


(socially produced).


Hence,


we understand music and mythology because these isomorphic,

original languages mimic--actually model--the structures of


the human mind.


This is why Levi-Strauss can declare,


"music


has its being in me, and I listen to myself through it"


17).


(R&C,


Demonstrate the logical operations that govern music


and mythology, and you reveal the pattern of basic and univer-

sal laws that govern human beings.


There is,


however, another--my preferred--way of account-


ing for the intelligibility of music, and although this way

accepts the impossibility of translation, it also asserts


the necessity of


translation.


Unlike structuralism,


it does


not seek to ground itself


in ontology.


It declares that


intelligibility is an effect produced by mapping one system








And it


inevitably occurs.


Stated more forcefully,


assume


that intelligibility is a by-product of


maps;


imagining or creating


institutionally sanctioned maps create the effect of


ontological stability,


truth.


If a music is to gain signifi-


chance in a culture,


and,


it must be turned into some kind of text


thereby, acquire referential meaning.


So then, as I


stated earlier,


jazz has referential


meaning.


or, better,


possesses


denotative and connotative values,


it acquires these values when it enters


onto or translated into)


discourse


(is mapped


(textuality): when,


pairing "cultural" signs (ling

reference, and symbolic codes)


luistic and nonlinguistic semic,

with "musical" signs, our


culture represents--enunciates--jazz to itself.


Because I


am acquainted with the "cultural" signs which signify jazz


(and which jazz signifies)

wrongly is not the issue)


I assume


(whether rightly or


that I understand jazz.


The point


the effect of believing that I know what


jazz means results


not so much from the ability to read musical signs


(which could


be called the ability to play or listen), but from an acquired

competence in deciphering the culturally assigned and politic-


ally privileged signs that govern the presentation of


(e.g.,


jazz


the metascientific discourse of ethnomusicology,


styles of clothes worn by beboppers,


or the argot of


hipster).


These


signs or codes,


which mark sites of


ideolog-









to what


jazz


but to what


jazz


They are always


identifiable


writing


(in the broad


sense


the word),


and in my study,


except in the section on Martin


Scorsese's


film New York,


New York,


as 4criture


(writing in the narrow


sense).


Thriving on a Riff


In December 1965,


with my personal life and fortunes at low


ebb.


went to Rome.


One day I


visited many churches.


was overawed to observe that in each one there were urns


containing the remain


of saints and soldiers.


How incredible


that persons of such opposite beliefs each in his own way


attempting to influen


the same pla


our world--could end up in exactly


ce--a


--Ornette Coleman


. tout, au monde,


existe pour aboutir a un livre.
--St6phane Mallarm616


As one with a background in literary


studies,


conceptu-


alize


jazz as a text--actually


a textual ensemble, an


imaginary bibliography of preferred and


exc


luded readings.


And I


regard my own knowledge of


jazz


something pre-written:


composed by records


I have heard,


movies I have


seen,


stories


I have been told,


books I have read,


concerts I have attended,


and musicians with whom I have spoken.


Along with Jameson,


tend to assume that


we never really confront a text


immediately,


in all its


says.









Probably, Jameson is correct

arrive always-already-mediated.


Our readings of texts do


But what do we make of this


notion of a "fresh"


text?


Just because we never really experi-


ence


azz


in its pristine form "as a thing-in-itself"--isolated


from "sedimented layers of previous interpretations"--does

not insure that it could be heard in a hypothetical pre-lapsar-


ian,


utopian, or millennial state.


such a state,


that


Never having been in


we should be willing to imagine


jazz must be especially good there


(with Jameson)


(since it is fresh,


does not have to pass through layers of sediment), fear


(with


L6vi-Strauss


that there is no jazz there


(because, even


though music


[like mythology], provides a basis for language,


it is meaningless without language),


or be satisfied to observe


that,


in this culture,


in our experience,


jazz,


like any


music, drifts on a read--on socially produced texts that


sustain


(even create)


it as a music with specific meanings.


What,


then, are we to make of the texts which name--


present, model, and situate--jazz,


course?


that bring it into dis-


How should we approach the recordings, clothes,


musical instruments,


spaces


for performance, and especially,


at least for my purposes,


the books and films that position


(and overdetermine)


this culture's experience of


jazz?


how can we speak of these types of representations or of

jazz without assuming an impossible position outside text-







50

African drumming"--has his protagonist, N., offer one possible


solution to our dilemma.17

writes to the Angel of Dust,


After awaking from a dream,


the recipient of his correspon-


dence:


I awoke to the even mor


radical realization that it's


not enough that a composer skillfully cover hi


that he eras


tracks,


the echo of "imposition" composition can't


help but be haunted by.


In a certain sense,


realized,


to do so only makes matter


s worse.


The question I


was


left with,


of course,


was:


What can one do to outmaneuver


the inertia both of what one knows and of what one feels


or presumes to feel?


There must be some way,


I'm con-


vinced, to invest in the ever so slight suggestion of
"compost" I continue to get from the word compose.


(BH,


78-79)


N.--a founding member of a musical collective known as the

Mystic Horn Society, an aggregation patterned after Sun Ra's

Arkestra or the Art Ensemble of Chicago--hints at a grammato-


logical approach to compositional inertia (i.e., a provisional

solution to the problem of how to unclench one's teeth--trigger


composition).


Although he declares,


don't claim to have


come up with a solution yet," he does admit that he has prob-


ably assumed John Coltrane's stated goal


(quoted in the liner


notes to Coltrane Live at the Village Vanguard Again!)


is "trying to work out a kind of writing that will allow for


more plasticity, more viability, more room for

in the statement of the melody itself." His a

position--has the extravagance and elegance of


conceit, but


improvisation


approach -decom-

a metaphysical


as a postmodern inventio it is, according to


W









Detecting


word


"compose"


ever


so slight


discourse


whiff


equivalent


"compost"


reversing


direction


sens


sublation,


begins


the work


returning


composition,


a master


concept


Western


thought,


bodily


metaphor


(phil


osopheme)


on which


was


based


(or,


least,


to a


base,


bodily metaphor).


this


method,


whereby


intelligible


is manured


(from manouvrer,


to work


with


hands,


cultivate


into


sensible,


decomposition


challenges


outmaneuverss)


"the


idealizing


appropriating


operations


metaphysics,


which


lift


ed metaphors


into


concepts


and which


exalted


steme


over


aisthesis


the only


genuine


which


source


was


truth"


suppressed


(AG,


51-52


ignored.


reintroduces


It presents


a way


that


to write,


that


write


tropes


which


organized Western


meta-


physi


, and


provides


s study with an


experimental


(tentative and


alternative)


means


writing


about


tropes


which


organize


rhetoric


jazz.


Ulmer writes


such


project:


In decomposition


opposite


. aa


metamorpho


term does


ses


into


own


generate
alloseme


without


unity,


task


conclusion,


(de)composition,


hierarchy,


then,


only


to break


scatt


down


ering


(letter-


alize)


the concepts


that


compose


one's


knowledge


particular


field


into a


textual


compost


pile


that


can






52

be haunted by" or skillfully covering writing's tracks to

past texts, a grammatological mode of writing--like jazz


music--feeds "off the decay of


tradition."18


In stating this I am,


of course,


feeding off the theory


(grammatology)


and method


(deconstruction)


exemplified in


the work of Derrida and a group of theorists broadly referred


to as textualists,


just


traditional studies continue to


feed off a theory


mimesiss)


and method


(formal analysis)


old as, and most readily identified with, Aristotle


Accordingly,


(p. 87).


I feel no more incumbency to actually restate


the textualist


(deconstructionist/grammatological)


position,


than a traditional scholar would feel


to restate Aristotle'


Poetics.


Both have already been done.


commentary on Derrida


is, however,


(except


(though it


My study is not a


in an oblique sort of way).


is hard to use the word anymore


without wincing)


something of a deconstruction of the musico-


logical literature of


jazz and,


then, a suggested application


of grammatological theory to three books and a film which


represent jazz: an experiment in


an allegory or model


decompositiono, an emblem,


of a new kind of writing.


Just for the Record


[T]he disc is scratched and is wearing out, perhaps the singer






53

might say that it is one, maybe the institutionally privileged,


means by which this culture provides


jazz with a speaking


voice


Unlike its object of study,


however,


the musicological


work


is susceptible to the type of theoretical scrutiny and


speculation most frequently reserved for so-called "literary"


or "artistic" texts,


because it


first and foremost a verbal


structure.


to paraphrase White, combines "data," theoret-


ical concepts for "explaining" these data, and a linguistic


structure to, presumably,


present an icon of the music under


examination


(MH,


ix).


If we grant that music is the purview


of musicologists,


we must allow that the products of musi-


cology--since they are written and not musical--fall within


the realm of


literary studies.


Or stated even more forcefully,


musicology may possess a specialized language or metadiscourse


sufficient for the study of music,


including jazz,


but it


possesses no discourse capable of self-reflexively analyzing


its own, exclusively,


linguisti


products.


Literary theory,


it seems,


s that discipline which has developed a metadis-


course sufficient for the study of musicological discourse.


Accordingly,


this study does not attempt to examine jazz


music, nor does it directly examine musicological


"data" or


"theory."


Rather,


it concerns itself with representations


representations.


It shifts the object of study to the


written or filmed representation of


jazz and attends to matters








(Or,


21) .


As far as


I have been able to ascertain,


it is


the first book-length study to privilege the signifiers of


jazz over the signified,


rize how I, and,


jazz.


by extension,


It seeks, above all,


this culture,


to theo-


have managed to


understand one of the most interesting art forms of this

century.


chose to survey the language of musicological studies


jazz for five reasons.


First, since the language of musi-


cology occupies a privileged position in university music

departments, an investigation of that language constitutes

an institutional imperative to any study that would investigate


representations of


jazz in imaginative literature or the


perception of


jazz in the cultural reference.


Second,


although, generally speaking, musicological literature describ-

ing classical music has become increasingly self-conscious


s basis in language, musicological literature describing


jazz has shown little interest in scrutinizing--philosophizing


or theorizing--its own rhetoric.


done.


This work needed to be


Third, a survey of musicology provides an occasion


for commenting on issue


associated with the theoretical


problem of referentiality and with what has been called a


theory of general


textuality, because it foregrounds that


large set of problems which inevitably arises when one seeks

to represent music--"a semiotic system without a semantic






55

formed the soundtrack to the Modern Age and pointed towards


postmodernism


(much


rock and roll--more than the music of


Cage and Boulez--forms the soundtrack to postmodernism and


points to something else


yet unrealized).


A survey of


musicological responses to


jazz provides a convenient departure


point for discussing institutional responses to questions


that concerned modernism.


Fifth and more to-the-point,


I am


what the French call an amateur de musique; surveying musico-

logical literature devoted to jazz gave me a scholarly excuse


to read what I enjoy reading anyway, and, of course,


me a way of, at least obliquely,


it granted


writing about something I


love.


In order to draw up the list of books that guided this


survey,


I surrendered both to the scholar's urge to systema-


tization and to the jazz lover's urge to spontaneity.


the systematic


side,


to start my work,


classified and evalu-


ated a selection of texts chosen from three bibliographies:


Booth's chapter,


"Ragtime and Jazz,"


in American Popular


Music: A Reference Guide; Kennington and Read


s The Liter-


nature of Jazz; and Harrison's chapter on


azz


in The New


Grove: Gospel,


Blues and Jazz.20


But thi


s study is in no way


intended to be encyclopedic in scope. I hav

of the books listed in these bibliographies.


reading widely but selectively


,e not read all


Instead,


I attempted to gain a general









followers,


elaborators,


new


authorities"


(Or,


22).


spontaneous


side,


followed


a general


rule


invention


laid


down


Edison.


He said,


"When


are


experimenting


come


across


anything


thoroughly


understand,


don't


rest


until


run


down;


very


thing


are


looking


may


be something


more


important.


Gelatt


describes


how


this


rule


invention


phonograph.


For
of


years


Edison


telegraph.


labored


* In


increase


summer


the efficiency


1877


he was


working o
indenting


Morse
times


n an


instrument


a paper


code
and


that


tape with


later


rate


repeated
of speed


transcribed


the dots


the message
required.


telegrams
dashes of t
any number
To keep th


tap
he
at


e


proper


noticed
a high


that
speed,


the end


adjustment


when
the


spring


described


human


talk


heard


light
indi


he
tape


indented
gave off
musical,
stinctly.


use


race
dots


a steel s
d through
and dash


pring,
his i


es


noise which


rhythmic


sound,


instrument


striking


son


res


embling


Instead


ignoring


this


phenomenon,


Edison


pursued


interest


telephone--a


recently


invented


carbon


trans-


matter


thirty


Bell'


-year-old


one-year-old


Edison


invention


financially


already made


independent--encouraged


him


speculate


that


one


could


record


a telegraph


message,


one


could


also


record


human


voice--more


specifically,


telephone me


ssage.


abandoned


work


telegraph


shifted


his efforts


makeshift


to which


resorted


during


work


carbon


transmitter.


Gelatt









rest lightly on this needle,


the pricks would show him


the amplitude of the signal coming over the line.


back to this experien


Harking


Edison reasoned that if the


need


could prick hi


s finger it could just a


well


prick a paper tape and indent
human voice.


it with a record of the


In theory,


the phonograph was invented.


On July 18,


1877,


Edison


jotted in his notebook:


Just tried experiment with diaphragm having an embossing
point and held against paraffin paper moving rapidly.
The speaking vibrations are indented nicely, and there's


no doubt that I


shall be abl


to store up and reproduce


automatically at any future time the human voice


per-


fectly.

In subsequent experiments, Edison improved his invention--for


example,


he substituted tin foil for paraffin wax--but


general


operating principal


remained the same.


On August


he handed John Kruesi,


a sketch of the phonograph.


"one of his most trusted mechanics,"


Thirty hours later, according


to "official"


accounts, Kruesi was finished.


Edison shouted


"Mary had a little lamb"


into the instrument's mouthpiece


and made the first phonograph recording.


relate this account for a couple of reasons.


For one


thing,


it provides a


(mythic)


rationale for digressive tenden-


Just


Edison


of the phonograph,


digression precipitated the invention


one of my


lapses from systematic reading


in the field of


jazz turned up Joseph Kerman's Contemplating


Music: Challen


to Musicology


(1985)


This exemplary work


introduced me to the study of


classical music


as organized


es.








ethnomusicology and criticism.


It functioned for me much as


Terence Hawkes's Structuralism and Semiotics, Catherine Bel-


sey' s


Critical Practice, or similar introductory surveys of


literary theory might function for a student of music inter-


ested in critical


theory.


Although it did not discuss any


books or articles specifically on jazz,


it oriented my thoughts


vis a vis contemporary musicology.

But I also repeated the story of Edison's invention of


the phonograph for another reason.


Because the history of


jazz


is coextensive with the invention and development of the


phonograph


(including associated inventions such as the micro-


phone and tape record

motifs which we shall


this account


repeatedly encoun


introduces several

ter in this study.


For examp

at once,


le,


the phonograph was perceived and situated as,


"an invention, an industry, and a musical instru-


ment"


(Phono,


11).


As such,


its products,


which include


jazz,


like the products of the Edison's Kinetograph or Kinetoscope,

must be received as imbricating science, economics, and aesthe-

tics.


If cinema would be impossible without


is inseparable


from)


the technology which brought it into existence,


a much more problematic


case,


jazz,


because it could have conceivably


developed without electronic modeling systems


electronically


dependent technologies for recording and reproducing sound),








the early phonograph,


does not store up its reproductions).


As Miles Davis quipped,


when speaking of a fellow trumpet player's campaign to preserve


time-honored,


jazz traditions:


"Wynton Marsalis?


don't know about him, man


I know he doesn't talk like that when we're alone toge-


their.


'Preserve this'


'preserve that'--the way they're


going we'll have blacks back on the plantation.


it already is preserved.
all about?
"I just tell people it
bell-bottom pants anymore
I drive a Ferrari."22


I mean,


Isn't that what records are


like this


And I


: I can't wear


don't drive an Edsel.


Yet,


as virtually everyone who studies this type of music


observes, jazz is also antithetical to "artificial" recording

technologies. Martin Williams notes that "phonograph records


are in a


sense


a contradiction of the meaning of the music."


Gunther Schuller states,


performance


azz


. is a one-time thing,


ding of an improvised

in many instances the


only available and therefore


that was never meant to be definitive."


'definitive' version of something


But probably the


most famous testament to the jazz musician's antipathy to

recording is the brief anecdote told about Freddie Keppard


and the Original Creole Band.


"Early in 1916


[one full


year


before the Original Dixieland Jazz Band recorded the first


jazz record,


"At the Darktown Strutters' Ball,


" for Columbia]


the Victor Phonograph Company approached the Original Creoles


with an offer to record.


Keppard thought it over, and said:


which could record and play back,









Jazz,


then,


is a response to, and a reaction against,


technology of electronic sound reproduction and,


therefore,


makes a good test


case


for studying how electronic modeling


systems--actually new means of writing--inevitably get bound


up in philosophical,


scientific,


economic, and


aes


thetic


issues with,


ultimately, political ramifications


(i.e.,


raise


issues of power, most often discussed in terms of class,


race and gender).


In the following pages I shall return to,


expand and focus,


these observations.


But for now,


enough to noti


that the questions raised by the electronic


reproduction


(and recording)


jazz--a music created, as


Anthony Davis put it,


interesting,


"in the moment"--present a particularly


contemporary version of the ancient opposition


between mneme and hypomnesis and, consequently,


recapitulate


the orality/literacy discussions which have concerned theor-

ists such as Parry, Lord, Havelock, Foley, Ong, McLuhan,

Goody, and Derrida for the last twenty-five years or so.24



Out of the Tropics


She told me things she knew,


like when the white man came to


Africa he acted friendly at first and tried to show the tribes


his superiority in magic--but our people'


medicine was as


advanced


his and mor


so when


it came to tropical fever


and diseases.
he could write,


The white man had one magi


he could writ


we didn't have-


down ideas and this amazed


our people.









One critic described Early Jazz:


Its Roots and Musical


Development as "among the two or three finest contributions


to jazz literature."26


But that


is not why I employ the


Preface to Volume I


of Gunther Schuller's, as yet uncompleted,


"comprehensive history of


jazz music,"


as the departure point


for my survey and analysis of musicological literature devoted


to jazz.


My reasons are guided primarily by personal-profes-


sional interests:


the concerns of my thesis.


Schuller's Preface,


whatever its other putative merits,


serves my purposes because it provides a history of writing


about


jazz as well as a register of the author'


attitude


toward


s that history.


As a succinct, diachroni


(or syntag-


matic)


account of


jazz musicology,


it affords a useful


overview


of the rhetorical


topography of


jazz.


Hence,


I shall cite


it almost in its entirety.


But in addition to this, Schuller's


Preface also presents--in its first paragraph--what could be


called a synchronic


(or paradigmatic)


representation of


jazz


musicology.


In this passage Schuller,


who was formerly Presi-


dent of the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston,

Artistic Director at the Berkshire Music Center at Tangle-


wood, and the French horn player on Miles Davis


' historic


recording,


The Birth of the Cool,


accuses the majority of


books on


jazz of some very specific mistakes.


His reasons


for doing


so are simple, a rhetorical


necess


itv.


To distin-


..... i w








allows him to write)


and after him


(whose future--if his


book is taken as definitive--will be fixed or even foreclosed).


In order to accomplish this task,


to mix my metaphors,


attempts to situate his own work within a critical field,


and at the end of a historical/intellectual


lineage.


And in


the process of


identifying his work with, and distinguishing


it from, a critical


tradition,


he--perhaps unintentionally--


attributes a extraordinary, albeit negative,


group of writings.


unity to a diverse


He states:


Although their


is no dearth of books on


jazz,


of them have attempted to deal with the music


very few
itself i


anything more than general descriptive or impressionistic


terms.


The majority of books have concentrated on the


legendary of


jazz,


and over the years a body of writing


has accumulated which is little more than an amalgam of
well-meaning amateur criticism and fascinated opinion.
That this was allowed to pass for scholarship and serious
analysis is attributable not only to the humble, socially


"unacceptable" origin of
held notion that a music
often musically illiterate


jazz, but also to the widely
improvised by self-taught,
e musicians did not warrant


genuine musicological r
many "serious" composer


research.


Despite the fact that


s and performers had indicated


their high regard for jazz as early as the 1920s,


academic credentials of


jazz were hardly sufficient to


produce a serious interest


in the analysis of


niques and actual musical content.


For reasons I shall soon produce,


remarkable as it


(EJ,


its tech-


vii)


this passage i


is altogether unexceptional.


s as eminently

fold your finger


on it.


The bibliography following the


jazz entry


in The New Grove


Gospel, Blues and Jazz lists 109 books under the headings







63

it does produce could be likened to collective improvisation,


that is,


analogous to descriptions of early, New Orleans-


style jazz,


where,


without subordinating one instrumental


voice to another, all group members played at the same time).


Since the word


jazz


started to appear


in print sometime between


1913 and 1915--or,


to give the reader several


other points


of reference, since Jelly Roll Morton claimed he invented


jazz


(1902), Paul Whiteman debuted Gershwin's Rhapsody in


Blue


(February 12, 1924), and Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five


made their seminal recordings


(1928)--the literature that


brings jazz music into language has agreed on very


little.27


In describing it one constantly runs the risk of writing

useless generalities or engaging in endless specificity.


Schuller's opening paragraph avoids these dangers,


though.


Grante<

study


d,


it envisions a set of texts that


(whose definition, although problema


be knowable, even self evident).


Granted,


share an object of

tic, is assumed to

it supposes that


jazz--the object of study--can be observed by "itself," unen-


cumbered by past representations.


And granted,


it speaks


from a narrative position where it can purportedly measure

the value of a representation against a thorough knowledge


of the thing represented:


assumptions we have already discussed


and to which we shall return.


But more importantly,


this


passage comprehends


lazz


scholarship


- -


a lecacv of lack.







64

to--jazz scholarship by assigning images of paucity to past

texts and by filling in this poverty with a tacit promise of

imminent plenitude.


it turns out,


the "negative"


images Schuller


uses


organize j


azz


scholarship are,


in slightly disguised form,


privileged tropes that all who represent jazz in writing--

whether in fiction or nonfiction--use to conceptualize this


music.


Sometimes they are given a negative valence


(as in


the writings of Adorno


; sometimes they are given a positive


twist or turn


(as in the body of Early Jazz).


In the following


chapters,


I shall introduce these enabling images--four tropes


which provide a means of "writing" jazz.


This will lead me


to an examination of Schuller's project, or, better, his


musicological


ideal,


which, by means of a generalization,


read as the dream of the science of jazzology:


how "serious


analysis"--"genuine musicological research"--seeks to rise


above


(supplement or cast out)


the merely rhetorical--the


deficiency


of "general descriptive or impressionistic"


texts.

Without a doubt, my comments could be misconstrued


an attack on musicology, and its stepchild,


jazzology.


That


would be a mistake.

a literary theorist


In fact, my comments should be taken


s attempt to understand how musicology


succeeds--how it comes to count as


truth--not how it inevitably








words; all have failed."28


But, strange


it may seem,


contradiction and failure have never been barriers to writing


or rhetorical


success.


Far from it.


As structuralism has


repeatedly shown,


contradiction motivates composition,


poststructuralism is fond of pointing out,


the semioti


conditions which would undo writing


of establishing a stable context)


(e.g.,


the impossibility


make it possibi


(iter-


ability,


the mobility of the sign, allows writing).


Hence, although I make no claims of being disinterested,

I did not choose the Preface to Early Jazz because I featured


that it would make an easy whipping boy.

it exemplifies contradictions that animate


nonfiction discourse on jazz

of scholarship that books on


to achieve,


chose it because

(enable and defeat)


and because it evidences a level

jazz have consistently striven


but seldom attained.


Notes


iCortAzar, pp.


69-70,


2Jacques Derrida, Dissemination,


(Chicago:


Univ


. of Chicago, 1981), p.


trans.
332.


Barbara Johnson
Subsequently


cited


as Dis.


3Rousseau,


La Nouvelle Hbloi


se, Pldiade edition, Oeuvres


completes,


. II,


693,


in B&I, p.


131.


'T. S. Eliot,
Selected Prose of T


"Tradition and the Individual Talent,"


. S.


Eliot, ed. Frank Kermode


(New York:









6Gary Giddin


tion in the


'80s


s, Rhythm-a-ning: Jazz Tradition and Innova-
(New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1985), p. 20.


7John Fisk


Introduction to Communication Studies


New


York: Methuen,


1982), p.


8Quoted in Fredri


Jameson,


The Political Unconscious:


Narrative


a Socially Symbolic Act,


Itha


ca:


Cornell Univ.


Press, 1981),


Subsequently cited


9Claude Ldvi-Strauss,


The Naked Man,


trans. J


. Cape


(New


York


: Harper and Row,


1981), p.


647; Derek Bailey,


Improv-


isation:


Its Nature and Practice in Music


(Ashbourne: Moorland


Publishing Co., 1980), p.


126,


in John Corbett,


"Writing


Around Improvisation," Subjects/Objects


(1986), p.


53; Mil


Davis,


in Nat Hentoff,


The Jaz


z Life


(New York


: Dial P


ress


1961), p. 250


10Alan P


. Merriam, cited in Joseph Kerman, Contemplating


Music


Challenges to Musicology


(Cambridge: Harvard Univ.


Press,


1985), p.


Kerman subsequently


cited as CM.


11Claude L6vi-Strauss,


The Raw and the Cooked, p.


Subsequently cited


R&C.


12Wilder Hobson, American Jazz Music (New York:
1939), p. 29.


13Winthrop Sargeant, Jazz: A Histor


Hot and Hybrid


(New York, McGraw-Hi


Norton,


, originally Jazz:
46), pp. 29, 31-32,


and in brackets, p


. 28.


14David Breskin,


"Keith Jarrett," Musician, Nov. 1983,


reprinted Feb.


1987, p


15Dougla
Golden Braid


s R.


Hofstadter, G del, Escher, Bach: an Eternal


(New York


: Vintage Book


1979),


160rnett


Coleman,


The Musi


& Sounds, RCA Bluebird, LM/LSC


of Ornett


Coleman:


-2982, 1987; Mallarimi,


Forms


"The


Book, A
p. 24.


Spiritual


Instrument,


" in Selected Poetry and Prose,


17Nathaniel Mackey, Bedouin Hornbook


(Lexington


: Univ.


of Kentucky,


1986), p.


144.Subsequently


cited


18Greaorv L.


Ulmer,


"The Obiect of P


- -


-Criticism,"


_









1983), pp. 101-36; Donald Kennington and Danny L.


Literature of Jazz: A Critical Guide,


2nd ed.


Read,


The


(Chicago: Amer-


ican Library Association, 1980);


Paul Oliver, Max Harrison,


and William Bolcom,


The New Grove: Gospel,


with Spirituals and Ragtime
1986).


(New York: W


. W.


Blues and Jazz


Norton & Company,


21Roland Gelatt,


The Fabulous Phonograph 1877-1977, 2nd


(New York


quently cited


: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1977), p


Phono.


invention of the phonograph,


. 18


Subse-


c following account of Edison
including the citation from


Edison's notebook,


is taken from Phono, pp


. 18-21.


22Mark Rowland,


"Miles Davis Is a Living Legend and You're


Not,


" Musician, May 1987, p


. 90.


3Martin Williams,


The Jazz Tradition


(New York


: Oxford


Univ.


Press,


1970), p.


251.


Gunther Schuller, Early Jazz


Its Roots and Musical Development


(New York


: Oxford Univ.


Press,


1968),


"New Orleans Music,"
Charles Edward Smith


William Russell and Stephen W. Smith,
Jazzmen, ed. Frederic Ramsey, Jr. and
(New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company,


1939),


p. 22.


Williams subsequently cited as JT,


Schuller


EJ, Jazzmen in the text by title.

24Data are available should one wish to trace the dissem-


nation of


jazz


a direct


(if unintended)


result of the


technology associated with the invention of the phonograph


("an invention, an industry, and a musical


instrument").


One


should consult,


first, Stephen W.


Smith'


"Hot Collecting,"


in Jazzmen, pp.
Eisenberg, The


287-99,


then,


Recording Angel


the following


Phono;


Evan


Explorations in Phonography


(New York: McGraw-Hill, 1987); Peter Gammond and Raymond


Horricks,


The Music Goes Round and Round: A Cool Look at the


Record Industry
Hitchcock, ed.,


(New York: Quartet Books, 1980); and H.


The Phonograph and Our Musical Lif


Wiley


Pro-


ceedings of a Centennial Conference,


lyn:


7-10 December 1977


(Brook-


Institute for Studies in American Music, Department of


Music, School


of Performing Arts Brooklyn College of The


City University of New York, 1980)


2
Books,


5Charl


Mingus, Beneath the Underdog


1971), p.


(New York:


Penguin


BH, p.


6Kennington and Read,


110.


Although they fail to


identify this critic,
the book jacket of EJ,


others, whose blurbs are recorded on


have also Draised it.


Leonard Feather









27Alan P. Merriam and Fradley H.


Garner,


"Jazz--The Word,"


Ethnomusicology,
quently cited as


(1968), 385-86.


"Jazz."


This article is subse-


Its authors record:


the oldest referen


to the word jazz seems to be that


advanced by Chapman who


[in 1958]


is reported to have


"turned up a poster


some 100 year


s old,


with the word Jazz


on it.


Other than this, we hav


Austin's statement that


"the term 'jazz'


in its relation to music dates from about


s time


(post


Civil War),


" while


Clay Smith notes:


azz'


was born and christened in the low dance halls


of our far west of three decades ago,
it about 1900.


28Leonard Feather,


' which would place


The Book of Jazz: From Then Till Now


(New York:


Dell Publishing Co., 1957), p


. 17.















CHAPTER


OBBLIGATO:


Ornament


GOTTA


WRITE


confabulation


SING


intersti


THE



ces


BLUES


structure.


A poem by Dylan


Thoma


sax


phone


solo


by Charles


Parker,


a painting
as ends in
structure.


Jack


son


themselv


Pollock--


ese


are


Confabulation


pure confabulations


come


to determine


--Kenneth


Rexroth


"perpetual


makes


jazz


confli


hot.


between


The best


clarity


performers


ana grace I
continually


what


anti


cipate


or delay


the phrase


beginnings


endings.


They


their


measure


performan


, with


ces,


treat


grace


the beat


. Thi


syncopation,


indeed,
is what


plea


ses


hep-cats


--John


Cage


variations


were


real


matter,


theme.


--Dorothy


Baker


Nothing is
invention.


so easy


improvisation,


running


--Henry


James


We beli


eve


improvised
(months, y


that
(hour


ears,


thing
minut


s valuable


seconds


the extent


that


extensively


prepared


centuries


--F.


Marinetti1


Agrements


Schuller


treatise


early


3azz


begins


with


pronounce-








impressionistic terms."


They are,


in the language of musi-


cology agr ments.

A collective term introduced into the French musical

vocabulary of the 17th century and "finally adopted into all


European music," agrements refers to a group of


"signs or


abbreviations" for signifying musical


music of the West,


ornaments.


the codification of agr ment


In the art


marks the


systematization and ultimate standardization of


improvised


ornamentation


("the practice .


. of embellishing musical


works through additions to or variations of their essential


rhythm, melody, or harmony").


station


Although their correct interpre-


"constitutes a considerable problem in performing


music of


the 17th and 18th century,"


and although the term


itself may seem to suggest "the existence of unadorned compo-

sitions representing the pure intentions of their composers,"

the musical figures that agr6ments represent were indispensable


features of many musical works,


and 18th centuries."


"particularly in the 17th


They are divided into the following


categories:


"(1)


appoggiatura


(also double appoggiatura);


trill;


turn;


(4) mordent;


Nachschlag;


arpeggio;


(7) vibrato"


("Ornamentation"


and "Agr4ments," HCDM).


Other than noting that "the majority of books have concen-


treated on the legendary of


edly tangential


jazz," that is, on a matter suppos-


to real issues, Schuller does not elaborate









jazz music.


This task,


however,


needs to be done.


To start


with, someone could systematize the pre-musicological discourse


jazz,


theorize the connotative values it assigns to the


music.


As of yet,


though,


no one has produced the semic


(that is,


the connotative


codes that structure representations


jazz.


Nevertheless,


although the literature treating jazz can


claim no equivalent of Barthes's A Lover's Discourse or Mythol-


ogies, no meta-musicological


text schematizing codes of musico-


logical and ethnomusicological discourse, we could initiate

such a study by observing that jazz--like its written repre-


sentation--is consistently apprehended as a more or


less


spontaneous process whereby one elaborates or palimpsestically


"plays over" that which is conceived as already composed.


This


process


(which even in its conception is already a represen-


station of


jazz)


is always assigned a name.


For example,


this chapter and, especially,


in the section on Ellison's


Invisible Man,


designate it


the obbligato figure.


Denis


Hollier,


in his reexamination of Sartre, links


it with vari-


action:


"changes made in a tune through the addition of orna-


ments which nevertheless allow the basi


to be maintained."2


melody and movement


It could also be referred to as the figure


of ornamentation or


grace


(a "term used by early English


musicians for any musical orn4


ament, whether written out i








But most frequently,


(i.e.,


the process of making jazz)


is called "improvisation,"


a term that,


in addition to denoting


a spontaneous or extemporized composition,


suggests a previ-


ously established text


(e.g., a musical phrase,


the chord


changes to a


song, a rhythm or riff,


or, perhaps,


in the


case of "fre

of freedom)


e


jazz" the concept, actually the prescription,


that is recalled when extended or recomposed in


another piece.


Marjorie Perloff,


in her study of


the textual


strategies of the Futurists (a

and having deep affinities for,


movement coterminous with,

the Jazz Age), calls it "an


art that depends not on revision in the interests of making

the parts cohere in a unified formal structure, but on a

prior readiness, a performative stance that leaves room for


accident and surprise"


(FM, 102).


Her comments summarize a


statement by Gerald L.


study of


Bruns that can be easily applied to a


jazz:


to improve


is to begin without second thought,


under the rules there i


no turning back.


. Improv-


isation is the performance of a composition at the moment


its composition.


One preserves such a moment by


refusing to revise its results.


that proceeds independently of reflection;


. it is discourse


it does not


stop to check on itself.


erated.3

In a word, im


text


It i


iprovisation defamiliar


(in Shklovsky's phrase,


of an object


s deliberate but undelib-


izes: both an "original"


it transfers "the usual perception


into the sphere of a new perception")


and the very









An especially vivid illustration of


this final point


found in William Zinsser's biography of Willie Ruff and Dwike


Mitchell,


the first


jazz musicians to go to China


(1981).


In it, according to the author


s own account,


"You have a


story that is essentially,


extraordinarily dramatic--two


black men in China,

a totally oral trad


one of whom is explaining jazz,


lition based on improvising,


which is


to the oldest


literate and literal society in the world."

Zinsser, after describing improvisation, "t


According to


he lifeblood of


jazz," "something created during the process of delivery,"

to a group of faculty and students at The Shanghai Conservatory


of Music, Ruff


(playing French horn)


joined his partner's


piano in an improvisation on a


prisingly,


simple blues theme.


the audience was nonplussed.


Not sur-


They had never heard


anything lik


this before.


Their


language did not even have


a word for improvisation.


Following the performance there


was a call for questions.


An old professor


stood up.


"When you created


'Shanghai


Blues


' just now," he said,


"did you have a form for it,


or a logical plan?"


just


started tapping my foot," Ruff replied,


tapping


his foot to reconstruct th


moment.


"And then I


started


to play the first thought that came into my mind with


the horn.


And Mitchell heard it


And he answered.


"But how can you ever play it again?" the old professor
said.
"We never can," Ruff replied.


"That is beyond our imagination,


" the professor said


"Our students
hundred times,


here play a pi


to get


ece


a hundred times,


it exactly right.


You play


or two
some-









one gives turns on the narrative position one takes up


refuse


to take up).


On the one hand,


the presuppositions


on which the Chinese base the creation and performance of


music have


just been contested, but,


at least at the close


of the narrative,


they, and especially their makers, seem


hardly shaken.


On the other hand,


the presuppositions of


jazz have also been contested; the value of


improvisation


has been attacked.


Ruff does not answer


(or,


rather,


if he


did,


his answer is not given).


In any event,


we are left


with two observations.


First,


improvisation has meaning


only within certain contexts.


It is a sign operative in


textual effect of


certain semioti


systems.


To be abrupt,


Zinsser is wrong.


Jazz is not "a totally oral


tradition,"


for in such an imaginary zone,


improvisation would have abso-


lutely no meaning.


would simply be Music.


(draw a large "X"


Pierre Boule


over this pronoun)


z puts it this way:


is necessary to deny all


invention that takes place in the


framework of writing.


. Finally,


improvisation is not


possible"


(in Noise,


145).


Second,


improvisation can be


read


a reflection of Western ideology.


The old professor,


to press a little on his comment,


sees


improvisation


con-


gruent with what has been repeatedly called "a throw-away


society."


Barthes warns,


"I distrust spontaneity,


which is


directly dependent on habits and stereotypes."6









of mass culture--as "a veneer of


individual


'effects'" pasted


on the standardized form of popular song.


He writes,


In serious


one, is
work is,


music


each musical element, even the simplest


"itself," and the mor


the less possibility their


among the details


In hit music,


highly organized the


is of substitution


however,


the structure


underlying the piece is abstract,
of the specific course of the music


existing independent


plicated in popular music never function


but only


. For the com-
s as "itself"


as a disguise or embellishment behind which


the scheme can always


be perceived.


jazz the amateur


listener


is capable of


replacing complicated rhythmical


or harmonic formulas by the schematic ones which they


represent and which they still suggest,


turous they appear.


however adven-


The ear deals with the difficulties


of hit music by achieving slight substitutions derived


from the knowledge of the patterns.


The listener,


when


faced with the complicated, actually hears only the
simple which it represents and perceives, the complicated
only as a parodistic distortion of the simple. (p. 22)


Adorno disparages the emphasis


azz


fans place on "the music


improvisational features," maintaining that such features--

"mere frills"--mask "the fundamental characteristic of popular


music:


standardization"8


According to him,


that which normally


passes for improvisation is "the more or less feeble rehashing


of basic formulas";


real improvisation,


when it does occur


"in oppositional groups which perhaps even today still indulge


in such things out of sheer pleasure,"


is impoverished by


its dependence on popular song form (i.e., a "standard")


the chord progression of the twelve-bar blues, b

musical structures are products of mass culture,


becausee both


stan-


dardized


automobiles mass produced by Ford.


Thus, we


see


. .









Although it can be dismissed as wrongheaded


(his knowledge


jazz seems to have stalled somewhere around the time of his


essay


on popular music or,


if one prefers a


jazz landmark,


somewhere around the time of Benny Goodman's 1938 Carnegie Hall


Concert), declared a facile,


reduction ad absurdum argument


equally applicable to the "serious" music he lauded, or typi-


field


itself an embellishment of the single note, anti-


mass culture theme he harped on all


of his life, Adorno


characterization of


jazz does employ a favored trope of


jazz


writing.


Indeed,


his argument hones in on and attacks,


the music itself


(although that is probably intended), but


an image


supporters and detractors alike enlist to conceptu-


alize or give voice to the mu

the following passage from a


For example, notice how


jazz appreciation textbook works


off exactly the same image Adorno employs:

Early jazz musicians often began improvising simply by


embellishing the melodies of pop tunes.


embellishment


Eventually,


became as good as and more important to


a performance than the tunes themselves.


formances,


In some per-


that remained was the original tune's


spirit and chord progressions.


What is today called


improvising was referred to by early jazz musicians as


messinn' around," embellishing,


Convention dictates that,


"jassing," "jazzing up."9


if we would have our discourse


count


speech or writing about


jazz,


we must speak of embel-


lishment,


variation,


grace not


improvisation, ad-libbing,


or ornamentation


: images that have come to stand


metonymicallyy







77

Returning to Adorno's argument, we may observe that it


will be taken


truth--as a blow against


azz


and,


by exten-


sion,


a blow against mass culture--precisely to the extent


that


of a


scores


jazz


a blow against a trope organizing our conception


to the extent that it discredits--negates


or problematizes--the verbal construct improvisation by con-


vincing the reader that "real improvisation"


rarely occurs


or that it is,


in fact, mere embellishment).


The point is,


the target of Adorno's virulence may be jazz or mass culture,

but his rhetorical strategy involves an attack on a privileged

metaphor which he rightly assumes this culture will identify


with the object of his scorn.


For his argument to function,


he must create the effect of attacking


jazz


(imagined


either a referent or signified)


and,


by invoking--actually accepting


then, contesting or devaluing--an image identified with


jazz: one which he,


the ever-ready iconoclast,


hopes


(and


rightly knows)


will be taken


an icon of


jazz.


At this


juncture,


we would do well to ask a question.


What must a written p


piece


look like before it will be accepted


as dealing with what Schuller refers to as "music itself"?


Or stated differently,


in order to make the claim hold--that


one writes about


jazz,


essence,


stripped of all


impedi-


menta--how must one write?


Before this question can be ade-


quately engaged,


however -


S -- r


one must speculate on another aues-


.e.,


_









highly schematic and ultimately incomplete,


will reinforce


and elaborate what we have already seen.


For a given acoustic pattern to be taken


has to be perceived


jazz,


an individual performance--a musical


equivalent of parole--deriving from and contributing to a


fundamental structure--a musical equivalent of langue.


More-


over,


the fundamental structure which allows and determines


a particular performance is,


to adopt and paraphrase Saussure,


both a social product of the ability to make sounds


(with


voices and musical


instruments)


and a group of necessary


conventions


(e.g.,


improvisation), collectively labeled jazz,


that have been adopted by a social body to permit individuals


to exercise that ability.10


For example,


sounds may arise


naturally


objects--animate and inanimate--vibrate in air


and receive vibrations); music,

is a social product.11 But bot


according to most theorists,


:h designations, sound and


music,


imply a social context where the opposition


sound/silence and music/noise are maintained.


cultures--and, specifically,


Simply put,


institutions--determine what


counts as sound, music,


or jazz, and as Attali


notes,


conventions which dictate the production, distribution, and


reception of music are ideologically motivated.


Designating,


defining or merely recognizing, a group of


sounds


noise or


music is not a neutral


or innocent act;


it is a gesture of









distributed that music


(Noise,


This is why Adorno can


declare:


"To dislike a song is no longer an expression of


subjective taste but rather a rebellion against the wisdom


of a public utility"


("Pop Music,6"


43-44).


In listening, as


in watching a movie or reading a book,


one is situated by


ideology.


Thus,


the two questions I asked above--"What must a


written piece look like before it will be accepted as dealing


with music itself?"


and "What features must patterns of sound


manifest before they will be counted as jazz?"--are inextric-


ably intertwined.


The study of


jazz itself


is part of the


political system that determines what will be construed--


included and excluded--as


jazz itself.


When one listens to


jazz or writes about


it--recognizing one pattern of sound as


"jazz," excluding another--deeming one text as representing

music itself, excluding, another--one necessarily takes part

in a system of determinations that constrain the production


and perception of


jazz in this episteme.


So then,


the tropes


which represent


jazz match up with our perception of


jazz--


"the music itself"


--for good reason.


In this section I have argued that jazz is always repre-


sented


as a set of "unwritten"


agrements which are disseminated


orally


(by word of mouth)


and electronically


(by means of


radio and recordingss. and that the aoal of musicologv is to









agrdments and opposing,


what Perlman and Greenblatt call,


"commonly-held assumption among people whose acquaintance with


jazz is casual


informal


that the music is made up out of


nothing,


invented out of thin air."12


In short,


I have argued


that, although my


language inevitably continues to treat


as such,


jazz music is less a locatabi


thing than a oscil-


lasting set of auditory signs, and,


similarly,


that written


representations of


jazz may be regarded as


(defined as


sites


where certain privileged signs are set over and against other


signs.


Improvisation,


then,


is best conceptualized as a


textual practice--a figure of debate or contestation--raised,


most notably, by the


sign


jazz.


In their essay "Miles Davis Meets Noam Chomsky," Perlman

and Greenblatt explain the jazz solo through an analogy that


likens improvisation to "linguistic performance."


description,


Their


which recalls Parry, Lord, and Havelock's explana-


tions of Homer's mnemonics, summarizes my discussion of a


major enabling trope of


jazz by,


once again,


illustrating


the convention of conceptualizing jazz as spontaneous ornamen-


station.


It underscores the necessity of mapping music onto


language (mapping one semiotic

the effect of intelligibility)


system onto another generates

and the explanatory power


that results from such a mapping,


that is,


when,


through an


enabling trone, one translates iazz into lancuaae.









figures,


or "licks"


(played, of


course, on the correct


scale- and chord-tones)


that give a


jazz solo its dis-


tinctive


jazz sound,


in the same way that speaking English


implies the use of the available word stock of the lan-


guage,


including bona fide loan words and recognizable


neologisms.


The basic lexicon of


z licks is not


large--there are perhaps two or three dozen that most


players rely on--but,


since any


lick can be played over


any chord, beginning with any


scale/chord-tone and


repeated indefinitely up and down the entire range of


the instrument,


the number of


ities becomes enormous.


(pp.


improvisational possibil-
175-76)


This passage also makes a couple of final points.


It reminds


us that a reliance upon formulas--agrments (whether in


music or writing)


does not necessarily exclude complexity.


But more than that,


it suggests,


in it


s argument for the


value of


improvisation


(no one is writing articles arguing


for the value of composition or the complexity of classical


music), tha

once again,


it the image which brings


the site of


jazz into discourse is,


ideological contestation and struggle.


Improvisation, embellishment,


ornamentation, and ad-


libbing--terms in a series of binary oppositions--are thinkable


only in a paradigm (or

lished a concept "text.


episteme


through a construct)


In our culture


they mark that which i


that which is artfully


that has estab-


(perhaps in our


s auxiliary and ephemeral,


(artificially)


tacked on to the real


item:


the original text.


Most importantly,


these terms are


already in place--they are pregnant with meaning--when


jazz


arises


(diachronically,


in history, or synchronically,









already situated when it arrived.


Or as the Horacio Oliveira,


the narrator of Hopscotch, puts it:


Bessie'


s singing, Coleman Hawkins


s cooing,


weren't


they illusions, or something


other
a monk'
day?


even worse,


the illusion of


illusions, a dizzy chain going backwards,


ey


looking at himself


back to


in the water on that first


Jazz linked up with what Nietzsche called "a mobile army of

metaphors, metonymies, anthropomorphisms"; which is to say,

those who represented it enlisted already available signifiers


of connotation which they,


in turn, mobilized for their own


ends.13


Historically,


the opponents of


jazz declared that


it equaled embellishment,


ornamentation, and ad-libbing


(i.e.,


-[jazz


= agreements) ,


the ultimate elevation of style over


substance, and,


hence,


if accepted as a legitimate way of


creating music,

upside down (or


it would turn the values of the music world


be a sure indication that the entire world


had already capitulated to the madness which jazz only repre-


sented)

truth,


To make sure that their arguments were taken as


these critics invested rhetorically in the already


established negative connotations of the signifiers of


jazz.


On the other hand,


those sympathetic to


z devised two


lines of approach.


First,


they interpreted j


azz


radical


music


invert


modern, avant garde,


(or they read it


or proletarian)


inverting)


and used it to


the very opposition


which the foes of


iazz hooed to maintain.


They reversed the


.*









primitive over the civilized


(i.e.,


+[jazz


= agreements) .


But what if supporters of


music


azz


were unwilling to wield this


as a weapon in the fight against oppression


(of whatever


sort)?


For instance,


what


if their financial


resources


were


not sufficient to allow them to estrange themselves from


positions of power, or what if


such an estrangement would


effectively


silence them?


Then they still had another option.


They could maintain that


jazz might have originated


embel-


lishment,


real


ornamentation, and ad-libbing, but that good or


jazz could never be reduced to a series of agr6ments


(i.e.,


jazz


agreements;


improvisation


embellishment).


Jazz,


if one listened closely enough,


was good music by any


standard


(which meant it was good by standards argued for by


the opponents of


azz


The important issue,


then, was not whether jazz would be


represented by means of a metaphor which I,


out of convenience,


labeled the figure of agr ments.


As we have seen,


jazz arrived


(and, synchronically, arises)


already understood


as ornamen-


station.


It was situated in the midst of a paradigm--a system


of representations--that distinguished unadorned things from


embellished things


(one can imagine that the embellishment


would have little or no meaning to a West African griot of


eighteenth century or to a Greek of Homer's day).


Its meta-


ohors were auicklv naturalized and normalized because. in









of the tropes that brought

as true or authoritative (


jazz into discourse would be taken


something that obviously changed


in time and from place to place).


Of course,


no particular side won.


think for two


reasons.


First,


as Gramsci notes, hegemony is a "moving


equilibrium. "14


To establish a particular interpretation of


a trope as authoritative, a group had to win,


sustain a reading,


reproduce, and


in order to accomplish this it had to


suppress aberrant readings actually made possible by its own


hermeneutic.


These aberrant readings,


byproducts of hegem-


ony, not of opposition


(for that is another matter), con-


stantly returned to destabilize meaning.


Second, and most


obviously,


jazz lost its popular appeal


(although it has not


ceased trying to win it back).


The battle continued, but


its front changed.


Obbligato


Should one seek to deconstruct the binary opposition


"composition/improvisation," which is to say,


if one decided


to demonstrate that the terms "composition" and "improvisation"


are,


Derrida might say, always already untenable--both


terms made constructs by an impossible operation where one


seeks to contain the oooosed term.


in the sense of stoooina









cuts to the hear

of the issue of


(but,


then again,


improvisation,


perhaps only to the rind)


for although


jazz cannot be


reduced to this figure


(even critics will admit that an


improvisation is more than a series of obbligati),


the obbli-


gato i


is built.


one of the basi


Interestingly,


tropes from which

this undecidable,


jazz derived and

double-edged word


has two,


opposed meanings.


The HCDM defines it thus:


Obbligato [It.].
an instrument (v


Obligatory,


riolino obbligato)


usually with referen


or part that must not


be omitted; the opposite is ad libitum.
through misunderstanding or carelessness,


Unfortunately,
the term has


come to mean a mere accompanying part that may be omitted


if necessary.


As a result,


one must decide in each


individual case whether obbligato means "obbligato" or


"ad libitum"; usually it means the former
and the latter in more recent pieces. (m


in early music
ly emphasis)


Clearly, at least from the HCDM's point of view, someone or

something, either "through misunderstanding or carelessness"


(How was thi


determined?


Were these the only choices?),


has behaved improperly towards what we could call the obbligato


as obbligato.


And that mysterious someone or something's


messinn'


around" or "jazzing up" made the obbligato as obbli-


gato "come to mean" something else.


Let us name the product


of thi


s illicit relationship,


the result of this unfortunate


scandal, obbligato as ad libitum, and let us raise a series

of questions which will not be answered, at least not directly

through the means of declaration.

By what process does one differentiate the obligatory from









improvised obbligato displace a melody,

more than a subordinate voice? When dc


become something


'es an obbligato--by


Schuller 's definition,


"an embellishment of a melody"


(EJ,


380)--become the sine qua non?


When does the arbitrary become


obligatory?


The obligatory arbitrary?


Should we designate


the obbligato as ad libitum as a product--perhaps an


"unintended"


result--of


obbligato as obbligato?


What


(il)logic


moves the obbligato as obbligato to become a simulacrum of


itself, obbligato as ad libitum?


How can one distinguish an


obbligato from its double?


If "one must decide in each


individual case whether obbligato means


'obbligato'


libitum,'" then how was the generic, albeit liberal,


law of


'usually it means


' determined?


Why has obbligato as


obbligato been opposed to, and privileged over


(eg., privileged


over,


even in my nomenclature), obbligato as ad libitum?


What does Music have against obbligato as ad libitum?


Of course,


the paraerotic phrase,


"come to mean," which


links obbligato as obbligato to obbligato as ad libitum cannot


help but prompt an association with jazz,


commonly known, once functioned


for jazz, as is


a euphemism for copulation.


Merriam and Garner,


for example,


in their well documented but


inconclusive,


etymological


essay


on the word jazz,


note this


and indicate


"a possible line of research"


connecting "jazz"


with "iasm."


Jasm,


they write,


"may be connected with the









'gravy,


'cream sauce.


' In the North,


it is commonly used


to mean


'semen'"


("Jazz," 385-86).


Now,


it could be easily maintained that I am taking things


too far


(perhaps,


adolescents say, even going "all


way"), that this kind of free association can be done with

any word. But that is precisely the issue here: How far can


one go?


What can and cannot be said about,


done with,


words?


Indeed,


Susan Stewart observes


in Nonsense,


the problem


of ornament is the problem of defining boundary


one might say,


the obbligato figure--which signifi


mise en question of ornamentation--dares us to explore the

limits of what Julia Kristeva and others following her have


called significance.


Naturally,


since we are tracing the


tropes of


discourse of


zzography,


azz


following the explicit model of


, we are obliged to take up this dare.


turn to Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man.



Obbligato Played with a Borrowed Horn:


Ellison's "Invisible Man" and Derrida


"Dissemination"


Inevitably,


the question one faces in writing about


this: where to begin?

actually "a tissue of


"Dissemination," Derrida


'quotations'"


essay--


--on Philippe Sollers's


Numbers,


names this problem


le ddclenchement


(the trigger)







88

question is what can be said of Ralph Ellison's Invisible

Man?


Several conditions would keep me from saying anything,


keep me skirting the issue.


In order to point them out,


repeatedly appropriate text from Derrida's Dissemination


is my borrowed horn),


even though thi


operation--as a


jazz


music


cian might say,


this "copping of


licks"


also caught


up in the very problem I am examining.


desired,


Indeed,


if the reader


he or she could read my comments as obbligati


blown


between lines Derrida has written.

First, and most obviously, What can be said when the


author


is absent?


cannot, except as a kind of


joke or as


a gesture calculated to keep up pretenses, declare,


Ellison said thus and


unless I


create him afresh,


his text unless,


ultimately,


"Ralph


He cannot authorize my reading

and order cannot be brought to

I affect a discernment "between


the imitator and the imitated"


(Diss,


191).


Only then can I


manufacture a thesis: maintain that Ellison works off


trope of the obbligato, or that he raises but does not resolve


the problem of


identity


(textual,


racial,


individual)


essence or


SOC


ial construction in his novel.


But what about the text?


Couldn't I say something like,


"Although Invisibi


Man


(1952


admits the possibility,


perhaps


even the inevitability.


that in thi


s culture the black man


|




Full Text
JAZZ AS A MODEL
DRIFTING ON A READ:
FOR LITERARY AND THEORETICAL WRITING
By
JAMES MICHAEL JARRETT
A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT
OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA
1988
i®*®*®5*
l’'

Copyright 1988
by
James Michael Jarrett

For Pam and the Boys

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In this most secular of ages--what we could call the
Age of the Book—where both the addressor and the addressee
are demonstrably absent, it is most fitting that pages of
acknowledgment take the form of prayers (as Derrida would
remind us, always already answered). In every case, they
are benedictions posing as invocations. Written after books
are complete, they, nevertheless, stand at their beginnings;
their placement, in the liturgy of the Book, represents a
call to personal muses that will be summarily answered. I
shall not depart from this practice. What follows is a list
of magical names which will, henceforth, summon forth my
words. Amen.
I took my first graduate course in English as something
of a lark. It was a course in modern American literature
taught by Dr. Larry Broer. He encouraged me to continue,
actually to start, working. To him and two other faculty
members at the University of South Florida, I owe a special
debt of gratitude. Robert Chisnell made me aware of the
tropes of Medieval drama. Joseph Bentley provided my first
exposure to Menippean satire and also guided my first reading
of Ulysses. Other professors there taught me what was meant
by the phrase "close reading."
IV

My experience at the University of Florida has been
immeasurably rich. It is, nevertheless, possible to single
out a few moments that have made it so. First, while in my
second semester, I took courses offered by Gregory Ulmer and
Aubrey Williams and sat in a class taught by Robert Ray. My
subsequent work has virtually been an improvisation on motifs
raised by these men. Next, I would like to acknowledge the
influence of a most unlikely pair of scholars. John Leavey
taught me to read postmodern criticism with the rigor of a
Jesuit and the eye of a heretic. Melvyn New gave me the
opportunity to read extensively in the literature of satire
and the freedom to write a highly experimental essay on my
findings. Both genuinely cared about my progress. Last, I
regard the members of my supervisory committee--Gregory Ulmer,
Robert Ray, Anne Jones, Andrew Gordon, and Robert D'Amico--as
friends, no small praise given the institutional constraints
under which students and professors operate.
A host of people, sometimes unknowingly, have contributed
to my work. Some to whom I owe a special debt of gratitude
are as follows: Richard and Yvonne Jarrett, Michael Disch,
Bruce Carnevale, Alex Menocal, John McKenzie, William Kinnally,
Michael and Lori Fagien, Don Ball, and Eric Whiteside.
Finally I wish to thank the two people who, in vastly
different ways, serve as my models for writing, which is to
say, writing in the broadest possible sense as living: the
director of this dissertation, Gregory Ulmer, and my wife,
Pamela.
v

TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS iv
ABBREVIATIONS viii
ABSTRACT xi
CADENZA 2
Notes 27
CHAPTERS
1 JAZZOLOGY: A BIRD'S EYE VIEW 30
Warming Up a Riff 31
Meandering 37
Thriving on a Riff 48
Just for the Record 52
Out of the Tropics 60
Notes 65
2 OBBLIGATO: I GOTTA WRITE TO SING THE BLUES.. 69
Agréments 69
Obbligato 34
Obbligato Played with a Borrowed Horn:
Ellison's Invisible Man and
Derrida's Di sseminat i on 87
Notes 105
3 SATURA: FILE GUMBO 108
Amalgam 108
Satura 124
Eight to the Bar:
Ondaatje's Coming through Slaughter,
Cage's Si 1ence, and a Gathering of
Jazz Fiction 127
Notes 153
4 RHAPSODY: CON AMORE 156
Counterfeit 156
Rhapsody 189
v i

Rapsody in Read: Reed's The Free-Lance
Pallbearers and Barthes's S/Z 195
Notes 233
5 CHARIVARI: CONJUGAL WRITES 239
Chasse Beaux 239
Charivari 267
Chasin' the Twain: Scorsese's
New York, New York and Lévi-Strauss's
The Raw and the Cooked 273
Notes 301
WORKS CITED 306
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 319
vi i

ABBREVIATIONS
AG
AM
B&I
BH
CM
CMAL
CTHC
CTS
Piss
EJ
FLP
FM
GM
GV
Gregory Ulmer, Applied Grammatology: Post(e)-Pedagogy
from Jacques Derrida to Joseph Beuys (Baltimore: The
Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1985).
Whitney Balliett, American Musicians (New York: Oxford
Univ. Press, 1986).
Paul de Man, Blindness and Insight: Essays in the
Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism, 2nd ed. (Minne-
apoTTsl University of Minnesota Press, 1971).
Nathaniel Mackey, Bedouin Hornbook (Lexington: Univ.
of Kentucky, 1986).
Joseph Kerman, Contemplating Music: Challenges to
Musicology (Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1985).
Gary Lindberg, The Confidence Man in American Litera¬
ture (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1982) .
Robert B. Ray, A Certain Tendency of the Hollywood
Cinema, 1930-19813 (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press,
1985).
Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter (New York:
Penguin, 1976).
Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, trans. Barbara Johnson
(Chicago: Univ. of Chicago, 1981).
Gunther Schuller, Early Jazz: Its Roots and Musical
Development (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1968) .
Ishmael Reed, The Free-Lance Pallbearers (New York:
Avon Books, 1967).
Marjorie Perloff, The Futurist Moment: Avant-Garde,
Avant Guerre, and the Language of Rupture (Chi cago:
The Univ. of Chicago Press, 1986).
Jeremy Campbell, Grammatical Man (New York: Simon
and Schuster, 1982).
Roland Barthes, The Grain of the Voice: Interviews
1962-1980, transí Linda Coverdale (New York: Hill
and Wang, 1985).
vi i i

HCDM Don Michael Randel, Harvard Concise Dictionary of
Music (Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard Univ.
Press , 1978 ) .
IM Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (New York: New American
Library, 1947 ).
IMT Roland Barthes, "The Grain of the Voice," Image-Music-
Text, trans. Stephen Heath (New York: Hill and Wang,
1977).
Alan P. Merriam and Fradley H. Garner, "Jazz--The
Word," Ethnomusicology, 12 (1968), 385-86.
Martin Williams, The Jazz Tradition (New York: Oxford
Univ. Press, 1970).
MH Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination
in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
Univ. Press, 1973).
OG Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri
Chakraborty Spivak (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ.
Press, 1976).
101 Len Lyons, The 101 Best Jazz Albums: A History of
Jazz on Records (New York: William Morrow and Company,
1980).
O&L Walter Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technolog izing
of the Word (London: Methuen, 1982).
Or Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books,
1978).
Phono Roland Gelatt, The Fabulous Phonograph 1877-1977,
2nd ed. (New Yorkl Macmillan Publishing Co., 1977).
PU Fredric Jameson, The Political Unconscious: Narrative
as a Socially Symbolic Act (Ithaca: Cornell Univ.
Press, 1981).
R&C Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Raw and the Cooked: Intro¬
duction to a Science of Mythology, Volume 1, trans.
John and Doreen Weightman (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago
Press, 1969).
"SEC" Jacques Derrida, "Signature Event Context," in Margins
of Philosophy, trans. Alan Bass (Chicago, Univ. of
Chicago, 1972).
SM David Porush, The Soft Machine: Cybernetic Fiction
(New York: Methuen, 1985).
"Jazz"
JT

Sub
TS
YB
Dick Hebdige, Subculture: The Meani
Methuen, 1979).
Umberto Eco, A Theory of Semiotics
Indiana University Press, 1976).
MacDonald Smith Moore, Yankee Blues
and American Identity (Bloomington:
Press, 1985).
ng of Style (London
(Bloomington:
: Musical Culture
Univ. of Indiana
x

Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School
of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy
DRIFTING ON A READ:
JAZZ AS A MODEL FOR LITERARY AND THEORETICAL WRITING
By
James Michael Jarrett
August, 1988
Chairman: Gregory L. Ulmer
Major Department: English
A pun on Charlie Parker's composition "Drifting on a
Reed," my title points to three questions which guided this
study. First, what happens when jazz enters the discourse
of this culture? Next, to what extent is jazz an effect of
representation? Last, and most important, what could it
mean to employ jazz as a model for writing?
To engage these questions, I examine representations of
jazz in literature and film. Specifically, working from a
critical posture associated with postmodern literary theory
and taking Gunther Schuller's study, Early Jazz, as a departure
point, I survey musicological treatments of jazz and locate
four multivalent images--rhapsody, satura, obbligato, and
charivari--which mark the entry of jazz into discourse.
After demonstrating how these images shape the nonfiction
discourse of jazz and, in turn, cultural perceptions of jazz,
I show how, as enabling figures or tropes, they structure
and destabilize specifically literary representations of
xi

jazz
To accomplish this task, I pair four works of critical
theory with four examples of jazz fiction. The critical
texts I employ are Jacques Derrida's Dissemination, John
Cage's Silence, Roland Barthes's S/Z, and Claude Levi-Strauss's
The Raw and the Cooked. The fictive texts analyzed are Ralph
Ellison's Invisible Man, Michael Ondaatje's Coming through
Slaughter, Ishmael Reed's The Free-Lance Pallbearers, and
Martin Scorsese's film New York, New York. The purpose of
this pairing is to demonstrate how the tropes of jazz can be
employed as models for conceptualizing and writing critical
theory.
Throughout this study I assume that acoustical patterns,
if they are to be perceived and counted as music (or noise),
must be mediated, and that our experience of such phenomena
is necessarily constrained by modes of representation operative
in a particular culture and by specific culturally sanctioned
representations.
x 11

He suddenly became aware that the weird, drowsy throb of the
African song and dance had been swinging drowsily in his brain
for an unknown lapse of time.
--George Washington Cable
Music is an oversimplification of the situation we actually
are in.
--John Cage

CADENZA
My feeling--or my doubtlessly ineradicable prejudice as a
writer--is that nothing will endure if it remains unspoken;
that our present task, precisely (now that the great literary
rhythms I spoke of are being broken up and scattered in a
series of distinct and almost orchestrated shiverings), is
to find a way of transposing the symphony to the Book: in
short, to regain our rightful due. For, undeniably, the
true source of Music must not be the elemental sound of
brasses, strings, or wood winds, but the intellectual and
written word in all its glory--Music of perfect fullness and
clarity, the totality of universal relationships.
--Stéphane Mallarmé
Couldn't I try. . . . Naturally, it wouldn't be a question
of a tune . . . but couldn't I, in another medium? ... It
would have to be a book: I don't know how to do anything else.
--Jean-Paul Sartre^-
I_
One story told by jazz aficionados--probably the one most
frequently repeated--goes like this. A socialite asked Louis
Armstrong to define jazz. He replied, "Lady, if you gotta ask
what it is, you'll never know."2
Coming from an entertainer who would one day be accused
of obsequiousness (charged with playing the role of Uncle
Tom), Armstrong's rejoinder seems puzz1ing—uncharacteris-
tically curt. Any number of explanations could be adduced
to account for this, but two should suffice. Perhaps its
author was frustrated: maybe Armstrong's lip was giving him
trouble; maybe he missed New Orleans; maybe he loathed
2

3
sycophantic bluestockings. Or else, the normally sanguine
entertainer, feeling especially zealous about his art, was
merely expressing a heartfelt conviction. In either case,
though, whether prompted by frustration or conviction, Arm¬
strong's motivations are essentially irretrievable. The
importance of his declaration lies neither in its putative
origins in an individual psyche, nor in its correspondence
with some "real" object--jazz music--but in its status as a
verbal structure. It is, in the words of Kenneth Burke, an
allegory: an interpretation of one semiotic system by the
terms of another.-* Quite obviously, it is not jazz (although,
through an imaginative act of "reframing," we might be able
to hear it as such). But it has made jazz speak.
The issue, then, at least for my purpose, is this: when
jazz speaks, what does it say? To engage this question, I
necessarily involve myself in several large issues in aes¬
thetics and, then, initiate an investigation into what might
be called the discourse of jazz, by studying representations
of jazz in literature (nonfiction and fiction) and film (Martin
Scorsese's New York, New York). Throughout this study I
assume that our experience of jazz is not simply a matter of
acoustics, but that, like any other experience, musical or
otherwise, it is contingent upon, mediated and constrained
by, prior representations. Jazz, it turns out, is an idea
(which is not to deny its ineluctable materiality). It has,
to lift a phrase from Edward Said, "a history and a tradition
of thought, imagery, and vocabulary that have given it reality

4
and presence in and for the West."^ Detailing this history
and tradition is a task this study assumes.
Students of literature and critical theory will immedi¬
ately notice that my real subject here is the problem of
representation and that my study is redolent of (if not posi¬
tively indebted to) such well-known, applied studies as Hayden
White's Metahistory and Said's aforementioned Oriental ism,
for like the authors of these texts, I seek not to formulate
a veridic discourse about some autonomous object (which has
been, and, often still is, the goal of musicologists, histor¬
ians, and Orientalists), but to theorize a group of texts
which constitute a body of knowledge. Like White and Said,
I examine systems of discourse; I, to take another phrase
from Said, analyze "the text's surface, its exteriority to
what it describes" (0_r_, 20). My emphasis does differ from
theirs, however. White characterizes historical texts as
"in reality formalizations of poetic insights that analytically
precede them and that sanction the particular theories used
to give historical accounts the aspect of an 'explanation'"
(MH, xii). His elaborate schema, which systematically organ¬
izes the ways rhetorical tropes are formalized--transformed
into plots, arguments, and ideologies--bears this out. Said
regards Orientalism as "a distribution of geopolitical aware¬
ness into aesthetic, scholarly, economic, sociological, histor¬
ical, and philological texts ... an elaboration not only
of a basic geographical distinction . . . but also of a whole
series of "interests" (Or, 12). His extensive research and

5
sustained argument bear this out. I imagine jazz as the
musical and written dissemination of several culturally engen¬
dered images or, in Barthes's designation, symbolic codes,
and I trust that this essay will not only bear this out, but
will convince the reader that, when applied to the study of
jazz texts (and, by extension, any kind of text), postmodern
critical theory is not merely adequate for analysis (i.e.,
verification) but for invention as well. In short, then,
White foregrounds the logic of consciousness ("a historical
thinker chooses conceptual strategies by which to explain or
represent his data"--MH, x); Said foregrounds the logic of
ideology (the "intellectual, aesthetic, scholarly, and cultural
energies [which] went into the making of an imperialist tradi¬
tion"--^, 15); I foreground the logic of writing. But again,
this is a matter of emphasis. All three texts treat the
written representation seriously: first, because writing
always signifies a strategy of circumscription, whereby some
thing is forced to submit to the institution authorizing the
written text; second, because writing always signifies a
strategy of production, whereby a thing is made to come into
representation, made to make sense.
n
Returning to Armstrong's rejoinder, we notice that it
is cast in what White calls the ironic mode and shares all
the features of what Barthes calls a cultural or reference

6
code. First, it is a commonplace. It refers to, but at the
same time summarily refuses to define or sanction, an accepted
body of knowledge about jazz, and it points to the "capacity
of language to obscure more than it clarifies in any act of
verbal figuration" (MH_, 37). In other words, through the
rhetorical figure of aporia (literally "doubt"), jazz has
been brought into language, imbued with an ironic voice that
tacitly acknowledges a preestablished and normative body of
knowledge, and, paradoxically, afforded "a basis in scien¬
tific or moral authority."5 Armstrong, a sign functioning
as a metonym for the sign jazz, alludes to and, thus, affirms
an inarticulable body of knowledge and an ever-receding epis¬
temology for the express purpose of warranting an authorita¬
tive, but highly problematic, withdrawal from discourse.
Next, as a gnomic expression, a speech formula repeatedly
appropriated by members of a subculture (which I shall call
"the jazz community"), Armstrong's rejoinder reflects and
reinforces social relationships. Taking a phrase introduced
by Malinowski and theorized extensively by Jakobson, it func¬
tions phatically. It conveniently divides the world into
two groups, those who do not know what jazz is and those who
no longer ask, and it sententiously reaffirms a set of shared
assumptions (cultural codes or connotations) about the nature
of the music.® Nevertheless, the double bind it expresses--
represented by the phrase, "our music cannot be put into
words"--is, of course, not a claim made exclusively by the
jazz community. It is routinely made for all music. For

7
example, Barthes observes that language manages "very badly"
"when it has to interpret music," and Elmer Bernstein (The
Man with the Golden Arm, The Magnificent Seven, Walk on the
WiId Side) virtually revises Armstrong's quip when he states,
"Music is particularly emotional: if you are affected by it,
you don't have to ask what it means."?
Indeed, music is traditionally characterized as "irra¬
tional," "unrepresentable," "largely unknowable and mysteri¬
ous": that is to say, as a woman. Novelist Fatima Shaik, in
The Mayor of New Orleans, acknowledges this when she has her
character, Walter, declare, "Music and love is both women
and truth is too," and thus echo Nietzsche's formulation,
"Truth is a woman." Carol Flinn, in her study of the discourse
of film music, notes it when she writes: "the tendency to
align music in general with the feminine circulates extensively
across a wide range of critical theory."® And Duke Ellington
celebrates it. He imagines the drum as a woman, "its form a
womb, its skin a maidenhead"; in his autobiography, Music Is
My Mistress, in a poem entitled "Music," he writes:
Music is a beautiful woman in her prime,
Music is a scrubwoman, clearing away the dirt and grime,
Music is a girl child
Simple, sweet and beaming,
A thousand years old,
Cold as sleet, and scheming.^
Although this stanza and the ten which follow it make one
glad that, as a rule, Ellington eschewed the Muse of poetry
as effectively as Armstrong deterred the inquiries of social¬
ites, it does demonstrate music's metaphorical inhabitation
of the female body.

8
Jazz, it seems, "organizes" its discourse by advancing
"a real or feigned disbelief in the truth of its own state¬
ments" (MH, 37). It inscribes, even shrouds itself with
mysteriousness (aporia/unsignifiability). It does this on
several levels: the level of emplotment or narration (the
Armstrong anecdote), the level of poetics or figuration
(Ellington's engendered metaphor), the level of ideology
(the implications of an epistemology based on inarticulable
"experience," a secularized version of divine revelation)
and the level of exposition or argument (as I will later
demonstrate). And it lays claim to a double enigma. It can
be neither notated on a score, nor represented in words. If
classical music cannot be put into words, or so the argument
goes, it can, nonetheless, be notated (here and elsewhere I
employ the term classical music and, occasionally, if I want
to convey a hint of irony, the proper noun Music as an inclu¬
sive term referring to the entire European musical tradition).
In fact, notation and classical music are related reciprocally
the development of each is unthinkable without the other.
Jazz, on the other hand, is characterized as wholly other.
Certainly, this claim demands scrutiny; we must return to
it. Before we do that, however, we shall consider another
bold claim--one made by Mallarmé in the 1890s. It functions
as a pedal point for my study.He wrote: "Mystery is said
to be Music's domain. But the written word also lays claim
to it.
,,11

9
The jazz commun i ty, like all subcultures, differentiates
itself from the larger culture: (1) by marking off a body of
knowledge--what Julio Cortázar had one of his bohemian char¬
acters in Hopscotch self-righteously proclaim "a repertory
of insignificant things"--that distinguishes and situates
(albeit problematically) an "inside" and an "outside" audience
and (2) by protecting and policing this body of knowledge by
repeating it in the form of gnomic codes or references to
specialized repertories.12 Indeed, as anyone familiar with
the hit parade (or the rankings of Cash Box, Billboard, Radio
and Records, and Rolling Stone) understands, repetition consti
tutes (creates and reflects) recognition. When a subculture,
out of all the utterances made by its members, grants one
particular statement the status of "proverb," recognizes it
as meaningful, it does so by repeating it. Or conversely,
when a subculture, out of all the utterances made by a single,
highly-regarded member, repeats one particular statement, that
statement acquires meaning; it becomes a proverb.
Repetition, as numerous theorists argue, has consequences
According to Benjamin, it "emancipates the work of art from
its parasitical dependence on ritual," displaces the whole
question of "authenticity," and brushes "aside a number of
outmoded concepts, such as creativity and genius, eternal
value and mystery." For Attali, writing specifically of the
importance of the hit parade "to the organization of the
commercialization of music," repetition heralds "the new
processes on the way, the end of the market economy and the

10
price system.We shall concern ourselves with, perhaps,
less utopian themes and look at two effects of repetition:
the destabilization of the notion of author and the notion
of meaning.
If a statement gets repeated, gains recognition as a
proverb or cultural code, then it must give up its claim as
the exclusive product of a single consciousness. Proverbs,
by definition, express agreed upon (if only localized or
subcultural) truths. For the materialist, they are products
of ideology. For the metaphysician, they are utterances of
Truth. Therefore, elevating (or lowering) Louis Armstrong's
rejoinder to the level of proverb, paradoxically, reduces
(or raises) its author to one--but only the first--in a series
to cite an "already-written" truth about jazz. Repetition
retrospectively transforms the author of the phrase, "If you
gotta ask, you'll never know," into a "collective and anonymous
voice," the voice of jazz (S/Z, 18).
The phrase itself is transformed into a system of rela¬
tionships, completely independent of what one literary theor¬
ist, Paul de Man, describes as "the substantive assertions
of a presence."I4 Theoretically, it can come to mean anything.
Practically, it means only what, but everything that, the
"collective and anonymous voice" of jazz will allow. As an
iterable formula, implying the radical absence of an author
as well as an infinite number of contexts, it has destabilized
any conception of meaning, which holds meaning to be a thing
which, although hidden (buried or transcendent), is,

11
nevertheless, unalterable and, through work or help from on
high, discoverable.
Obviously, I must delineate what I mean by this now-
mysterious voice of jazz and investigate its textual-political
machinations, but before I begin that task, the reader must
notice that the conditions (e.g., cutting, spacing, and graft¬
ing) which operate on Armstrong's rejo inder--making it possible
and destabilizing it at one and the same time--moving it
from an "original" utterance created in the moment to a cita¬
tion of the "already formulated"--al1 derive from an economy
of repetition (writing in the broad sense) and operate on
all texts (including this one). Far exceeding any narrowly
circumscribed boundaries of language or writing, these condi¬
tions, of what has been called a theory of general textuality,
serve as tropes--collectively, as models or rhetorics--by which
post-modernist theory conceptualizes (produces or imagines)
the world. Rather than suggesting a theory which regards
music and language as different effects of similar conditions
(formalism) or as isomorphic systems (structuralism), hence,
graspable through some especially sufficient metadiscourse
of science (a master language for consumers), they suggest
the possibility that debates over referenti a 1ity (which we
also must pass through) can be finally displaced by a theory
of textual production that would regard language and music
as imaginable--that is, producible (whether "understandable"
or not)--through the play of certain figures or tropes.

12
By the term trope I, of course, not only refer to "turns"
or "tricks" of language, but allude to a musical term which,
used loosely, signifies any interpolation or embellishment
"of text, music, or both into a liturgical chant" (HCDM).
As one will recall, most scholars hold that it was from such
tropes--the Quern quaeritis texts--that medieval drama
developed. Bevington writes:
According to a ninth-century monk from St. Gall named
Notker Babulus, "tropes" had begun as wordless musical
sequences with which the singers in the choir would
embellish the vowel sounds of certain important words
in the service. One such word, for example, was the
alleluia in the introit (opening processional chant) of
the Easter mass. Babulus reports that musical tropes
of this sort had become so elaborate in the ninth century
that words were added to make the sequences easier to
memorize.
But, and this is the rub, tropes were amplifications of holy
texts--the liturgy and the scriptures. They signified a
rupture in the Church's hegemony, for taken collectively,
they tended towards glossolalia or plurality. They allowed,
some might say encouraged, the rhetorical figure of catachresis
(literally "misuse"), "the manifestly absurd Metaphor designed
to inspire Ironic second thoughts about the nature of the
thing characterized or the inadequacy of the characterization
itself" (MJrt, 37). And just as surely as the Protestant Refor¬
mation (in 1517 Luther affixed his 95 theses to the Schloss-
kirche at Wittenberg)--itself a trope writ large--they opened
up the possibility of aberrant readings, because they marked
an assumption, on the most fundamental of levels, that scrip¬
ture was not a closed book; it was subject to interpretation.
It could be added to, commented on, in short, endlessly

13
glossed. Not surprisingly, the implications of tropological
practice--what we could call the politics of mnemonics or
the logic of embel1ishment--proved too much for the Roman
Church to bear. At the Council of Trent (1545-63), it con¬
sidered abolishing "all music in the service other than plain-
song," and ended up suppressing "all but four tropes and
sequences" (HCDM). Drama, of course, continued to be a thorn
in the side of both Catholics and Protestants.
My main point here is relatively straightforward. If,
like White, we follow the practice of "traditional poetics
and modern language theory" and postulate metaphor, metonymy,
synecodoche, and irony as the four basic tropes of figurative
language, then representations of music are easily classified
as ironic, precisely because they tend to draw attention to
the inadequacy of their own representations. They are "'senti
mental' (in Schiller's sense of 'self-conscious')" or arti¬
ficial (MH^, 31, 37). If by emphasizing the medieval use of
the term, though, we notice the obvious--that jazz is always
conceived as operating according to the logic of the trope
(i.e., the tricks and turns of embellishment in the broadest
sense of the word)--and if we understand that the very notion
of trope already implies a more-or-less, self-conscious deploy
ment of the musical or written sign's arbitrariness, then
our work has, actually, only begun. We need to write out
the figures of irony, the tropes of troping. This, in brief,
is the task of my study. I hold that the figures which
organize jazz are, in fact, the figures which organize writing

14
III
In "The Rhetoric of Blindness," de Man maintains that the
"real" Rousseau, as opposed to Rousseau's misinterpreters
(whether Starobinski, Raymond, or Poulet--the unwittingly
blind--or Derrida--the wittingly aberrant), understood "the
implications and consequences" of general textuality--"the
semiotic and non-sensory status of the sign"--and that, in
the Essay on the Origin of Languages (which had the original
title, Essai sur le principe de la mélodie), he reversed
"the prevailing hierarchy of eighteenth-century aesthetic
theory" by asserting "the priority of music over painting
(and, within music, of melody over harmony) in terms of a
value-system that is structural rather than substantial" (B&I,
127). As partial evidence for this contention, de Man produces
the following passage from Rousseau's Essay. What is impor¬
tant, for our purposes, is its restatement and extension of
an oft-repeated analogy between music and language, which,
by underscoring points I have already introduced, further
illustrates the destabilization of meaning necessarily accom¬
panying a theory of representation that privileges the conse¬
quences of general textuality.
No sound by itself possesses absolute attributes that
allow us to identify it: it is high or low, loud or
soft with respect to another sound only. By itself, it
has none of these properties. In a harmonic system, a
given sound is nothing by natural right (un son quelconque
n'est rien non plus naturellement)♦ It is neither tonic,
nor dominant, harmonic or fundamental. All these proper¬
ties exist as relationships only and since the entire
system can vary from bass to treble, each sound changes
in rank and place as the system changes in degree. 6

15
In this system of signs, where "un son n'est rien . . . natu-
rellement," "the musical sign," writes de Man, "can never be
identical with itself or with prospective repetitions of
itself." It is volatile, "not being grounded in any sub¬
stance" (B&I, 128): characterized by aporia.
On the one hand, music is condemned to exist always as
a moment, as a persistently frustrated intent toward
meaning; on the other hand, this very frustration prevents
it from remaining within the moment. (B&I, 129)
Walter Ong makes a similar observation when he states,
"Sound exists only when it is going out of existence. It is
not simply perishable but essentially evanescent."^ And
Sartre's character Roquentin writes:
For the moment, the jazz is playing; there is no melody,
only notes, a myriad of tiny jolts. They know no rest,
an inflexible order gives birth to them and destroys
them without even giving them time to recuperate and
exist for themselves. They race, they press forward,
they strike me a sharp blow in passing and are obliter¬
ated. I would like to hold them back, but I know if I
succeeded in stopping one it would remain between my
fingers only as a raffish languishing sound. I must
accept their death; I must even will it. I know few
impressions stronger or more harsh. (Nausea, 21)
But whereas Ong (as part of his program to distinguish orality
from literacy) and Sartre (as part of an extended analogy)
emphasize the unique physical properties of sound, de Man
generalizes its semiotic implications to make a point about
textuality. Ong states, "[N]o other sensory field totally
resists a holding action, stabilization, in quite this way"
(O&L, 32). De Man, still echoing Rousseau, states, "The struc¬
tural characteristics of language are exactly the same as
those attributed to music" (B&I, 131), and in another place,

16
"Like music, language is a diachronic system of relation¬
ships" (B&I, 32) .
In effect, de Man reverses the commonplace, "Music works
like a language," to read, "Language works like music,"
declares the conventional superordinate/subordinate relation¬
ship between language and music problematic (if not void),
and suggests a fundamental or, at least, an imaginable homology
between language and music. Like Mallarmé, he enlarges the
boundaries of the written word to admit mystery--a domain
formerly assigned to (structuring) music.
Indeed, insofar as an analogous (even homologous) rela¬
tionship between the workings of music and language as sign
systems can be maintained, the adage "music is a language"
(with the metaphorical vehicle, language, structuring our
conception of a tenor, music) can be reversed and pressed
into a new metaphorical (allegorical) arrangement. Music
can serve as a vehicle structuring a tenor, "language," and
language can be (to employ a highly suspect verb) imaged as
a music--the relational play of difference, a matrix of possi¬
bilities. But, here again, there are consequences. When we
admit a metaphorical reciprocity between music and language
--aver that "music is a language is a music"--or allow that
language may be a subordinate category of a superordinate
category, music, we, in effect, declare that the relationship
between "tenor" and "vehicle" or "subordinate" and "super¬
ordinate," like the relationship between "language" and
"music," is one of structure—convenience, imagination, or

17
cultural/political necessity--not substance. Unhooked from
a metaphysics of presence, from an unshifting, ontological
base (or tenor), the words we employ and the syntagms we
construct fall under a logic of structural relativity conven¬
tionally reserved for explanations of music or, in Derrida's
employment of the term, writing. He states:
For some time now . . . one says "language" for action,
movement, thought, reflection, consciousness, unconscious
ness, experience, affectivity, etc. Now we tend to say
"writing" ... to designate not only the physical
gestures of literal pictographic or ideographic inscrip¬
tion, but also the totality of what makes it possible;
and also, beyond the signifying face, the signified
face itself. And thus we say "writing" for all that
gives rise to an inscription in general, whether it is
literal or not and even if what it distributes in space
is alien to the order of the voice: cinematography, chore
ography, of course, but also pictorial, musical, sculp¬
tural "writing." One might also speak of athletic writ¬
ing, and with even greater certainty of military or
political writing in view of the techniques that govern
those domains today. All this to describe not only the
system of notation secondarily connected with these
activities but the essence and the content of these
activities themselves.
Thus, before ensconcing "music" as the new term of privi¬
lege, we must call for a deconstruction of the binary opposi¬
tion music/language (a project only suggested here), one
that would stage the question: To what degree is the term
music (as a key term in a particular system)
"broached/ruptured/held incomplete by that element [writing?
semantics?] which the system must exclude in order to find
closure as a system and yet is necessary for the functioning
of the system?"-^ This project, yet another extension of
Derrida and the Yale School critics' deconstruction of

18
logocentrism ("writing reined in by metaphor, metaphysics, and
theology"--0G, 4), would need to demonstrate (write out):
1) the "structurally and axiologically determined rela¬
tionship" assumed between language and music (OG, 27);
2) the means by which one set of phenomena—the "identity
category" music--is made to differ from another set of
phenomena--the "identity category" language;
3) and the histor ico-metaphysica1 effects of (maintaining)
such a system of difference.
More practically, such a study could ask such questions as:
1) Can we read music as an effect or continuing realiza¬
tion (exploration and repression) of the possibility of
writing or recording (i.e., hypomnesia or "artificial
memory")?
2) Can we demonstrate that "recording technologies" (from
musician's guilds and griot societies to sheet music and
compact discs) traditionally perceived as supporting
music were actually the conditions for the possibility
of music? For example, is it possible to show that
standard notation, ostensibly developed as an efficient
means for recording music on paper, carried beyond its
goal and made classical music possible? Contrariwise,
can we demonstrate that recording technologies make
music impossible by undoing previously established concep¬
tions of what music is (and is not)? For example, is
it possible to show that standard notation destroyed
classical music by implying serial music, or that

19
Thelonious Monk, one of the founders of modern jazz
(bebop), was also one of its dismantlers. Is building
and dismantling a simultaneous operation?
3) Given "that historicity itself is tied to the possi¬
bility of writing" (OG, 27), what is the historical
relationship between music and writing (écriture; inscrip¬
tion in the narrow sense of the word)? What modes of
representation have been privileged or disallowed when
writing about music?
4) To what extent is the history of music--as one version
(one track) of a (multi-tracked) history of recording
technologies--a series of ideological strategies cal¬
culated to contain (repress) the effects of new recording
technologies by forcing those effects to bolster or
disguise the vulnerable points of previous technologies.
5) Do the recording technologies associated with music
(from apprenticeship to digital sampling) anticipate,
duplicate, or follow technological changes in other
areas of culture? And how far can one generalize from
the compositional strategies associated with music
(writing in the broad sense of the word) and apply them
to compositional tasks in other disciplines?
6) Music is often characterized as a nonrepresentational
semiotic system. Quoting Eco, it "presents, on the one
hand, the problem of a semiotic system without a semantic
level (or a content plane): on the other hand, however,
there are musical 'signs' (or syntagms) with an explicit

20
denotative value (trumpet signals in the army) and there
are syntagms or entire 'texts' possessing pre-culturalized
connotative value ('pastoral' or 'thrilling' music,
etc.)."2l The question is, by what process do we assign
meaning (denotation and connotation) to such a system?
And should we conceive of music as a semiotic system
that normally lacks meaning (i.e., as an exceptional or
deficient language) or as a system where overdetermi-
nation--a surfeit of meaning--is labeled lack, until
such time as cultural restrictions generate a semantic
effect.
The project outlined by these questions—an elaboration or
application of structuralist and post-structuralist thinking
applied to music--is part, but only an extension, of an already
begun pro-gram: grammatology. In fact, if, as Eco maintains,
"the whole of musical science since the Pythagoreans has
been an attempt to describe the field of musical communication
as a rigorously structured system" (T£, 10), then grammatology
could be regarded as the discordant overtones of just such an
attempt--that is, unless we read musical science as an ever-
vigilant effort to dampen the grammatological implications
of its own endeavors.
Rousseau, as we have seen, announces (and, in Derrida's
reading, summarily suppresses) grammatology when he works an
analogy (to maintain an opposition) between music and language
(OG, 197-200). Nietzsche re-announces it in The Birth of
Tragedy, as does Mallarmé in his Essays. Max Weber explores

21
issues associated with it in The Rational and Social Founda¬
tions of Music when he speculates on the question: "Why did
polyphonic as well as harmonic-homophonic music and the modern
tone system develop out of the widely diffused preconditions
of polyvocality only in the Occident?"22 And in A Theory of
Semiotics Eco writes:
We note that until a few years ago contemporary musicology
had scarcely been influenced by the current structuralist
studies, which are concerned with methods and themes
that it had absorbed centuries ago. Nevertheless in
the last two or three years musical semiotics has been
definitely established as a discipline aiming to find
its 'pedigree' and developing new perspectives. Among
the pioneer works let us quote the bibliography elaborated
by J.J. Nattiez in Musique en jeu, 5, 1971. As for the
relationship between music and linguistics, and between
music and cultural anthropology, see Jakobson (1964,
1967), Ruwet (1959, 1973) and Lévi-Strauss (1965, in
the preface to The Raw and the Cooked). Outlines of new
trends are to be found in Nattiez (1971 , 1972 , 1973),
Osmond-Smith (1972, 1973), Stefani (1973), Pousseur
(1972) and others. (TS, 10-11)
To this list we should add even more recent studies: Jacques
Attali, Noise; David Sudnow, Talk's Body: A Meditation between
Two Keyboards; Joseph Kerman, Contemplating Music; and Wendy
Steiner, ed., The Sign in Music and Literature.
In Applied Grammatology, a work theorizing the pedagogical
application of a mode of writing "no longer subordinated to
speech or thought," Gregory Ulmer identifies three phases of
grammatology:23
a history of writing (still under way), a theory of
writing (one version now formulated by Derrida), and a
grammatological practice (the application of the history
and theory to the development of a new writing). (AG, 6)
This study, like Ulmer's, works towards a realization of the
third or applied phase of grammatology, and specifically, it

22
seeks to maneuver the discourse of jazz—representations in
musicology, literature, and film--into a position from which
this goal could be actively pursued.
IV
Jazz cognoscenti will immediately notice the "origin"
of my title. An easy pun on Charlie Parker's composition
"Drifting on a Reed," it points to three questions which
directed my endeavors. First, what happens when jazz (imaged
metonymically as a reed) enters discourse (imagined as the
realm of reading)? Next, to what extent is jazz always an
effect of representation (e.g., of phonograph records or
writing), and to what extent do jazz music and jazz literature
enjoy a reciprocal relationship? Finally, and most impor¬
tantly, what could it mean to employ jazz as a model for
writing (composition and improvisation)?
In order to engage these questions I read widely in the
literature of jazz, and in so doing, I noticed and, finally,
isolated four multivalent tropes which, as a set, provide
jazz with a rhetoric. They are the images of (1) the obbligato
or agréments, (2) the satura or amalgam, (3) the rhapsody or
counterfeit, and (4) the charivari or chasse beaux. Marking
the entry of jazz into discourse, these images (examples of
what Barthes called a symbolic code, the "province of the
antithesis"--S/Z, 17) literally give jazz a voice, structur¬
ing and destabilizing it, organizing it on a highly abstract

23
level. But this is not all. They also enable what I come
to label jazzology (musicolog ica1 methodology applied to the
study of jazz). That is, they make possible the "serious"
study of jazz and disrupt such a study--and they provide us
with a model for writing; indeed, they have already been proven
as generative (agents of dissemination). I organize my dis¬
cussion by these tropes.
In the first chapter, I touch on the broad theoretical
issues raised by an investigation of the discourse of jazz,
spell out what I mean by a "grammatological" study, and explain
my methodology. Chapters Two through Five are organized by
the four tropes and form the body of my essay. Each chapter
has two main parts (with one transitional section). The
first part locates a particular trope in the nonfiction liter¬
ature of jazz and analyzes how it has been employed to generate
a referential--i.e., scientific--effect. Here, like White,
I demonstrate that the supposedly scientific text is predicated
on a conceptualization of phenomena that is "generally poetic,
and specifically linguistic, in nature" (MH^, ix), and I argue
that nonfiction representations of jazz most often work by
disguising their literary-rhetorical base (i.e., suppressing
ideologically disenfranchised connotations of the very signi-
fiers which make representation possible). To make these
points evident I stage an especially close, intentionally
aberrant, reading of the first paragraph of Gunther Schuller's
Early Jazz, a representative musicological text, and I survey
a wide range of nonfiction literature about jazz. Since few

24
surveys of what a literary scholar would call jazz criticism
exist, and since no study has taken the literature of jazz
as its sole object of study, the first part of every chapter
beginning with Chapter Two is necessarily detailed. The
second part of each chapter, however, is much sketchier, for
in the interest of suggesting a broad range of approaches to
a wide range of materials, I choose to recommend departure
points, actually critical positions, from which one could
play out full-fledged grammatological experiments. Here, I
match the trope I located in the nonfiction literature of
jazz with exemplary literary and theoretical texts, and briefly
suggest (1) how the literary (i.e., the belletristic)
representation of jazz can be conceptúa 1ized--i.e., organized
and disrupted--as the play of these highly efficacious images,
and (2) how these same tropes ("turns" or "tricks") occupy
the concerns of postmodern critical theory. The pairings of
texts made in the second, more experimental parts of Chapters
Two through Five are most easily represented by the following
figure:
CHAPTER TWO
OBBLIGATO
Ralph Ellison
Invisible Man
Jacques Derrida
Dissemination
CHAPTER THREE
SATURA
Michael Ondaatje
Coming Through Slaughter
John Cage
Silence
CHAPTER FOUR
RHAPSODY
Ishmael Reed
The Free-Lance Pallbearers
CHAPTER FIVE
CHARIVARI
Martin Scorsese
New York, New York
Claude Lévi-Strauss
The Raw and the Cooked
Roland Barthes
S/Z

25
Briefly, obbligato, as both what is obligatory and merely
an ornament, raises the issue of composition and improvisation.
The refrain "What did I do to be so black and blue?" and the
Rinehart episode from Ellison's Invisible Man, are examined
with a view towards writing obbligati on these texts rather
than writing a "theme" about them. The experimental essay
which results from this study takes its lead from Derrida's
Dissemination which, as a whole, advances the "thesis" that
the concept thesis is untenable: a hermeneutic of dissemination
could replace a hermeneutic concept of polysemy.
Satura, a word originally signifying a mixture or medley,
and the word from where we get the English word "satire,"
contests and, yet, maintains distinctions between the pure
and the amalgam. Cage's Silence is read as a manifesto declar¬
ing modern music's reinvestigation of satura as a generative
trope, and Ondaatje's docu-novel is advanced as a model work,
repeating the image of the satura on both the syntagmatic
and paradigmatic axes. This section surveys fictive represen¬
tations of jazz music through a model derived from Cage and
Ondaat je.
Rhapsody works off notions of symphony and order and
problematizes the opposition "counterfeit/genuine." Ishmael
Reed's work is taken as a rapp (an counterfeit coin that passed
for currency in 18th-century Ireland), i.e., as a genuine
counterfeit. It is examined in the light of Barthes work on
narrative in S/Z and especially his assertions that the "area
of the (readerly) text is comparable at every point to a

26
(classical) musical score" and that "to unlearn the readerly
would be the same as to unlearn the tonal" (S/Z, 28, 30).
The Charivari represents the ritual/political employ¬
ment of noise (noise comes from the Old French word "nausea").
The Raw and the Cooked provides the conceptual tools for
viewing New York, New York, a film directed by Martin Scorsese,
as a celebration and a warding off of unnatural unions.
In its efforts to set up the possibility of a grammato-
logical reading of texts devoted to the representation of
jazz, this study, finally, offers the reader a choice of
thesis statements:
1) Certain literary or artistic texts, although sometimes
only intermittently, assume a grammatological theory of
writing and "self-consciously" employ a grammatological
methodology in representing jazz.
2) Certain literary or artistic texts, because they
represent provisional solutions to the problem of repre¬
senting jazz, can be understood or conceptualized as
creative imitations, elaborated or improvised models,
not of some transcendental signified named Jazz, but of
the cultural codes that make sense (and nonsense) of
jazz in this culture.
The first thesis assumes that jazz served as a model for
literary writing; it finds something (mimesis). The second
thesis promises that jazz can serve as a model for thinking;
it imagines something (semiotics). Both theses, I believe,
are subsumable by a third, that, while not shunning analytical

27
effects, does not make analysis or "scholarship" its goal.
Here, instead of analyzing jazz, one would use it as an occa¬
sion for making a text. This, of course, is Barthes lesson
in S/Z. He writes, "[T]he goal of literary work (of liter¬
ature as work) is to make the reader no longer a consumer,
but a producer of the text" (S/Z, 4). And it is also the
lesson of the elementary school teacher who has her students
draw or paint in response to music.
The active reader or writer (the two can be scarcely
differentiated) assumes something elementary: texts prompt
texts. Every jazz musician knows this, knows that the best
response to someone else's composition or solo is to blow
one of your own. Sartre knew it, and Kerouac knew it. Sartre
believed that the most adequate response he could possibly
have to listening to Sophie Tucker sing "Some of These Days"
was to write Nausea. Kerouac, after hanging out on 52nd
Street, listening to Monk, Bird, and Dizzy, wrote On the
Road. And I know it too.
Notes
â– 'â– The citations which form this study's epigraph were
taken from George Washington Cable, The Grandissimes (New York:
Hill and Wang, 1957), p. 96, and John Cage, Silence (Middle-
town, Conn.: Wesleyan Univ. Press, 1961), p. 149. The epigraph
at the beginning of "Cadenza" is from Stéphane Mallarmé,
"Crisis in Poetry," Selected Poetry and Prose, trans. Mary
Ann Caws (New York: New Directions, 1982), pT 42; Jean-Paul
Sartre, Nausea, trans. Lloyd Alexander (New York: New Direc¬
tions, 1964), p. 178. Cage and Sartre subsequently cited by
title in the body of this essay.

28
^Len Lyons, The 101 Best Jazz Albums; A History of Jazz
on Records (New York: William Morrow and Company, 1980), p.
17.
^Kenneth Burke, in Hayden White, Metahistory: The Histor¬
ical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1973) pp. 14-15. Subsequent cita¬
tions from White will be designated in the body of the text
as MH.
4Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Vintage Books,
1978), p. 5. Subsequently cited as Or.
^Roland Barthes, S/Z, trans. Richard Miller (New York:
Hill and Wang, 1974), p. 18. Subsequently cited parenthetic¬
ally by title.
6Roman Jakobson and B. Malinowski in Claude Lévi-Strauss,
The Raw and the Cooked: Introduction to a Science of Mythology,
Volume trans. John and Doreen Weightman (Chicago: Univ.
of Chicago Press, 1969), p. 29.
^Roland Barthes, "The Grain of the Voice," Image-Music-
Text trans. Stephen Heath (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977) ,
p. 179; Elmer Bernstein, in Tony Thomas, Music for the Movies
(New York: A. S. Barnes, 1973), p. 193. Image-Music-Text
subsequently cited as IMT.
®Carol Flinn, "The 'Problem' of Femininity in Theories
of Film Music," Screen, 27 (1986), 57-58.
9Brian Morton, "Percussion," Wire, April 1988, p. 12; Duke
Ellington, Music Is My Mistress (Garden City: Doubleday and
Company, 1971), p. 39-40.
1®A pedal point consists of "a long-held note, normally
in the bass, continuing to sound as harmonies change in the
other parts"--Don Michael Randel, Harvard Concise Dictionary
of Music, (1978). I associate the term with jazz bassist
Charles Mingus, but here and throughout this study, I assume
that the reader has neither a specialized knowledge of musical
terms nor a broad acquaintance with jazz musicians. Randel
subsequently cited as HCDM.
Mallarmé, "Mystery in Literature," in Selected Poetry
and Prose, p. 32.
l^Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch, trans. Gregory Rabassa (New
York: Pantheon, 1966), p. 59.
l^Walter Benjamin, "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechan¬
ical Reproduction," in Film Theory and Criticism, ed. Gerald
Mast and Marshall Cohen (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1985),
pp. 677-681; Jacques Attali, Noise: The Political Economy of

29
Music, trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis, Univ. of Minnesota
Press, 1985), p. 106-107. Attali subsequently cited as Noise.
l4Paul de Man, Blindness and Insight; Essays in the
Rhetoric of Contemporary Criticism, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1971), p. 128. Subsequently
cited as B&I.
l^David Bevington, Medieval Drama (Boston: Houghton
Mifflin, 1975), pp. 21-22.
j. Rousseau, Essai sur l'origine des langues, texte
reproduit d'aprés 1'édition A. Belin de 1817 (Bibliothéque du
Graphe: Paris, n.d.), p. 536, in B&I, p. 128.
^Walter Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing
of the Word (London! Methuen, 1982) , p. 717 Subsequently
cited as O&L.
•*-8jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, trans. Gayatri Chakra-
borty Spivak (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1976),
p. 9. Subsequently cited as OG.
^Robert Cheatham, "Interview: Jacques Derrida," Art
Papers, Jan.-Feb. 1986, p. 31.
2{5Roger Brown, Words and Things (New York: The Free Press,
1958), p. 8.
2]-Umberto Eco, A Theory of Semiotics (Bloomington: Indiana
University Press, 1976), p. 11. Subsequently cited as TS.
22Max Weber, The Rational and Social Foundations of Music,
trans. and ed. Don Martindale, Johannes Riedel and Gertrude
Neuwirth (Carbondale: Southern Illinois Univ. Press, 1958),
p. 83.
^Gregory Ulmer, Applied Grammatology: Post(e)-Pedagogy
from Jacques Derrida to Joseph Beuys (Baltimore: The Johns
Hopkins Univ. Press, 1985), p7 77 Subsequently cited as AG.

CHAPTER 1
JAZZOLOGY: A BIRD'S EYE VIEW
Storyville nights, where the old only really universal music
of the century had come from, something that brought people
closer together and in a better way than Esperanto, UNESCO,
or airlines, a music which was primitive enough to have gained
such universality and good enough to make its own history,
with schisms, abdications, and heresies, its Charleston, its
Black Bottom, its Shimmy, its Fox Trot, its Stomp, its Blues,
to label its forms, this style and the other one, swing,
bebop, cool, a counterpoint of romanticism and classicism,
hot and intellectual jazz, human music, music with a history
in contrast to stupid animal dance music, the polka, the
waltz, the zamba, a music that could be known and liked in
Copenhagen as well as in Mendoza or Capetown, a music that
brings adolescents together, with records under their arms,
that gives them names and melodies to use as passwords so
they can know each other and become intimate and feel less
lonely surrounded by bosses, families, and bitter love affairs,
a music that accepts all imaginations and tastes, a collection
of instrumental 78's with Freddie Keppard or Bunk Johnson,
the reactionary cult of Dixieland, an academic specialization
in Bix Beiderbecke, or in the adventures of Thelonious Monk,
Horace Silver, or Thad Jones, the vulgarities of Erroll Garner
or Art Tatum, repentance and rejection, a preference for
small groups, mysterious recordings with false names and
strange titles and labels made up on the spur of the moment,
and that whole freemasonry of Saturday nights in a student's
room or in some basement café . . . all of this from a kind
of music that horrifies solid citizens who think that nothing
is true unless there are programs and ushers, and that's the
way things are and jazz is like a bird who migrates or emi¬
grates or immigrates or transmigrates, roadblock jumper,
smuggler, something that runs and mixes in. . . .
. . . jazzology, deductive science, particularly easy after
four o'clock in the morning.
—Julio Cortázar^
30

31
Warming Up a Riff
The disappearance of the "authorial voice" . . . triggers
off a power of inscription that is no longer verbal but phonic.
Polyphonic.
--Jacques Derrida^
However much post-Saussurean theory may hold to a view
of language and music as non-mimetic, a ceaseless play of
signification whose only referent is, in Rousseau's words,
"le néant des choses humaines," we must admit that our day-
to-day experience of language and music seems far more circum¬
scribed. ^ For example, I may concede that the jazz proverb,
"If you gotta ask, you'll never know," could suggest any of
the meanings listed below. But in practice I know, or at
least sense, that Louis Armstrong's retort to a socialite's
query ("What is jazz?") signifies a very limited set of possi¬
bilities.
1) Armstrong the Zen master. Speculation, even the
need to ask what jazz is, precludes knowing. Cf. Mumon.
2) Armstrong the phenomenologist. Jazz is of the order
of experiencing, not the order of knowing. There is a
radical split between language and things, subjects and
objects. Cf. Husserl.
3) Armstrong the linguist. Asking "What is jazz?" can
only be answered by delineating what we do not mean by
the sign jazz. "Jazz" is defined not by knowing it,
what it includes, but through an awareness of all that
is excluded in constructing the set jazz, i.e.,
in the

32
relational difference between the set of signs the partic
ular sign jazz includes and the set of signs it excludes
(i.e., everything from acoustic phenomena to styles of
clothes). The socialite who asks Armstrong to define
jazz cannot know jazz; she is one of the "signs" jazz
excludes. Cf. Saussure.
4) Armstrong the metaphysical poet. Given the obscene
etymology associated with the word jazz, the socialite's
question is the equivalent of Armstrong asking the social
ite a question that carried with it the connotation,
"What is copulation?" The answer—coyness to the coy--
is a knot of irony. Cf. Marvell.
5) Armstrong the modernist. Jazz cannot be inherited,
passed on to another like a Persian rug. "If you want
it you must obtain it by great labour. It involves, in
the first place, the historical sense . . . and the
historical sense involves a perception, not only of the
pastness of the past, but of its presence." Cf. Eliot.*
6) Armstrong the postmodernist. If we presume to ask the
question "What is jazz?" we have already presumed the
validity of, and an answer to, the recursive question,
"What is is?" We have already grounded our inquiry on
a preestablished notion of being, i.e., presence. Thus,
the initial (typically modernist) question assumes too
much: namely that jazz i_s, and that it is a system--a
tradition or construct--we can know from a position
outside that system (outside textuality). Armstrong's

33
stateraent--which cunningly, parasidically mimes the
motions of a metaphysics of pr esence—exempl i f i es a poli¬
tics of indirection (it, through a ruse, teases out
presuppositions), deconstructing jazz (as a transcen¬
dental signified) and suggesting that it is "definable"
only as praxis, textual strategy. Cf. Derrida.
7) Armstrong the home-spun philosopher. Lincoln, if we
trust material given in a short play by Woody Allen,
was once asked, "Mr. President, how long must a man's
legs be?" He replied, "Long enough to reach the ground."
Some questions require answers that make common sense
(which isn't so common nowadays). Cf. Will Rogers.5
To this list, I should, but will not, add more interpretations
an Afro-American, feminist, Marxist, or Lacanian reading,
for example, would work well. I could even declare that
Armstrong's rejoinder, like his recording of, say, "Potato
Head Blues," has the potential to mean anything (which is to
say, everything and, thus, nothing) because it can be read
in an infinite number of contexts. But why heap on more
possible readings? Everyone pretty well knows what the state¬
ment means. Right?
Outside of a few institutional sites (schools, churches,
courts, or the media, where "trained" exegetes--teachers,
judges, ministers and priests, and news commentators--make
sense of things for us), we seldom feel overwhelmed by the
anxiety of hermeneutical possibility. Even if we know other¬
wise, we tend to think that things just mean what they mean.

34
And explicating an off-the-cuff remark such as Armstrong's
(even if it is frequently appropriated), as though it were a
line of lyric poetry, is likely to strike us as, at best,
pedantic, at worst, completely asinine. Why is this the
case, though? I suspect two reasons. One, the labor of expo¬
sition imbues the phrase with value, and this value teases out
ideologically assigned values, the values our culture thinks
that the phrase merits ("It isn't a line from Pope or Keatsi
It's Louis Armstrong, for crying out loud, not Schoenberg!").
Quite obviously, this is exactly what is happening when a
jazz critic, for instance Gary Giddins declares, "In four
decades of prize-giving, the Pulitzer Committee has never
recognized a jazz composer."6 On the one hand, his statement
calls attention to the institutional (non)status of jazz.
On the other hand, because it does not evoke peals of laughter
over the absurdity of its implied suggestion, that is, because
it can be made with a straight face, it (like this study)
calls attention to the rising status, to the institutionali¬
zation, of jazz. Two, exposition violates a tacit interdic¬
tion forbidding speculation, undercuts the assurance that
things are exactly what they seem to be (by merely assuming
the need for explanation), and, thus, opposes the very logic
a "correct" interpretation of the phrase would demand ("Pops
meant just what he saidi The music speaks for itself. Asking
what he could have meant is crazy, almost as wrongheaded as
asking what jazz means.").

35
My point could be taken as trite, yet another homage
paid to the omnipotent work of ideology, a restatement of
the claim that any sign of any sort is always made to mean
less than it could mean. But it is not—that is, not trite
and not a homage. I do assume that meaning is socially pro¬
duced and constrained, that, in Fiske's words:
The meanings I find in a sign derive from the ideology
within which the sign and I exist: by finding these
meanings I define myself in relation to the ideology
and in relation to my society.^
But instead of emphasizing the constraints ideology places upon
(unimaginable but, somehow, felt) potential meanings--or how
ideology delimits both orders of signification (denotation
and connotation) or, more specifically, what I can say or
even think about a phrase such as my chosen example--I would
rather trace the means by which ideology--writing as a poli¬
tico-social act ivity--produces (appropriates and validates)
tropes to conceptualize representations of "objective" struc¬
tures in this culture. Stated practically, I am less inter¬
ested in demonstrating how the dominant ideology has contained
potential meanings of jazz (although this needs to be shown),
exposing the rhetoric of jazz "as the signifying aspect of
ideology," than in naming favored images—"signifiers of
connotation"--which this culture has chosen to represent
(model) jazz to itself (IMT, 49). But more than this, I am
eager to exploit a principle we have already noted. Namely,
the connotations an ideology allows, which are, in effect,
the connotations which construct that ideology--made explicit
through the work of explication (writing in the narrow sense)

36
--always threaten the hegemony of the system that generates
them, because in their multiplicity they reveal that
denotation [truth, objectivity, the law] is not the first
meaning, but pretends to be so; under this illusion, it
is ultimately no more than the last of the connotations
(the one which seems both to establish and to close the
reading), the superior myth by which the text pretends
to return to the nature of language, to language as
nature. (S/Z, 9)
In subsuming denotation under connotation or in writing
out the connotations of the tropes a culture employs to concep
tualize a given system, one will, of course, remain within
ideology, for if ideology or "society," as Durkheim states,
"may ... be seen as that total genus beyond which nothing
else exists," then it has no bounds, no beyond (both terms
become problematic); getting outside it is less than desirable
if not positively dangerous.® But if, as Barthes writes,
"Connotation is the way into the polysemy of the classic
text" (S/Z, 8), then reintroducing the plurality which was
banished (always ineffectually because it cannot be sent
"outside") for the sake of insuring univocality (canonical
meaning) insures the substitution of a model of production
for the classic model of representation (S/Z, 4-7); stressing
suppressed connotations (available, once again, because they
always return) is tantamount to forsaking "the path of the
object" (the "study of the nature of the 'objective' struc¬
tures of a given cultural text") for "the path of the subject"
("which would instead foreground the interpretive categories
or codes through which we read and receive the text in ques¬
tion") (PU, 9).

37
Again, stated practically, the tropes which bring jazz
into discourse are enabling images. They successfully enunci¬
ate jazz--differentiate it from other musics and imbue it
with meaning for our culture. But they also have connotations
which would disrupt discourse, difference, and meaning.
Writing out of these tropes (employing them as thesauri) is,
therefore, not an attempt to "arrange all the meanings of a
text [jazz] in a circle around the hearth of denotation"
(S/Z, 7), but an attempt to employ the discourse of jazz as
a compositional/improvisational model for opening up, scatter¬
ing, and disseminating.
Meandering
[T]here would be no music if language had not preceded it
and if music did not continue to depend on it.
—Claude Lévi-Strauss
The analogy with language, often used by improvising musicians
in discussing their work, is useful to illustrate the building
up of a common pool of material--a vocabulary--which takes
place when a group of musicians improvise together regularly.
--Derek Bailey
Who can tell you what love is?
--Miles Davis^
Before I proceed any farther I should make it clear that
jazz has two types of meaning for me, arising from two orders
of signs. First, it has specifically musical, non-referential
meaning. Second, it has referential meaning--meaning that
is articulable, culturally shared and frequently contested.

38
After years of listening to Louis Armstrong, Charlie
Parker, Ornette Coleman, and other jazz musicians, I understand
and enjoy their music because I have learned the musical
language they "speak." I have learned to make intramusical
maps; I can translate within the realm of music. More specif¬
ically, because I have learned a group of "musical" signs
(including codes of selection and combination: e.g., a para¬
digmatic code given the title of "blue" note, a syntagmatic
code designated the I-VI-II-V chord changes to Gershwin's "I
Got Rhythm," or a musical grammar called "tonality"), I recog¬
nize certain acoustical patterns as jazz, other patterns as
not-jazz. These signs--which produce what could be termed
musical meaning (perhaps a different order of meaning than
that produced by referential signs)--form the object of study
for musicology and ethnomusicology ("the study of music in
culture," to use Alan P. Merriam's phrase).I0
The nature of the purely musical sign raises serious
problems for study, though. In the Overture to The Raw and
the Cooked, Lévi-Strauss states that music cannot be "the
object of linguistic discourse, when its peculiar quality is
to express what can be said in no other way.For example,
we may admit the arbitrariness of all signs, but examples of
synaesthesia such as "blue note," "hot jazz," "sweet jazz,"
or "hard bop," or oxymorons such as "musical sign" or "sound
object" strike us as particularly arbitrary--lacking in moti¬
vation. Again Lévi-Strauss writes,
"It [music] is the only

39
language with the contradictory attributes of being at once
intelligible and untranslatable" (R&C, 18).
So then, Lévi-Strauss would agree with Louis Armstrong.
Jazz makes sense, and it cannot be translated. Wilder Hobson,
in American Jazz Music, writes:
It is often said that jazz cannot be notated. It cannot;
and, strictly speaking, of course, neither can any other
music. Any music is played with a "translation" of the
written note values according to tradition for that
particular kind of music and the instincts of the
performer.12
Itself a type of notation, this statement, it would seem,
is, paradoxically, the only completely accurate statement
one can make about jazz or any other type of music. But we
are in the midst of a double bind. Trans1 ation--in this
case, translation as performance--implies a stable text which
has some type of prior existence and which is not so much
knowable as already known (hard-wired into our brains).
Given the critical positions of Armstrong, Lévi-Strauss,
and Hobson, we observe that naming sounds, designating types
or styles of music, constitutes an impossible translation,
an employment of catachresis. Mapping jazz onto linguistic
discourse, moving from music, a potentially analogical code,
to words, a digital code, not only does jazz violence, it
inevitably fails. Translation or mapping captures only that
which is common to both jazz and linguistic discourse. That
which is specific to jazz always eludes translation.
This claim, an application of a general problem in semi¬
otics to the specific problem of notating jazz, is articulated

40
in the following statement made by Winthrop Sargeant. In
Jazz; Hot and Hybrid (1946), he writes;
Anyone who has attempted to transcribe folk music . . .
in terms of our musical notation has observed that the
symbols traditionally used by us in writing music are
very imperfectly suited to such purposes. The problem
is somewhat similar to that of recording in printed
words the precise sound values of a dialect only remotely
related to the language for which the system of writing
was created. The task of the musical transcriber is,
indeed, more difficult than the comparison would indicate,
since music involves a far more complex group of important
distinctions in the realm of sound than language does.
• • •
The distinction here indicated ["between music itself and
the usually somewhat inaccurate representation of music
that is achieved in symbols written or printed on paper"]
is not only valuable to our discussion in that it points
to the untrustworthiness and inaccuracy of notation as
a conveyance for jazz; it is also important as indicating
a difference of attitude toward the art of music between
us, whose ideas of music are often colored by notational
considerations, and the musically illiterate folk artist
whose ideas of music are not so colored.13
This is an important passage, because it represents a set of
problems which must concern any ethnomusicology; it cogently
states the pitfalls of ethnocentrism. It repeats points
raised by any number of texts--e.g., by Vico, Voltaire, Rous¬
seau, and Swift--written when Western thinkers began to come
to terms with what were actually the implications of explor¬
ation and colonization, echoes contemporary concerns in anthro¬
pology (it was written in 1946), and anticipates issues that
would later (i.e., now) animate oral ity/1iteracy discussions
in the humanities. But it also manifests all the marks of
what has been designated logocentrism, because once started,
Sargeant's argument--ostensibly leveled against notation--
falls back on the concept of some transcendental Music (outside
difference, translation, or notation) from which all music

41
derives (and to which all music supposedly strives). Faced
with the difficult task of extricating his logic from the
very system it would oppose, Sargeant relies on that which is
untenable to deny that on which he relies. That is, he appeals
to Music to maintain the distinction between "music itself"
and representations of music and, hence, opposes a logic of
repetition which, if generalized, could actually account for
the possibility of his argument as well as folk music. The
point is, given full rein the logic of notation, what Derrida
has called iterability, would destabilize both the concept
Music and the concept notation. Thus, in order to function
—in order to keep the concepts of notation and translation
from becoming problematic, implicating all music and, hence,
collapsing the distinction between notated and unnotatable
music--Sargeant's argument must stop the logic of its own
logic.
Sargeant's argument is a jazz version of the tune harped
on by numerous philosophers from Plato to Rousseau to Lévi-
Strauss, and my argument, although much too sketchy, could
be read as a jazz version—a fleeting quotation in the middle
of a solo--to a tune played by Derrida in Of Grammatology
(cf. 0(3, 195). Sargeant continues:
The noblest department of Western concert music has become
the art of composition. This art of composition is not
concerned directly with the creation of music (i.e.,
sound) but rather with the creation of plans from which
music may be subsequently created. In its domination
by the planner rather than the manipulator our musical
system is unique; and its peculiarities have obscured,
for many of us, the fundamental nature of musical expres¬
sion. In its primitive essentials the art of music has
nothing whatever to do with the institution of the

42
composer. Actually improvisation--the art of creating
music directly with vocal or instrumental means — is far
more fundamental to music than is the complex, difficult
and specialized art of planning compositions on paper.
• • •
If we may alter the familiar opening to Genesis to suit
yet another connotation: "In the beginning was improvi¬
sation." (pp. 32-33)
Thus, Sargeant's affinity for jazz is easily explained. It,
among all the musics of the West, is one of, if not the closest
music to Music. Rhetorically and symbolically, jazz--the
art of the improviser not the composer--sti 11 shares a vestige
of the purity of an originary Music because it is created
"directly" without the mediation of a composer; compared to
classical music, jazz has sustained fewer translations. It
is primitive music in the best sense of the word. This is
precisely Socrates' argument for dialectics over writing in
Plato's Phaedrus, and it is Rousseau's argument for music in
his Essay on the Origin of Languages. One might even note
that my rhetoric, although it opposes this tendency, is contra¬
dicted by my grammar, for when I write or seek to theorize
"representations of jazz," I assume the very notion I would
deny--namely, that jazz can be distinguished from its repre¬
sentations, that representation (which, of course, includes
but is not restricted to the written) is supplemental, tacked
on--to the real, musical item.
Many ethnomusicologists and musicians would readily agree
with Sargeant; at least one contemporary musician has extended
the logic of his argument. Keith Jarrett, who is best known
for repopularizing the solo piano concert in jazz, has become
one of the most vociferous spokesmen against electronic music.

43
In an interview conducted in 1983, he reiterated the ancient,
metaphysical argument against notation (representing music
graphically) and carried the jazz version of the logocentric
position to its inevitable--Socrat ic--conclusion. Here is a
portion of his statement.
MUSICIAN: Let me also broach the issue of Con Ed and
what it has wrought on the musical landscape. It's now
ten years since your major anti-electric music proclama¬
tion.
JARRETT: I think my argument is more persuasive today.
Today there are a lot more "interesting" things happening
with electronic music than there were ten years ago.
And I think it's probably more dangerous than it was then.
MUSICIAN: What do you mean, dangerous?
JARRETT: I mean it is a kind of poison. Something that
takes your connection from the soil away is a poison.
I think that for a long, long time it will be a lot of
fun, and then at a point electronic music will either
go away or it will be all that we have. If it's all we
have, then the poison has done its job. People are not
able to listen to acoustic music after they've heard
electric music. I know this is true for me; it's a
very difficult, difficult thing to get used to.
MUSICIAN: Why poison? Why an image of sickness and death?
JARRETT: Because it's something people are doing to
themselves.
MUSICIAN: What do you become desensitized to?
JARRETT: I feel first of all, there doesn't need to be
art. Even acoustic music is, in the end, a secondary
thing to the spirit that animates it. Likewise, the
painting is not the most important thing; it's what the
painter does to paint it. So I don't understand why we
have to take ourselves so far away from basic, close
organic substances that are already far enough away in
acoustic instruments. I know ultimately that it's a
poison that either can get worse or get better and if
it gets better we're lucky.
Although I am tempted to devote much more space to discussing
Sargeant and Jarrett's restatements of logocentrism, I will
not do so for reasons that smack of kettle logic: I do not
feel competent to do so; my comments would distract me from
the main line of my argument (to which I shall shortly return)
but, in fact, the general problem--the valorization of music

44
over literature, presence over writing--has, as I have noted,
already been redressed, most notably, in the work of Derrida
and de Man.
I will emphasize, however, the assertions of Sargeant
and Jarrett are particularly interesting and deserve further
attention. They approach the problem of "writing"--i.e.,
notation, translation, and representation—from outside philo¬
sophical discourse, and, yet, they echo the rhetoric of the
metaphysics of presence (or voice) which, for two thousand
years, has dominated Western ways of thinking. As popularized
versions of continuing but ancient philosophical debates,
they readily demonstrate that the discussions animating contem
porary critical theory, far from being abstruse and hidebound,
reflect and speak to issues which concern culture as a whole.
Jarrett's argument is especially noteworthy. It is a
glaring example of telephobia (the fear of being separated
from "basic, close, organic substances that are already far
enough away"). And, because it is advanced against an elec¬
tronic medium (electronic music is a copy of acoustic music,
which is itself a copy of "spirit"), it is particularly timely
indicative of a larger issue producing similar arguments
used in polemics against all forms of "secondary orality":
e.g., television and the computer. A generalization or exten¬
sion of Sargeant's rather specific complaint, it is powerful
in its abstraction. It demands that recording (on tape,
vinyl, or compact disc) and, more importantly, playing and
listening be acknowledged as types of notations or

45
translations—problematic mappings from one "language" to
another. Finally, in updating and practically paraphrasing
Socrates' condemnation of writing, it suggests that we reassess
and ultimately reject Lévi-Strauss's thesis that intelligi¬
bility and untranslatabi1ity are sui generis features of the
language called music, precisely because this claim has also
been made for speech and other "languages." As Andrei, the
protagonist of Tarkovsky's film Nostalghia, puts it, "Poetry
is untranslatable like the whole of art."
All languages, it could be maintained, seem to "express
what can be said in no other way." Intelligibility and
untranslatabi1ity are general attributes of language. Inter-
semiotic mapping is both an impossibility and a precondition
of language, whether one is translating from painting to
linguistic discourse, from English to Chinese, or from the
thoughts in my brain to the typed words on this paper.
Two questions must be engaged. Why is establishing the
uniqueness of music essential to Lévi-Strauss's argument in
The Raw and the Cooked? And, given the untranslatabi1ity of
music (not to mention all languages), how does intelligibility
arise? I shall answer the first and a related question--Why
must structuralism reject ser i alisra? — in a later chapter,
but for now, notice Lévi-Strauss's response to the question
of intelligibility. He writes:
Baudelaire made the profound remark that while each
listener reacts to a given work in his own particular
way, it is nevertheless noticeable that "music arouses
similar ideas in different brains." In other words,
music and mythology appeal to mental structures that
the different listeners have in common. (R&C, 26)

46
According to Lévi-Strauss, music and mythology are natural sys¬
tems, automatically intelligible, because they are expressions
of the a priori conditions that make communication possible.
They are originary languages. Everyone understands them
(for they constitute the conditions for understanding); no
one can translate them. Or stated differently, "when the
mind [individual or corporate] is left to commune with itself
and no longer has to come to terms with objects, it is in a
sense reduced to imitating itself as object" (R&C, 10). The
product of such self-reflexive objectification is music (indi¬
vidually produced) or mythology (socially produced). Hence,
we understand music and mythology because these isomorphic,
original languages mimic--actua1ly model--the structures of
the human mind. This is why Lévi-Strauss can declare, "music
has its being in me, and I listen to myself through it" (R&C,
17). Demonstrate the logical operations that govern music
and mythology, and you reveal the pattern of basic and univer¬
sal laws that govern human beings.
There is, however, another--my preferred--way of account¬
ing for the intelligibility of music, and although this way
accepts the impossibility of translation, it also asserts
the necessity of translation. Unlike structuralism, it does
not seek to ground itself in ontology. It declares that
intelligibility is an effect produced by mapping one system
(or structure) onto another.15
Although philosophically impossible--ineluctably proble-
matic--translation generates intelligibility or understanding.

47
And it inevitably occurs. Stated more forcefully, I assume
that intelligibility is a by-product of imagining or creating
maps; institutionally sanctioned maps create the effect of
ontological stability, truth. If a music is to gain signifi¬
cance in a culture, it must be turned into some kind of text
and, thereby, acquire referential meaning.
So then, as I stated earlier, jazz has referential
meaning. It possesses denotative and connotative values,
or, better, it acquires these values when it enters (is mapped
onto or translated into) discourse (textuality); when, in
pairing "cultural" signs (linguistic and nonlinguistic semic,
reference, and symbolic codes) with "musical" signs, our
culture represents--enunciates--jazz to itself. Because I
am acquainted with the "cultural" signs which signify jazz
(and which jazz signifies), I assume (whether rightly or
wrongly is not the issue) that I understand jazz. The point
is, the effect of believing that I know what jazz means results
not so much from the ability to read musical signs (which could
be called the ability to play or listen), but from an acquired
competence in deciphering the culturally assigned and politic¬
ally privileged signs that govern the presentation of jazz
(e.g., the metascientific discourse of ethnomusicology, the
styles of clothes worn by beboppers, or the argot of the
hipster). These signs or codes, which mark sites of ideolog¬
ical contestation, form the object of study for the literary
theorist and, subsequently, for my work. Whether found in
artistic, musicological, or "cultural" texts they refer not

48
to what jazz i_s, but to what jazz says. They are always
identifiable as writing (in the broad sense of the word),
and in my study, except in the section on Martin Scorsese's
film New York, New York, as écri ture (writing in the narrow
sense).
Thriving on a Riff
In December 1965, with my personal life and fortunes at low
ebb. I went to Rome. One day I visited many churches. I
was overawed to observe that in each one there were urns
containing the remains of saints and soldiers. How incredible
that persons of such opposite beliefs--each in his own way
attempting to influence our world--could end up in exactly
the same place--a jar.
--Ornette Coleman
. . . tout, au monde, existe pour aboutir a un livre.
—Stéphane Mallarmé1^
As one with a background in literary studies, I conceptu¬
alize jazz as a text--actually as a textual ensemble, an
imaginary bibliography of preferred and excluded readings.
And I regard my own knowledge of jazz as something pre-written:
composed by records I have heard, movies I have seen, stories
I have been told, books I have read, concerts I have attended,
and musicians with whom I have spoken. Along with Jameson,
I tend to assume that
we never really confront a text immediately, in all its
freshness as a thing-in-itself. Rather, texts come
before us as always-already-read; we apprehend them
through sedimented layers of previous interpretations,
or--if the text is brand-new--through the sedimented
reading habits and categories developed by those inherited
interpretive traditions. (PU, 9)

49
Probably, Jameson is correct. Our readings of texts do
arrive always-already-mediated. But what do we make of this
notion of a "fresh" text? Just because we never really experi¬
ence jazz in its pristine form "as a thing-in-itself" — isolated
from "sedimented layers of previous interpretations"--does
not insure that it could be heard in a hypothetical pre-lapsar-
ian, utopian, or millennial state. Never having been in
such a state, we should be willing to imagine (with Jameson)
that jazz must be especially good there (since it is fresh,
does not have to pass through layers of sediment), fear (with
Lévi-Strauss) that there is no jazz there (because, even
though music [like mythology], provides a basis for language,
it is meaningless without language), or be satisfied to observe
that, in this culture, in our experience, jazz, like any
music, drifts on a read--on socially produced texts that
sustain (even create) it as a music with specific meanings.
What, then, are we to make of the texts which name--
present, model, and situate--jazz, that bring it into dis¬
course? How should we approach the recordings, clothes,
musical instruments, spaces for performance, and especially,
at least for my purposes, the books and films that position
(and overdetermine) this culture's experience of jazz? And
how can we speak of these types of representations or of
jazz without assuming an impossible position outside text-
uality? Nathaniel Mackey, author of Bedouin Hornbook--an
epistolary novel whose discourse, like the music of one of its
characters, manifests a "somewhat French-inflected sense of

50
African drumraing"--has his protagonist, N. , offer one possible
solution to our dilemma.After awaking from a dream, he
writes to the Angel of Dust, the recipient of his correspon¬
dence :
I awoke to the even more radical realization that it's
not enough that a composer skillfully cover his tracks,
that he erase the echo of "imposition" composition can't
help but be haunted by. In a certain sense, I realized,
to do so only makes matters worse. The question I was
left with, of course, was: What can one do to outmaneuver
the inertia both of what one knows and of what one feels
or presumes to feel? There must be some way, I'm con¬
vinced, to invest in the ever so slight suggestion of
"compost" I continue to get from the word compose.
(BH, 78-79)
N.--a founding member of a musical collective known as the
Mystic Horn Society, an aggregation patterned after Sun Ra's
Arkestra or the Art Ensemble of Chicago--hints at a grammato-
logical approach to compositional inertia (i.e., a provisional
solution to the problem of how to unclench one's teeth--trigger
composition). Although he declares, "I don't claim to have
come up with a solution yet," he does admit that he has prob¬
ably assumed John Coltrane's stated goal (quoted in the liner
notes to Coltrane Live at the Village Vanguard Again!) and
is "trying to work out a kind of writing that will allow for
more plasticity, more viability, more room for improvisation
in the statement of the melody itself." His approach--decom-
position--has the extravagance and elegance of a metaphysical
conceit, but as a postmodern invent io it is, according to
Ulmer, "another version of what Derrida describes as the
most fundamental feature of language--iterabi1ity" (AG, 58).

51
Detecting the ever so slight whiff of "compost" in the
word "compose" is the discourse equivalent of reversing the
direction (sens) of sublation, for it begins the work of
returning composition, a master concept of Western thought,
to the bodily metaphor (philosopheme) on which it was based
(or, at least, to a base, bodily metaphor). By this method,
whereby the intelligible is manured (from manouvrer, to work
with the hands, cultivate) into the sensible, decomposition
challenges (outmaneuvers) "the idealizing and appropriating
operations of metaphysics, which lifted metaphors into concepts
and which exalted the episteme over aisthesis as the only
genuine source of truth" (AG, 51-52); it reintroduces that
which was suppressed or ignored. It presents a way to write,
that is, write out of, the tropes which organized Western meta¬
physics, and it provides this study with an experimental
(tentative and alternative) means of writing about the tropes
which organize the rhetoric of jazz.
Ulmer writes of such a project:
In decomposition ... a term does not generate its
opposite but metamorphoses into its own allosemes, without
unity, conclusion, or hierarchy, but only scattering.
(AG, 66)
The task of (de)compos ition, then, is to break down (letter-
alize) the concepts that compose one's knowledge of a
particular field into a textual compost pile that can be
exploited in a search for "a kind of writing that will allow
for more plasticity, more viability, more room for improvi¬
sation." Rather than feigning originality by erasing "the
echo [or trace] of 'imposition' composition can't help but

52
be haunted by" or skillfully covering writing's tracks to
past texts, a grammatological mode of writing--like jazz
music--feeds "off the decay of tradition."^
In stating this I am, of course, feeding off the theory
(grammatology) and method (deconstruction) exemplified in
the work of Derrida and a group of theorists broadly referred
to as textualists, just as traditional studies continue to
feed off a theory (mimesis) and method (formal analysis) as
old as, and most readily identified with, Aristotle (p. 87).
Accordingly, I feel no more incumbency to actually restate
the textualist (deconstructionist/grammatological) position,
than a traditional scholar would feel to restate Aristotle's
Poetics. Both have already been done. My study is not a
commentary on Derrida (except in an oblique sort of way).
It is, however, (though it is hard to use the word anymore
without wincing) something of a deconstruction of the musico-
logical literature of jazz and, then, a suggested application
of grammatological theory to three books and a film which
represent jazz: an experiment in (de)compos ition, an emblem,
an allegory or model of a new kind of writing.
Just for the Record
[T]he disc is scratched and is wearing out, perhaps the singer
is dead.
--Jean-Paul Sartre^-9
The musicological work which speaks of jazz represents
an attempt to bring that music into written language. One

53
might say that it is one, maybe the institutionally privileged,
means by which this culture provides jazz with a speaking
voice. Unlike its object of study, however, the musicological
work is susceptible to the type of theoretical scrutiny and
speculation most frequently reserved for so-called "literary"
or "artistic" texts, because it is first and foremost a verbal
structure. It, to paraphrase White, combines "data," theoret¬
ical concepts for "explaining" these data, and a linguistic
structure to, presumably, present an icon of the music under
examination (MH, ix). If we grant that music is the purview
of musicologists, we must allow that the products of musi-
cology--since they are written and not musical--fall within
the realm of literary studies. Or stated even more forcefully,
musicology may possess a specialized language or metadiscourse
sufficient for the study of music, including jazz, but it
possesses no discourse capable of self-reflexively analyzing
its own, exclusively, linguistic products. Literary theory,
it seems, is that discipline which has developed a metadis¬
course sufficient for the study of musicological discourse.
Accordingly, this study does not attempt to examine jazz
music, nor does it directly examine musicological "data" or
"theory." Rather, it concerns itself with representations
as representations. It shifts the object of study to the
written or filmed representation of jazz and attends to matters
of "style, figures of speech, setting, narrative devices,
historical and social circumstances, not the correctness of
the representation nor its fidelity to some great original"

54
(Or, 21). As far as I have been able to ascertain, it is
the first book-length study to privilege the signifiers of
jazz over the signified, jazz. It seeks, above all, to theo¬
rize how I, and, by extension, this culture, have managed to
understand one of the most interesting art forms of this
century.
I chose to survey the language of musicological studies
of jazz for five reasons. First, since the language of musi¬
cology occupies a privileged position in university music
departments, an investigation of that language constitutes
an institutional imperative to any study that would investigate
representations of jazz in imaginative literature or the
perception of jazz in the cultural reference. Second,
although, generally speaking, musicological literature describ¬
ing classical music has become increasingly self-conscious
of its basis in language, musicological literature describing
jazz has shown little interest in serutinizing--philosophizing
or theorizing--its own rhetoric. This work needed to be
done. Third, a survey of musicology provides an occasion
for commenting on issues associated with the theoretical
problem of referentiality and with what has been called a
theory of general textuality, because it foregrounds that
large set of problems which inevitably arises when one seeks
to represent music--"a semiotic system without a semantic
level (or content plane)" (Ti3, 11). Fourth, jazz is an index
of modernism. Even more than the music of Schoenberg and
Stravinsky, it (to the chagrin of critics such as Adorno)

55
formed the soundtrack to the Modern Age and pointed towards
postmodernism (much as rock and roll--more than the music of
Cage and Boulez--forms the soundtrack to postmodernism and
points to something else as yet unrealized). A survey of
musicological responses to jazz provides a convenient departure
point for discussing institutional responses to questions
that concerned modernism. Fifth and more to-the-point, I am
what the French call an amateur de musique; surveying musico¬
logical literature devoted to jazz gave me a scholarly excuse
to read what I enjoy reading anyway, and, of course, it granted
me a way of, at least obliquely, writing about something I
love.
In order to draw up the list of books that guided this
survey, I surrendered both to the scholar's urge to systema¬
tization and to the jazz lover's urge to spontaneity. On
the systematic side, to start my work, I classified and evalu¬
ated a selection of texts chosen from three bibliographies:
Booth's chapter, "Ragtime and Jazz," in American Popular
Music: A Reference Guide; Kennington and Read's The Liter¬
ature of Jazz; and Harrison's chapter on jazz in The New
Grove: Gospel, Blues and Jazz.^ But this study is in no way
intended to be encyclopedic in scope. I have not read all
of the books listed in these bibliographies. Instead, by
reading widely but selectively I attempted to gain a general
conception of the field of jazz discourse: its "shape and
internal organization, its pioneers, patriarchal authorities,
canonical texts, doxological ideas, exemplary figures, its

56
followers, elaborators, and new authorities" (0r_, 22). On the
spontaneous side, I followed a general rule of invention laid
down by Edison. He said, "When you are experimenting and you
come across anything you don't thoroughly understand, don't
rest until you run it down; it may be the very thing you are
looking for or it may be something far more important.
Gelatt describes how this rule led to the invention of the
phonograph.
For years Edison had labored to increase the efficiency
of the telegraph. ... In the summer of 1877 he was
working on an instrument that transcribed telegrams by
indenting a paper tape with the dots and dashes of the
Morse code and later repeated the message any number of
times and at any rate of speed required. To keep the
tape in proper adjustment he used a steel spring, and
he noticed that when the tape raced through his instrument
at a high speed, the indented dots and dashes striking
the end of the spring gave off a noise which Edison
described as a "light musical, rhythmic sound, resembling
human talk heard indistinctly."
Instead of ignoring this phenomenon, Edison pursued it. His
interest in the telephone—a recently invented carbon trans¬
mitter for Bell's one-year-old invention had already made
the thirty-year-old Edison financially independent--encouraged
him to speculate that if one could record a telegraph message,
one could also record a human voice--more specifically, a
telephone message. He abandoned his work on the telegraph
and shifted his efforts to "a makeshift to which he had
resorted during his work on the carbon transmitter." Gelatt
explains:
Edison was by then already showing signs of deafness and
could not trust his hearing to judge the loudness of a
sound as it came over the telephone receiver. To by¬
pass this difficulty, he had attached a short needle to
the diaphragm of the receiver. When he let his finger

57
rest lightly on this needle, the pricks would show him
the amplitude of the signal coming over the line. Harking
back to this experience, Edison reasoned that if the
needle could prick his finger it could just as well
prick a paper tape and indent it with a record of the
human voice.
In theory, the phonograph was invented. On July 18, 1877,
Edison jotted in his notebook:
Just tried experiment with diaphragm having an embossing
point and held against paraffin paper moving rapidly.
The speaking vibrations are indented nicely, and there's
no doubt that I shall be able to store up and reproduce
automatically at any future time the human voice per¬
fectly.
In subsequent experiments, Edison improved his invention--for
example, he substituted tin foil for paraffin wax--but its
general operating principle remained the same. On August
12, he handed John Kruesi, "one of his most trusted mechanics,"
a sketch of the phonograph. Thirty hours later, according
to "official" accounts, Kruesi was finished. Edison shouted
"Mary had a little lamb" into the instrument's mouthpiece
and made the first phonograph recording.
I relate this account for a couple of reasons. For one
thing, it provides a (mythic) rationale for digressive tenden¬
cies. Just as Edison's digression precipitated the invention
of the phonograph, one of my lapses from systematic reading
in the field of jazz turned up Joseph Kerman's Contemplating
Music: Challenges to Musicology (1985). This exemplary work
introduced me to the study of classical music as organized
and practiced in the United States and Britain since World
War II and acquainted roe with the standard divisions of labor
• t
in musical studies--viz
musicology, theory, analysis,

58
ethnorausioology and criticism. It functioned for me much as
Terence Hawkes's Structuralism and Semiotics, Catherine Bel-
sey's Critical Practice, or similar introductory surveys of
literary theory might function for a student of music inter¬
ested in critical theory. Although it did not discuss any
books or articles specifically on jazz, it oriented my thoughts
vis á vis contemporary musicology.
But I also repeated the story of Edison's invention of
the phonograph for another reason. Because the history of jazz
is coextensive with the invention and development of the
phonograph (including associated inventions such as the micro¬
phone and tape recorder), this account introduces several
motifs which we shall repeatedly encounter in this study.
For example, the phonograph was perceived and situated as,
at once, "an invention, an industry, and a musical instru¬
ment" (Phono, 11). As such, its products, which include jazz,
like the products of the Edison's Kinetograph or Kinetoscope,
must be received as imbricating science, economics, and aesthe¬
tics.
If cinema would be impossible without (it is inseparable
from) the technology which brought it into existence, jazz,
a much more problematic case, because it could have conceivably
developed without electronic modeling systems (electronically
dependent technologies for recording and reproducing sound) ,
is, nevertheless, unthinkable apart from the phonograph and
radio (radio, undoubtedly the primary means by which jazz
was disseminated, electronically reproduces sound, but, unlike

59
the early phonograph, which could record and play back, it
does not store up its reproductions). As Miles Davis quipped,
when speaking of a fellow trumpet player's campaign to preserve
time-honored, jazz traditions:
"Wynton Marsalis? I don't know about him, man. But
I know he doesn't talk like that when we're alone toge¬
ther. 'Preserve this' and 'preserve that'—the way they're
going we'll have blacks back on the plantation. I mean,
it already i_s preserved. Isn't that what records are
all about?
"I just tell people it's like this: I can't wear
bell-bottom pants anymore. And I don't drive an Edsel.
I drive a Ferrari."22
Yet, as virtually everyone who studies this type of music
observes, jazz is also antithetical to "artificial" recording
technologies. Martin Williams notes that "phonograph records
are in a sense a contradiction of the meaning of the music."
Gunther Schuller states, "A jazz recording of an improvised
performance ... is a one-time thing, in many instances the
only available and therefore 'definitive' version of something
that was never meant to be definitive." But probably the
most famous testament to the jazz musician's antipathy to
recording is the brief anecdote told about Freddie Keppard
and the Original Creole Band. "Early in 1916 [one full year
before the Original Dixieland Jazz Band recorded the first
jazz record, "At the Darktown Strutters' Ball," for Columbia]
the Victor Phonograph Company approached the Original Creoles
with an offer to record. Keppard thought it over, and said:
"Nothin' doin', boys. We won't put our stuff on records for
everybody to steal."23

60
Jazz, then, is a response to, and a reaction against, the
technology of electronic sound reproduction and, therefore,
makes a good test case for studying how electronic modeling
systems--actually new means of writing--inevitably get bound
up in philosophical, scientific, economic, and aesthetic
issues with, ultimately, political ramifications (i.e., raise
issues of power, most often discussed in terms of class,
race and gender). In the following pages I shall return to,
expand and focus, these observations. But for now, it is
enough to notice that the questions raised by the electronic
reproduction (and recording) of jazz--a music created, as
Anthony Davis put it, "in the moment"--present a particularly
interesting, contemporary version of the ancient opposition
between mneme and hypomnesis and, consequently, recapitulate
the orality/1iteracy discussions which have concerned theor¬
ists such as Parry, Lord, Havelock, Foley, Ong, McLuhan,
Goody, and Derrida for the last twenty-five years or so.24
Out of the Tropics
She told me things she knew, like when the white man came to
Africa he acted friendly at first and tried to show the tribes
his superiority in magic--but our people's medicine was as
advanced as his and more so when it came to tropical fevers
and diseases. The white man had one magic we didn't have--
he could write, he could write down ideas and this amazed
our people.
--Charles Mingus
"Yes," he said, surprised to find he was muttering out loud,
"as a wonderful singer once remarked: 'An image is a stop
the mind makes between uncertainties.'" oc
--Nathaniel Mackey

61
One critic described Early Jazz: Its Roots and Musical
Development as "among the two or three finest contributions
to jazz 1 i terature.6 But that is not why I employ the
Preface to Volume I of Gunther Schuller's, as yet uncompleted,
"comprehensive history of jazz music," as the departure point
for my survey and analysis of musicological literature devoted
to jazz. My reasons are guided primarily by personal-profes¬
sional interests: the concerns of my thesis.
Schuller's Preface, whatever its other putative merits,
serves my purposes because it provides a history of writing
about jazz as well as a register of the author's attitude
towards that history. As a succinct, diachronic (or syntag-
matic) account of jazz musicology, it affords a useful overview
of the rhetorical topography of jazz. Hence, I shall cite
it almost in its entirety. But in addition to this, Schuller's
Preface also presents--in its first paragraph--what could be
called a synchronic (or paradigmatic) representation of jazz
musicology. In this passage Schuller, who was formerly Presi¬
dent of the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston,
Artistic Director at the Berkshire Music Center at Tangle-
wood, and the French horn player on Miles Davis' historic
recording, The Birth of the Cool, accuses the majority of
books on jazz of some very specific mistakes. His reasons
for doing so are simple, a rhetorical necessity. To distin¬
guish his book--set it apart from the pack--he must simultane¬
ously perpetuate and repudiate a critical tradition: i.e., a
heritage of representations that both comes before him (which

62
allows him to write) and after him (whose future--if his
book is taken as definitive--wi11 be fixed or even foreclosed).
In order to accomplish this task, he, to mix my metaphors,
attempts to situate his own work within a critical field,
and at the end of a historical/intellectual lineage. And in
the process of identifying his work with, and distinguishing
it from, a critical tradition, he--perhaps unintentionally—
attributes a extraordinary, albeit negative, unity to a diverse
group of writings. He states:
Although there is no dearth of books on jazz, very few
of them have attempted to deal with the music itself in
anything more than general descriptive or impressionistic
terms. The majority of books have concentrated on the
legendry of jazz, and over the years a body of writing
has accumulated which is little more than an amalgam of
well-meaning amateur criticism and fascinated opinion.
That this was allowed to pass for scholarship and serious
analysis is attributable not only to the humble, socially
"unacceptable" origin of jazz, but also to the widely
held notion that a music improvised by self-taught,
often musically illiterate musicians did not warrant
genuine musicological research. Despite the fact that
many "serious" composers and performers had indicated
their high regard for jazz as early as the 1920s, the
academic credentials of jazz were hardly sufficient to
produce a serious interest in the analysis of its tech¬
niques and actual musical content. (EJ, vii)
For reasons I shall soon produce, this passage is as eminently
remarkable as it is altogether unexceptional. Hold your finger
on it.
The bibliography following the jazz entry in The New Grove
Gospel, Blues and Jazz lists 109 books under the headings
"Criticism," "History, Analysis," and "Sociological and Related
Works." And as one might expect, the combined effect of the
voices represented by this bibliography hardly produces an
effect describable as euphonious (although the effect that

63
it does produce could be likened to collective improvisation,
that is, as analogous to descriptions of early, New Orleans-
style jazz, where, without subordinating one instrumental
voice to another, all group members played at the same time).
Since the word jazz started to appear in print sometime between
1913 and 1915--or, to give the reader several other points
of reference, since Jelly Roll Morton claimed he invented
jazz (1902), Paul Whiteman debuted Gershwin's Rhapsody in
Blue (February 12, 1924), and Louis Armstrong and his Hot Five
made their seminal recordings (1928)--the literature that
brings jazz music into language has agreed on very little.27
In describing it one constantly runs the risk of writing
useless generalities or engaging in endless specificity.
Schuller's opening paragraph avoids these dangers, though.
Granted, it envisions a set of texts that share an object of
study (whose definition, although problematic, is assumed to
be knowable, even self evident). Granted, it supposes that
jazz—the object of study--can be observed by "itself,” unen¬
cumbered by past representations. And granted, it speaks
from a narrative position where it can purportedly measure
the value of a representation against a thorough knowledge
of the thing represented: assumptions we have already discussed
and to which we shall return. But more importantly, this
passage comprehends jazz scholarship as a legacy of lack.
Rather than present the structural or thematic features all
jazz texts hold in common, it notes deficiencies shared by
the majority of books on jazz. It conceptual izes--brings unity

64
to--jazz scholarship by assigning images of paucity to past
texts and by filling in this poverty with a tacit promise of
imminent plenitude.
As it turns out, the "negative" images Schuller uses to
organize jazz scholarship are, in slightly disguised form,
privileged tropes that all who represent jazz in writing--
whether in fiction or nonfiction--use to conceptualize this
music. Sometimes they are given a negative valence (as in
the writings of Adorno); sometimes they are given a positive
twist or turn (as in the body of Early Jazz). In the following
chapters, I shall introduce these enabling images--four tropes
which provide a means of "writing" jazz. This will lead me
to an examination of Schuller's project, or, better, his
musicolog ica1 ideal, which, by means of a generalization, I
read as the dream of the science of jazzology: how "serious
analysis"--"genuine musicological research"—seeks to rise
above (supplement or cast out) the merely rhetorical—the
deficiencies of "general descriptive or impressionistic"
texts.
Without a doubt, my comments could be misconstrued as
an attack on musicology, and its stepchild, jazzology. That
would be a mistake. In fact, my comments should be taken as
a literary theorist's attempt to understand how musicology
succeeds--how it comes to count as truth--not how it inevitably
fails or is stalled by contradictions. The fact is, I believe
musicology is riddled with contradictions; I agree with Leonard
Feather when he writes: "Many have tried to explain jazz in

65
words; all have failed."28 But, strange as it may seem,
contradiction and failure have never been barriers to writing
or rhetorical success. Far from it. As structuralism has
repeatedly shown, contradiction motivates composition, and
as poststructuralism is fond of pointing out, the semiotic
conditions which would undo writing (e.g., the impossibility
of establishing a stable context) also make it possible (iter-
ability, the mobility of the sign, allows writing).
Hence, although I make no claims of being disinterested,
I did not choose the Preface to Early Jazz because I featured
that it would make an easy whipping boy. I chose it because
it exemplifies contradictions that animate (enable and defeat)
nonfiction discourse on jazz and because it evidences a level
of scholarship that books on jazz have consistently striven
to achieve, but seldom attained.
Notes
^-Cortázar, pp. 69-70 , 74.
^Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, trans. Barbara Johnson
(Chicago: Univ. of Chicago, 1981), p. 332. Subsequently
cited as Pis.
^Rousseau, La Nouvelle Héloise, Pléiade edition, Oeuvres
complétes, vol. II, p. 693, in B&I, p. 131.
4T. S. Eliot, "Tradition and the Individual Talent,"
Selected Prose of T. S. Eliot, ed. Frank Kermode (New York:
Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1975),
p. 38.
^Woody Allen, "The Query," Side Effects (New York: Random
House, 1975), pp. 113-121. The Lincoln citation is from
this short play.

66
8Gary Giddins, Rhythm-a-ning: Jazz Tradition and Innova¬
tion in the '80s (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1985), p. 20.
^John Fiske, Introduction to Communication Studies (New
York: Methuen, 1982), p. 151.
^Quoted in Fredric Jameson, The Political Unconscious:
Narrative as a Socially Symbolic Act, Ithaca: Cornell Univ.
Press, 1981) , p! 8! Subsequently cited as PU.
^Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Naked Man, trans. J. Cape (New
York: Harper and Row, 1981), p. 647; Derek Bailey, Improv¬
isation: Its Nature and Practice in Music (Ashbourne! Moorland
Publishing Co., 1980), p. 126, in John Corbett, "Writing
Around Improvisation," Subjects/Objects (1986), p. 53; Miles
Davis, in Nat Hentoff, The Jazz Life TÑew York: Dial Press,
1961), p. 250.
l0Alan P. Merriam, cited in Joseph Kerman, Contemplating
Music: Challenges to Musicology (Cambridge: Harvard Univ.
Press, 1985) , p! 13. Kerman subsequently cited as CM.
^-Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Raw and the Cooked, p. 31.
Subsequently cited as R&C.
l2Wilder Hobson, American Jazz Music (New York: Norton,
1939), p. 29.
18Winthrop Sargeant, Jazz: A History, originally Jazz:
Hot and Hybrid (New York, McGraw-Hill, 1946), pp. 29, 31-32,
and in brackets, p. 28.
l^David Breskin, "Keith Jarrett," Musician, Nov. 1983,
reprinted Feb. 1987, p. 60.
l^Douglas R. Hofstadter, GOdel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal
Golden Braid (New York: Vintage Books, 1979) , p! 50.
l^Ornette Coleman, The Music of Ornette Coleman: Forms
& Sounds, RCA Bluebird, LM/LSC-2982, 1987; Mallarmé, "The
Book, A Spiritual Instrument," in Selected Poetry and Prose,
p. 24.
^Nathaniel Mackey, Bedouin Hornbook (Lexington: Univ.
of Kentucky, 1986), p. 144.Subsequently cited as BH.
18Gregory L. Ulmer, "The Object of Post-Criticism," in
The Ant i-Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture, ed. Hall
Foster (Port Townsend, Wash.: Bay Press, 1983) , p. 106.
^Nausea, p. 176.
20Mark W. Booth, "Ragtime and Jazz," American Popular
Music: A Reference Guide (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press,

67
1983), pp. 101-36; Donald Kennington and Danny L. Read, The
Literature of Jazz; A Critical Guide, 2nd ed. (Chicago: Amer-
ican Library Association, 1980); Paul Oliver, Max Harrison,
and William Bolcom, The New Grove: Gospel, Blues and Jazz
with Spirituals and Ragtime (New York: W. w"I Norton & Company,
1986).
^Roland Gelatt, The Fabulous Phonograph 1877-1977, 2nd
ed. (New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1977), p"I 18. Subse¬
quently cited as Phono. The following account of Edison's
invention of the phonograph, including the citation from
Edison's notebook, is taken from Phono, pp. 18-21.
22Mark Rowland, "Miles Davis Is a Living Legend and You're
Not," Musician, May 1987, p. 90.
2^Martin Williams, The Jazz Tradition (New York: Oxford
Univ. Press, 1970), p. 251. Gunther Schuller, Early Jazz:
Its Roots and Musical Development (New York: Oxford Univ.
Press, 1968) , pT xi~. William Russell and Stephen W. Smith,
"New Orleans Music," Jazzmen, ed. Frederic Ramsey, Jr. and
Charles Edward Smith (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company,
1939), p. 22. Williams subsequently cited as JT, Schuller
as EJ_, Jazzmen in the text by title.
24Data are available should one wish to trace the dissem¬
ination of jazz as a direct (if unintended) result of the
technology associated with the invention of the phonograph
Can invention, an industry, and a musical instrument").
One should consult, first, Stephen W. Smith's "Hot Collecting,"
in Jazzmen, pp. 287-99, then, the following: Phono; Evan
Eisenberg, The Recording Angel: Explorations in Phonography
(New York: McGraw-Hill,1987); Peter Gammond and Raymond
Horricks, The Music Goes Round and Round: A Cool Look at the
Record Industry (New York: Quartet Books, 1980) ; and H. Wiley
Hitchcock, ed., The Phonograph and Our Musical Life: Pro¬
ceedings of a Centennial Conference, 7-10 December 1977 ÍBrook-
lyn: Institute for Studies in American Music, Department of
Music, School of Performing Arts Brooklyn College of The
City University of New York, 1980).
25Charles Mingus, Beneath the Underdog (New York: Penguin
Books, 1971), p. 84; BH^ p. 151.
2^Kennington and Read, p. 110. Although they fail to
identify this critic, others, whose blurbs are recorded on
the book jacket of EJ_, have also praised it. Leonard Feather
called it "A milestone in technical ethnomusicology," Nat
Hentoff said that it represented "A remarkable breakthrough
in musical analysis of jazz," and Martin Williams remarked,
"All future commentary on jazz--indeed on American music--
should be indebted to Schuller's work."

68
27Alan P. Merriam and Fradley H. Garner, "Jazz--The Word,"
Ethnomusicology, 12 (1968), 385-86. This article is subse¬
quently cited as "Jazz." Its authors record:
the oldest reference to the word jazz seems to be that
advanced by Chapman who [in 1958] is reported to have
"turned up a poster some 100 years old, with the word Jazz
on it." Other than this, we have Austin's statement that
"the term 'jazz' in its relation to music dates from about
this time (post Civil War)," while Clay Smith notes:
"'Jazz' was born and christened in the low dance halls
of our far west of three decades ago,' which would place
it about 1900.
28Leonard Feather, The Book of Jazz: From Then Till Now
(New York: Dell Publishing Co., 1957) , pT 17.

CHAPTER 2
OBBLIGATO: I GOTTA WRITE TO SING THE BLUES
Ornament is confabulation in the interstices of structure.
A poem by Dylan Thomas, a saxophone solo by Charles Parker,
a painting by Jackson Pollock--these are pure confabulations
as ends in themselves. Confabulation has come to determine
structure.
--Kenneth Rexroth
The "perpetual conflict" between clarity and grace is what
makes hot jazz hot. The best performers continually anticipate
or delay the phrase beginnings and endings. They also, in
their performances, treat the beat or pulse, and indeed, the
measure, with grace . . . This, not syncopation, is what
pleases the hep-cats.
--John Cage
The variations were the real matter, not the theme.
--Dorothy Baker
Nothing is so easy as improvisation, the running on and on of
invention.
--Henry James
We believe that a thing is valuable to the extent that it is
improvised (hours, minutes, seconds), not extensively prepared
(months, years, centuries).
—F. T. Marinetti1
Agréments
Schuller's treatise on early jazz begins with a pronounce¬
ment. Of all the volumes published on jazz, most are mere
textual ornaments. Embellishments of what could be called
"the sound object," these texts have only attempted to deal
with "the music itself" in "general descriptive or
69

70
impressionistic terms." They are, in the language of musi¬
cology agréments.
A collective term introduced into the French musical
vocabulary of the 17th century and "finally adopted into all
European music," agréments refers to a group of "signs or
abbreviations" for signifying musical ornaments. In the art
music of the West, the codification of agréments marks the
systematization and ultimate standardization of improvised
ornamentation ("the practice ... of embellishing musical
works through additions to or variations of their essential
rhythm, melody, or harmony"). Although their correct interpre¬
tation "constitutes a considerable problem in performing
music of the 17th and 18th century," and although the term
itself may seem to suggest "the existence of unadorned compo¬
sitions representing the pure intentions of their composers,"
the musical figures that agréments represent were indispensable
features of many musical works, "particularly in the 17th
and 18th centuries." They are divided into the following
categories: "(1) appoggiatura (also double appoggiatura);
(2) trill; (3) turn; (4) mordent; (5) Nachschlag; (6) arpeggio;
(7) vibrato" ("Ornamentation" and "Agréments," HCDM).
Other than noting that "the majority of books have concen¬
trated on the legendry of jazz," that is, on a matter suppos¬
edly tangential to real issues, Schuller does not elaborate
on or catalog the various approaches writers took in writing
embellishments on jazz, "the music itself." He chooses not
to list and analyze the agréments of nonfiction texts on

71
jazz music. This task, however, needs to be done. To start
with, someone could systematize the pre-musicological discourse
of jazz, theorize the connotative values it assigns to the
music. As of yet, though, no one has produced the semic
(that is, the connotative) codes that structure representations
of jazz.
Nevertheless, although the literature treating jazz can
claim no equivalent of Barthes's A Lover's Discourse or Mythol¬
ogies, no meta-musicological text schematizing codes of musico-
logical and ethnomusicological discourse, we could initiate
such a study by observing that jazz--like its written repre¬
sentation-- i s consistently apprehended as a more or less
spontaneous process whereby one elaborates or palimpsestically
"plays over" that which is conceived as already composed. This
process (which even in its conception is already a represen¬
tation of jazz) is always assigned a name. For example, in
this chapter and, especially, in the section on Ellison's
Invisible Man, I designate it as the obbligato figure. Denis
Hollier, in his reexamination of Sartre, links it with vari¬
ation : "changes made in a tune through the addition of orna¬
ments which nevertheless allow the basic melody and movement
to be maintained."2 it could also be referred to as the figure
of ornamentation or grace (a "term used by early English
musicians for any musical ornament, whether written out in
notes, indicated by sign, or improvised by the performer"—
HCDM).

72
But most frequently, it (i.e., the process of making jazz)
is called "improvisation," a term that, in addition to denoting
a spontaneous or extemporized composition, suggests a previ¬
ously established text (e.g., a musical phrase, the chord
changes to a song, a rhythm or riff, or, perhaps, in the
case of "free jazz" the concept, actually the prescription,
of freedom) that is recalled when extended or recomposed in
another piece. Marjorie Perloff, in her study of the textual
strategies of the Futurists (a movement coterminous with,
and having deep affinities for, the Jazz Age), calls it "an
art that depends not on revision in the interests of making
the parts cohere in a unified formal structure, but on a
prior readiness, a performative stance that leaves room for
accident and surprise" (FM, 102). Her comments summarize a
statement by Gerald L. Bruns that can be easily applied to a
study of jazz:
to improvise is to begin without second thought, and
under the rules there is no turning back. . . . Improv¬
isation is the performance of a composition at the moment
of its composition. One preserves such a moment by
refusing to revise its results. ... it is discourse
that proceeds independently of reflection; it does not
stop to check on itself. It is deliberate but undelib¬
erated. ^
In a word, improvisation defami 1 iarizes: both an "original"
text (in Shklovsky's phrase, it transfers "the usual perception
of an object into the sphere of a new perception") and the very
process, the trusted conventions, of invention and composi¬
tion. ^ it is designed, once again drawing on Bruns, "to
outwit the reader ... to disrupt readerly expectations"
(FM, 148).

73
An especially vivid illustration of this final point is
found in William Zinsser's biography of Willie Ruff and Dwike
Mitchell, the first jazz musicians to go to China (1981).
In it, according to the author's own account, "You have a
story that is essentially, extraordinarily dramatic--two
black men in China, one of whom is explaining jazz, which is
a totally oral tradition based on improvising, to the oldest
literate and literal society in the world." According to
Zinsser, after describing improvisation, "the lifeblood of
jazz," "something created during the process of delivery,"
to a group of faculty and students at The Shanghai Conservatory
of Music, Ruff (playing French horn) joined his partner's
piano in an improvisation on a simple blues theme. Not sur¬
prisingly, the audience was nonplussed. They had never heard
anything like this before. Their language did not even have
a word for improvisation. Following the performance there
was a call for questions.
An old professor stood up. "When you
Blues' just now," he said, "did you have
or a logical plan?"
"I just started tapping my foot," Ruff
his foot to reconstruct the moment. "And
to play the first thought that came into
the horn. And Mitchell heard it. And he
"But how can you ever play it again?"
said.
"We never can," Ruff replied.
"That is beyond our imagination," the
"Our students here play a piece a hundred
hundred times, to get it exactly right,
thing once--something very beautiful--and
throw it away.
created 'Shanghai
a form for it,
replied, tapping
then I started
my mind with
answered.
the old professor
professor said.
times, or two
You play some-
then you just
The real question here is, of course, who is "outwitted," whose
"readerly expectations" are disrupted. Naturally, the answer

74
one gives turns on the narrative position one takes up (or
refuses to take up). On the one hand, the presuppositions
on which the Chinese base the creation and performance of
music have just been contested, but, at least at the close
of the narrative, they, and especially their makers, seem
hardly shaken. On the other hand, the presuppositions of
jazz have also been contested; the value of improvisation
has been attacked. Ruff does not answer (or, rather, if he
did, his answer is not given). In any event, we are left
with two observations. First, improvisation has meaning
only within certain contexts. It is a sign operative in (a
textual effect of) certain semiotic systems. To be abrupt,
Zinsser is wrong. Jazz is not "a totally oral tradition,"
for in such an imaginary zone, improvisation would have abso¬
lutely no meaning. It (draw a large "X" over this pronoun)
would simply be Music. Pierre Boulez puts it this way: "It
is necessary to deny all invention that takes place in the
framework of writing. . . . Finally, improvisation is not
possible" (in Noise, 145). Second, improvisation can be
read as a reflection of Western ideology. The old professor,
to press a little on his comment, sees improvisation as con¬
gruent with what has been repeatedly called "a throw-away
society." Barthes warns, "I distrust spontaneity, which is
directly dependent on habits and stereotypes."^
This is certainly close to Adorno's view of jazz. He
refers to it as embellishment, and he portrays it--a commodity

75
of mass culture--as "a veneer of individual 'effects'" pasted
on the standardized form of popular song.^ He writes,
In serious music, each musical element, even the simplest
one, is "itself," and the more highly organized the
work is, the less possibility there is of substitution
among the details. In hit music, however, the structure
underlying the piece is abstract, existing independent
of the specific course of the music. . . . For the com¬
plicated in popular music never functions as "itself"
but only as a disguise or embellishment behind which
the scheme can always be perceived. In jazz the amateur
listener is capable of replacing complicated rhythmical
or harmonic formulas by the schematic ones which they
represent and which they still suggest, however adven¬
turous they appear. The ear deals with the difficulties
of hit music by achieving slight substitutions derived
from the knowledge of the patterns. The listener, when
faced with the complicated, actually hears only the
simple which it represents and perceives, the complicated
only as a parodistic distortion of the simple, (p. 22)
Adorno disparages the emphasis jazz fans place on "the music's
improvisational features," maintaining that such features--
"mere frills"--mask "the fundamental characteristic of popular
music: standardization"® According to him, that which normally
passes for improvisation is "the more or less feeble rehashing
of basic formulas"; real improvisation, when it does occur
"in oppositional groups which perhaps even today still indulge
in such things out of sheer pleasure," is impoverished by
its dependence on popular song form (i.e., a "standard") and
the chord progression of the twelve-bar blues, because both
musical structures are products of mass culture, as stan¬
dardized as automobiles mass produced by Ford. Thus, we see
that in coming to grips with jazz and popular music (he regards
the two as synonyms), Adorno substitutes the concept of the
embellished, standardized product for what Schuller calls
"the music itself."

76
Although it can be dismissed as wrongheaded (his knowledge
of jazz seems to have stalled somewhere around the time of his
essay on popular music or, if one prefers a jazz landmark,
somewhere around the time of Benny Goodman's 1938 Carnegie Hall
Concert), declared a facile, reductio ad absurdum argument
equally applicable to the "serious" music he lauded, or typi¬
fied as itself an embellishment of the single note, anti¬
mass culture theme he harped on all of his life, Adorno's
characterization of jazz does employ a favored trope of jazz
writing. Indeed, his argument hones in on and attacks, not
the music itself (although that is probably intended), but
an image supporters and detractors alike enlist to conceptu¬
alize or give voice to the music. For example, notice how
the following passage from a jazz appreciation textbook works
off exactly the same image Adorno employs:
Early jazz musicians often began improvising simply by
embellishing the melodies of pop tunes. Eventually, the
embellishments became as good as and more important to
a performance than the tunes themselves. In some per¬
formances, all that remained was the original tune's
spirit and chord progressions. What is today called
improvising was referred to by early jazz musicians as
"messin' around," embellishing, "jassing," "jazzing up."9
Convention dictates that, if we would have our discourse
count as speech or writing about jazz, we must speak of embel¬
lishment, variation, grace notes, improvisation, ad-libbing,
or ornamentation: images that have come to stand (metonymically
or metaphorically) for jazz itself. The issue, then, is not
which trope to use in representing jazz, but what valence to
assign to that trope

77
Returning to Adorno's argument, we may observe that it
will be taken as truth--as a blow against jazz and, by exten¬
sion, as a blow against mass culture--precisely to the extent
that it scores a blow against a trope organizing our conception
of a jazz (i.e., to the extent that it discredits--negates
or problematizes--the verbal construct improvisation by con¬
vincing the reader that "real improvisation" rarely occurs
or that it is, in fact, mere embellishment). The point is,
the target of Adorno's virulence may be jazz or mass culture,
but his rhetorical strategy involves an attack on a privileged
metaphor which he rightly assumes this culture will identify
with the object of his scorn. For his argument to function,
he must create the effect of attacking jazz (imagined as
either a referent or signified) by invoking--actually accepting
and, then, contesting or devaluing--an image identified with
jazz: one which he, the ever-ready iconoclast, hopes (and
rightly knows) will be taken as an icon of jazz.
At this juncture, we would do well to ask a question.
What must a written piece look like before it will be accepted
as dealing with what Schuller refers to as "music itself"?
Or stated differently, in order to make the claim hold--that
one writes about jazz, its essence, stripped of all impedi-
menta--how must one write? Before this question can be ade¬
quately engaged, however, one must speculate on another ques¬
tion: What must patterns of sounds do (how must they affect
the human ear) before the statement, "This is jazz," can be
said to make sense? My answer to this last question, although

78
highly schematic and ultimately incomplete, will reinforce
and elaborate what we have already seen.
For a given acoustic pattern to be taken as jazz, it
has to be perceived as an individual performance—a musical
equivalent of parole--deriving from and contributing to a
fundamental structure--a musical equivalent of langue. More¬
over, the fundamental structure which allows and determines
a particular performance is, to adopt and paraphrase Saussure,
both a social product of the ability to make sounds (with
voices and musical instruments) and a group of necessary
conventions (e.g., improvisation), collectively labeled jazz,
that have been adopted by a social body to permit individuals
to exercise that ability.10 For example, sounds may arise
naturally (objects--animate and inanimate--vibrate in air
and receive vibrations); music, according to most theorists,
is a social product.11 But both designations, sound and
music, imply a social context where the oppositions
sound/silence and music/noise are maintained. Simply put,
cultures--and, specifically, institutions--determine what
counts as sound, music, or jazz, and as Attali notes, the
conventions which dictate the production, distribution, and
reception of music are ideologically motivated. Designating,
defining or merely recognizing, a group of sounds as noise or
music is not a neutral or innocent act; it is a gesture of
appropriation and control. Listening to music is a political
act, because in designating a group of sounds as music or noise
the listener ratifies or opposes the system that produced and

79
distributed that music (Noise, 6). This is why Adorno can
declare: "To dislike a song is no longer an expression of
subjective taste but rather a rebellion against the wisdom
of a public utility" ("Pop Music," 43-44). In listening, as
in watching a movie or reading a book, one is situated by
ideology.
Thus, the two questions I asked above--"What must a
written piece look like before it will be accepted as dealing
with music itself?" and "What features must patterns of sound
manifest before they will be counted as jazz?"--are inextric¬
ably intertwined. The study of jazz itself is part of the
political system that determines what will be construed—
included and excluded--as jazz itself. When one listens to
jazz or writes about it--recognizing one pattern of sound as
"jazz," excluding another--deeming one text as representing
music itself, excluding, another--one necessarily takes part
in a system of determinations that constrain the production
and perception of jazz in this episteme. So then, the tropes
which represent jazz match up with our perception of jazz--
"the music itself"--for good reason.
In this section I have argued that jazz is always repre¬
sented as a set of "unwritten" agréments which are disseminated
orally (by word of mouth) and electronically (by means of
radio and recordings), and that the goal of musicology is to
systematically write out the ornaments that organize jazz as
a musical language, thereby, through means of a fundamental
tautology, ratifying the image or model of jazz as a set of

80
agréments and opposing, what Perlman and Greenblatt call, the
"commonly-held assumption among people whose acquaintance with
jazz is casual or informal that the music is made up out of
nothing, invented out of thin air."12 jn short, I have argued
that, although my language inevitably continues to treat it
as such, jazz music is less a locatable thing than a oscil¬
lating set of auditory signs, and, similiarly, that written
representations of jazz may be regarded as (defined as) sites
where certain privileged signs are set over and against other
signs. Improvisation, then, is best conceptualized as a
textual practice--a figure of debate or contestation--raised,
most notably, by the sign jazz.
In their essay "Miles Davis Meets Noam Chomsky," Perlman
and Greenblatt explain the jazz solo through an analogy that
likens improvisation to "linguistic performance." Their
description, which recalls Parry, Lord, and Havelock's explana¬
tions of Homer's mnemonics, summarizes my discussion of a
major enabling trope of jazz by, once again, illustrating
the convention of conceptualizing jazz as spontaneous ornamen¬
tation. It underscores the necessity of mapping music onto
language (mapping one semiotic system onto another generates
the effect of intelligibility) and the explanatory power
that results from such a mapping, that is, when, through an
enabling trope, one translates jazz into language.
Just as the speaker of a language makes instinctive use
of the lexicon and structure of his/her language when s/he
speaks or writes, the musician accomplishes his/her aims
through mastery of and spontaneous resort to a basic
vocabulary of musical figures, interspersed with quotes
and connected by scales and arpeggios. It is the musical

81
figures, or "licks" (played, of course, on the correct
scale- and chord-tones) that give a jazz solo its dis¬
tinctive jazz sound, in the same way that speaking English
implies the use of the available word stock of the lan¬
guage, including bona fide loan words and recognizable
neologisms. The basic lexicon of jazz licks is not
large--there are perhaps two or three dozen that most
players rely on--but, since any lick can be played over
any chord, beginning with any sea 1e/chord-tone and
repeated indefinitely up and down the entire range of
the instrument, the number of improvisational possibil¬
ities becomes enormous, (pp. 175-76)
This passage also makes a couple of final points. It reminds
us that a reliance upon formulas--agréments~-(whether in
music or writing) does not necessarily exclude complexity.
But more than that, it suggests, in its argument for the
value of improvisation (no one is writing articles arguing
for the value of composition or the complexity of classical
music), that the image which brings jazz into discourse is,
once again, the site of ideological contestation and struggle.
Improvisation, embellishment, ornamentation, and ad-
libbing--terms in a series of binary oppositions—are thinkable
only in a paradigm (or through a construct) that has estab¬
lished a concept "text." In our culture (perhaps in our
episteme) they mark that which is auxiliary and ephemeral,
that which is artfully (artificially) tacked on to the real
item: the original text. Most importantly, these terms are
already in place--they are pregnant with meaning--when jazz
arises (diachronically, in history, or synchronically, in
performance).
Jazz entered this culture pre-represented. The codes
which spoke it, imbued it with meaning were, so to speak,

82
already situated when it arrived. Or as the Horacio Oliveira,
the narrator of Hopscotch, puts it:
Bessie's singing, Coleman Hawkins's cooing, weren't
they illusions, or something even worse, the illusion of
other illusions, a dizzy chain going backwards, back to
a monkey looking at himself in the water on that first
day? (p. 49)
Jazz linked up with what Nietzsche called "a mobile army of
metaphors, metonymies, anthropomorphisms"; which is to say,
those who represented it enlisted already available signifiers
of connotation which they, in turn, mobilized for their own
ends.1-* Historically, the opponents of jazz declared that
it equaled embellishment, ornamentation, and ad-libbing (i.e.,
-[jazz = agréments]), the ultimate elevation of style over
substance, and, hence, if accepted as a legitimate way of
creating music, it would turn the values of the music world
upside down (or be a sure indication that the entire world
had already capitulated to the madness which jazz only repre¬
sented). To make sure that their arguments were taken as
truth, these critics invested rhetorically in the already
established negative connotations of the signifiers of jazz.
On the other hand, those sympathetic to jazz devised two
lines of approach. First, they interpreted jazz as radical
music (modern, avant garde, or proletarian) and used it to
invert (or they read it as inverting) the very oppositions
which the foes of jazz hoped to maintain. They reversed the
polarity of the connotators of jazz and glorified it as the
vindication of style over substance, improvisation (spontaneous
creation) over composition (labored deliberation), and the

83
primitive over the civilized (i.e., +[jazz = agréments]).
But what if supporters of jazz were unwilling to wield this
music as a weapon in the fight against oppression (of whatever
sort)? For instance, what if their financial resources were
not sufficient to allow them to estrange themselves from
positions of power, or what if such an estrangement would
effectively silence them? Then they still had another option.
They could maintain that jazz might have originated as embel¬
lishment, ornamentation, and ad-libbing, but that good or
real jazz could never be reduced to a series of agréments
(i.e., jazz > agréments; improvisation > embellishment).
Jazz, if one listened closely enough, was good music by any
standard (which meant it was good by standards argued for by
the opponents of jazz).
The important issue, then, was not whether jazz would be
represented by means of a metaphor which I, out of convenience,
labeled the figure of agréments. As we have seen, jazz arrived
(and, synchronically, arises) already understood as ornamen¬
tation. It was situated in the midst of a paradigm--a system
of representations--that distinguished unadorned things from
embellished things (one can imagine that the embellishment
would have little or no meaning to a West African griot of the
eighteenth century or to a Greek of Homer's day). Its meta¬
phors were quickly naturalized and normalized because, in
fact, they pre-dated the music. The issue was, and still
is, one of interpretation. The battle for the possession of
the sign jazz centered on reading: which group's interpretation

84
of the tropes that brought jazz into discourse would be taken
as true or authoritative (something that obviously changed
in time and from place to place).
Of course, no particular side won. I think for two
reasons. First, as Gramsci notes, hegemony is a "moving
equilibrium."1^ To establish a particular interpretation of
a trope as authoritative, a group had to win, reproduce, and
sustain a reading, but in order to accomplish this it had to
suppress aberrant readings actually made possible by its own
hermeneutic. These aberrant readings, byproducts of hegem¬
ony, not of opposition (for that is another matter), con¬
stantly returned to destabilize meaning. Second, and most
obviously, jazz lost its popular appeal (although it has not
ceased trying to win it back). The battle continued, but
its front changed.
Obbligato
Should one seek to deconstruct the binary opposition
"composition/improvisation," which is to say, if one decided
to demonstrate that the terms "composition" and "improvisation"
are, as Derrida might say, always already untenable--both
terms made constructs by an impossible operation where one
seeks to contain the opposed term, in the sense of stopping
or restraining it, but ends up containing it, in the sense
of retaining or holding it--he could begin by playing off
possibilities suggested by the musical term obbligato. It

85
cuts to the heart (but, then again, perhaps only to the rind)
of the issue of improvisation, for although jazz cannot be
reduced to this figure (even critics will admit that an
improvisation is more than a series of obbligati), the obbli¬
gato is one of the basic tropes from which jazz derived and
is built. Interestingly, this undecidable, double-edged word
has two, opposed meanings. The HCDM defines it thus:
Obbligato [It.]. Obligatory, usually with reference to
an instrument (violino obbligato) or part that must not
be omitted; the opposite is ad libitum. Unfortunately,
through misunderstanding or carelessness, the term has
come to mean a mere accompanying part that may be omitted
if necessary. As a result, one must decide in each
individual case whether obbligato means "obbligato" or
"ad libitum"; usually it means the former in early music
and the latter in more recent pieces. (my emphasis)
Clearly, at least from the HCDM's point of view, someone or
something, either "through misunderstanding or carelessness"
(How was this determined? Were these the only choices?),
has behaved improperly towards what we could call the obbligato
as obbligato. And that mysterious someone or something's
"messin' around" or "jazzing up" made the obbligato as obbli¬
gato "come to mean" something else. Let us name the product
of this illicit relationship, the result of this unfortunate
scandal, obbligato as ad libitum, and let us raise a series
of questions which will not be answered, at least not directly
through the means of declaration.
By what process does one differentiate the obligatory from
the arbitrary, the embellishment from the thing itself? Is
the improvised, that is, the unwritten-on-a-score, thought-
up-on-the-spot obbligato arbitrary or obligatory? Can an

86
improvised obbligato displace a melody, become something
more than a subordinate voice? When does an obbligato--by
Schuller's definition, "an embellishment of a melody" (EJ,
380)--become the sine qua non? When does the arbitrary become
obligatory? The obligatory arbitrary? Should we designate
the obbligato as ad libitum as a product--perhaps an
"unintended" result--of obbligato as obbligato? What (il)logic
moves the obbligato as obbligato to become a simulacrum of
itself, obbligato as ad libitum? How can one distinguish an
obbligato from its double? If "one must decide in each
individual case whether obbligato means 'obbligato' or 'ad
libitum,'" then how was the generic, albeit liberal, law of
'usually it means . . .' determined? Why has obbligato as
obbli gato been opposed to, and privileged over (eg., privileged
over, even in my nomenclature), obbligato as ad libitum?
What does Music have against obbligato as ad libitum?
Of course, the paraerotic phrase, "come to mean," which
links obbligato as obbligato to obbligato as ad libitum cannot
help but prompt an association with jazz, for jazz, as is
commonly known, once functioned as a euphemism for copulation.
Merriam and Garner, for example, in their well documented but
inconclusive, etymological essay on the word jazz, note this
and indicate "a possible line of research" connecting "jazz"
with "jasm." Jasm, they write, "may be connected with the
American dialect word gism," which Allen Read defines as
"Strength, talent, Genius, ability. Cf. Spunk." Read
continues, "In various parts of the South, gism has the meaning

87
'gravy,' or 'cream sauce.' In the North, it is commonly used
to mean 'semen'" ("Jazz," 385-86).
Now, it could be easily maintained that I am taking things
too far (perhaps, as adolescents say, even going "all the
way"), that this kind of free association can be done with
any word. But that is precisely the issue here: How far can
one go? What can and cannot be said about, done with, words?
Indeed, as Susan Stewart observes in Nonsense, the problem
of ornament is the problem of defining boundaries.15 Or,
one might say, the obbligato figure--which signifies the
mise en question of ornamentation--dares us to explore the
limits of what Julia Kristeva and others following her have
called signifi anee. Naturally, since we are tracing the
tropes of jazzography, following the explicit model of the
discourse of jazz, we are obliged to take up this dare. We
turn to Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man.
Obbligato Played with a Borrowed Horn:
Ellison's "Invisible Man" and Derrida's "Dissemination"
Inevitably, the question one faces in writing about is
this: where to begin? "Dissemination," Derrida's essay--
actually "a tissue of 'quotations'"--on Philippe Sollers's
Numbers, names this problem as le déclenchement (the trigger)
(Piss, 287, 290). It asks (tacitly, of course), given general
textuality, how does one unclench the teeth, begin speaking?
What can be done to, for, or with that which has been delivered
(yet, still, "can always not arrive"--Diss, 366)? For us, the

88
question is what can be said of Ralph Ellison's Invisible
Man?
Several conditions would keep me from saying anything,
keep me skirting the issue. In order to point them out, I
repeatedly appropriate text from Derrida's Dissemination (it
is my borrowed horn), even though this operation—as a jazz
musician might say, this "copping of licks"--is also caught
up in the very problem I am examining. Indeed, if the reader
desired, he or she could read my comments as obbligati blown
between lines Derrida has written.
First, and most obviously, What can be said when the
author is absent? I cannot, except as a kind of joke or as
a gesture calculated to keep up pretenses, declare, "Ralph
Ellison said thus and so." He cannot authorize my reading
unless I create him afresh, and order cannot be brought to
his text unless, ultimately, I affect a discernment "between
the imitator and the imitated" (Piss, 191). Only then can I
manufacture a thesis: maintain that Ellison works off the
trope of the obbligato, or that he raises but does not resolve
the problem of identity (textual, racial, individual) as
essence or social construction in his novel.
But what about the text? Couldn't I say something like,
"Although Invisible Man (1952) admits the possibility, perhaps
even the inevitability, that in this culture the black man
is a cipher, it, nevertheless, affirms that 'humanity is won
by continuing to play in [the] face of certain defeat'?"
(IM, 499). Or, disassociating myself from the responsibility

89
to uphold humanistic values, or their discourse equivalent,
coherence, could I argue that the novel's humanistic rhetoric
(conveniently identified with the voice of authorial intention)
is at odds with, undercut by, its novelistic effects, that
the novel, finally, says more than it wants to say? Certainly,
I could write about this; it is commonly done. But even so,
I have not come to terms with another question, another effect
of a theory of general textuality: What can be said when the
text as "the snug airtight inside of an interiority or an
identity-to-itself" is absent? (Piss, 36). For instance, to
play around with an example that is in no way hypothetical,
let us suppose that I want to write about the textual impli¬
cations of Invisible Man, logically, step-by-step demonstrate
that the novel, rather than imitating any referent or reality,
mimes the trope of the obbligato, and let us suppose that I
intend to argue that here is a case where the obbligato is
taken seriously. First, I would aver that the obbligato
"cannot be assigned a fixed spot in the play of differences"
(Piss, 93). Like Theuth, Thoth, or Hermes--gods of writing
--it is a "floating signifier," shuttling back and forth
between, better, problematizing the poles of obligation and
choice. It "puts play into play"; it represents what Perrida
has dubbed a program (Piss, 20). Next, I would write out the
following outline:
Invisible Man as obbligato. Houston Baker, in his study
of the Trueblood Episode (Ch. 2), states what can be
claimed for the whole novel: "As a text this chapter

90
derives its logic from its intertextual relation with
surrounding and encompassing texts and in turn complicates
their meanings.
I. Invisible Man as a series of breaks, elaborations
and digressions on hermeneutical possibilities
("you slip into the breaks and look around"--IM,
11). For example:
A. Of the dialogical melody set in motion by
Dostoevsky in Underground Man (Cf. Bakhtin).
B. Of the refrain to Louis Armstrong's version of
Fats Waller and Andy Razaf's tune, "(What Did
I Do to Be So) Black and Blue" (IM, 15).
C. Of the Invisible Man's dream of his grandfather
and, specifically, of his message: "To Whom
It May Concern . . . Keep This Nigger-Boy
Running" (IM, 35).
II. Invisible Man as improvisation (cf. Epilogue, pp.
495-503), where improvisation, to quote a definition
given by John Corbett, is envisioned as a "diverse
range of strategies," as "a confederation dedicated
to the relocation of 'music' in the body of the
performer--but one that is unified neither at the
level of the three bodies (knowledge, performer,
instrument) nor at the juncture of those bodies,
but in the space between improvisors, at the level
of what Attali calls 'tolerance' and what we might
call 'paradoxy'" (emphasis mine).17

91
III. Invisible Man as a scattering of the mythology of
blackness ("Brothers and sisters, my text this
morning is the 'Blackness of Blackness.'"--IM, 12).
IV. Invisible Man as an exploration of the concept of
liminality, in Baker's words, "a ludic and tropo-
logical stroll."
A. Syntagmatic limits: what a black man can and
cannot do.
B. Paradigmatic limits: what can and cannot be done
with the discourse of the "enemy."
What would be the effect of such a thesis, such an essay? It
would turn Invisible Man into, argue that it already was, a
polythematic or polysemic text. Consequently, it would destroy
the obbligato.
Polysemy always puts out its multiplicities and variations
within the horizon, at least, of some integral reading
which contains no absolute rift, no senseless deviation
--the horizon of the final parousia of a meaning at last
deciphered, revealed, made present in the rich collection
of its determinations. Whatever interest one might
find in them, whatever dignity one might grant them,
plurivocity, the interpretation it calls for, and the
history that is precipitated out around it remain lived
as the enriching, temporary detours of some passion,
some signifying martyrdom that testifies to a truth
past or a truth to come, to a meaning whose presence is
announced by enigma. All the moments of polysemy are,
as the word implies, moments of meaning. (Piss, 350)
Now the truth is (there is no reason to demurely mask my preju¬
dices), I believe that Ellison's novel and, while we are on
the subject, jazz music are classic examples of plurivocal
texts. They inevitably seek to recover, place limits on,
rein in the possibilities that their own discourse engenders.
Invisible Man inexorably moves towards the apocalypse of

92
Chapter 25, the revelation of invisibility. And its ABA
plot structure—an "envelope" opening with a Prologue ("I am
an invisible man"), moving to a lengthy explanation, and
closing with an Epilogue ("Who knows but that, on the lower
frequencies, I speak for you?")--suggests "the final parousia
of a meaning at last deciphered." Jazz also, at least through
much of its history, moves towards resolution, returns to a
musical Rock of Ithaca, to the tonic. This is Adorno's argu¬
ment: the digression, after all, honors the thematic in the
breach.
For instance, to digress a bit and get onto the main
subject of this section, consider the Rinehart episode of
Invisible Man (Ch. 23). Here the protagonist, reeling after
the death of Brother Clifton (his comrade in the Brotherhood)
and fleeing the wrath of the Black Nationalist, Ras the Des¬
troyer, sees "three men in natty cream-colored summer suits
. . . wearing dark glasses" (I_M, 417). The image of them
produces a dramatic, epiphanic or parallactic effect. He
writes: "I had seen it thousands of times, but suddenly what
I had considered an empty imitation of a Hollywood fad was
flooded with personal significance." Shooting across the
street to a drugstore, the Invisible Man seizes the darkest
lenses he can find, "immediately," he says, "plunging into
blackness and moving outside." Within moments, though, he
is stopped by "a large young woman," wearing a "tight-fitting
summer dress" and reeking with "Christmas Night perfume."
She mistakes him for someone else, Rinehart.

93
"Rinehart, baby, is that you?" she said.
Rinehart, I thought. So it works. She had her hand
on my arm and faster than I thought I heard myself answer,
"Is that you, baby?" and waited with tense breath.
"Well, for once you're on time," she said. "But
what you doing bareheaded, where's your new hat I bought
you?"
I wanted to laugh. The scent of Christmas Night was
enfolding me now and I saw her face draw closer, her eyes
widening.
"Say, you ain't Rinehart, man. What you trying to
do? You don't even talk like Rine. What's your story?"
I laughed, backing away. "I guess we were both mis¬
taken," I said.
She stepped backward clutching her bag, watching me,
confused.
"I really meant no harm," I said. "I'm sorry. Who
was it you mistook me for?"
"Rinehart, and you'd better not let him catch you
pretending to be him."
"No," I said. "But you seemed so pleased to see him
that I couldn't resist it. He's really a lucky man."
(IM, 817-18)
After stopping at the first hat shop he sees and purchasing
"the widest hat in stock," The Invisible Man returns to the
street as Rinehart, a character whose name, Robert O'Meally
claims, Ellison took from a blues by Jimmy Rushing, and who
Gary Lindberg rightly divines, is not actually a character
at all (he never "appears") but "merely a mask and a set of
roles."19 Subsequently, the Invisible Man is taken as "Rine
the runner and Rine the gambler and Rine the briber and Rine
the lover and Rinehart the Reverend," and he "begins trying
to place Rinehart in the scheme of things" (I_M, 430 , 426 ).
He reflects:
He's been around all the while, but I have been looking
in another direction. He was around and others like
him, but I had looked past him until Clifton's death
(or was it Ras?) had made me aware. What on earth was
hiding behind the face of things? If dark glasses and
a white hat could blot out my identity so quickly, who
actually was who? (IM, 426)

94
The question of identity--although like a tape loop or
a musical call-and-response pattern, it will have to be
repeatedly raised and answered--is easily re-solved. The
Invisible Man asks himself (the reclamation of identity always
takes the form: I ask myself), "Could he himself [Rinehart]
be both rind and heart?" (I_M, 430 ). He concludes that the
world in which we live is "without boundaries"; it is a "vast
seething, hot world of fluidity." He reflects, "I was and
yet I was unseen"; he realizes that invisibility is the "funda¬
mental condition." And, although frightened at this "world
of possibilities," he purposes "to do a Rinehart," as he
puts it, "to move them without myself being moved" (IM^, 438).
This is the Invisible Man's version of the Saussurean
maintenance of difference, the Hegelian movement of reléve
(Aufhebung), and the Platonic "cure by logos" (the moment where
the pharmakos is driven into the wilderness) (Piss, 128).
Here he preserves the notion of self at the expense of the
notion of world. His resolution, introduced but not explained
in the novel's Prologue, finds a direct analogy in listening
to jazz music, specifically in the way the obbligato figure
is understood. In a very important passage, he writes:
Now I have one radio-phonograph; I plan to have five.
There is a certain acoustical deadness in my hole, and
when I have music I want to feel its vibration, not
only with my ear but with my whole body. I'd like to
hear five recordings of Louis Armstrong playing and
singing "What Did I Do to Be so Black and Blue"--all at
the same time. . . . Perhaps I like Louis Armstrong
because he's made poetry out of being invisible. I
think it must be because he's unaware that he i_s invisi¬
ble. And my own grasp of invisibility aids me to under¬
stand his music. Once when I asked for a cigarette
some jokers gave me a reefer, which I lighted when I got

95
home and sat listening to my phonograph. It was a strange
evening. Invisibility, let me explain, gives one a
slightly different sense of time, you're never quite on
the beat. Sometimes you're ahead and sometimes behind.
Instead of the swift and imperceptible flowing of time,
you are aware of its nodes, those points where time
stands still or from which it leaps ahead. And you
slip into the breaks and look around. That's what you
hear vaguely in Louis' music. (I_M, 11)
Lindberg finds in this passage a representation of Ellison's
approach to narrative as well as the answer to the Invisible
Man's question of personal and racial identity. He notices,
although he never uses the word, that obbligati are "simply
disruptions, threatening moments of chaos" to one "who is
trying to keep the beat, to follow the melody, or analogously
to pursue the aspirational story line" (CMAL, 249). The
"absurdist intrusions in Ellison's plot" tend to distract
anyone used to following a linear, orderly story line. To
the reader willing to slip into the breaks and look around,
however, the novel offers an alternative order. The same
goes for the Invisible Man. The obbligato trope offers a
solution to his dilemma: "whether to align oneself with 'the
forces of history' or run and dodge them" (IM_, 244). "Rine¬
hart," Lindberg argues, "lives in the breaks; by mastering
what seems chaotic he demonstrates that fluidity is not pure
chaos" (CMAL, 249). Pierre Boulez writes of this solution
through play in an essay on Stravinsky:
Play is sometimes amusing, but it can also be deadly
serious, since it questions the necessity of creation.
Play may help us to shirk fundamental issues; it may
also go to the very heart of the truth, and of our own
uneasiness, by revealing the huge accumulation of culture
with which we are more or less bound to live, and indeed
to "compose": playing with this culture means trying to
abolish its influence by making it quite clear that one

96
has mastered all its mechanisms--from outside—even the
most perverse.
Lindberg hastens to add, Rinehart's "heartless masquerading
is not Ellison's ultimate model." Instead, "The Invisible
Man is interested in the melody as well as the breaks, in
the orderly, historically relevant plots as well as the purer
perception available during performance disruptions." His
perspective is, after all, dialectical. For instance, he
notices that when he plays a record, he does not just play a
record. The record also plays him. Music slips into the
nodes--the external and internal breaks--of his body. Cracks
fissures, and spaces make music, that is, make hearing pos¬
sible. If the body can be conceived as a melody, a kind of
cantus firmus, music functions as an obbligato; contrari¬
wise, if music constitutes a melody, then the mind is an
obbligato, entering the breaks in the music. Hence, "a
kind of double consciousness" is called for: that of "a con-
man actor engaged in the plots of 'history' and a more fluid
shape-shifter who dodges history and thus preserves the alter
nate rhythms of his own being and of other realities than
those celebrated in the current script" (CMAL, 249-50).
Now the effect of the above digression is fourfold.
First, I prove my thesis. By describing how I_ read Invisible
Man, I show how i_t admits but quickly shuts down plurivocity
in favor of monovocity (the sanctity of the self). Second,
by pointing out that plurivocity is suppressed in the novel,
I demonstrate how monovocity is attained. One might state
(wrongly) that I begin to deconstruct the novel. Third, by

97
repeating the motions of polysemy I give hopes of laying out
the multiplicities and variations of the novel within the
horizon, at least, of some attainable integral reading where
meaning would be at last deciphered, revealed, made present
in the rich collection of its determinations. That is, I
suggest that, had I enough time and energy, I could make all
parts of the novel cohere within the coherence of my own
authoritative utterance. Four, over and over again I reduce
the obbligato to one of its simple elements by interpreting
it, paradoxically enough, in the light of the very oscillating,
indeterminable, disruptive textual effects I claim it makes
possible (Piss, 99). Such a digression, actually an essay
within an essay, to appropriate Derrida's discussion of the
Preface, constitutes an attempt to get outside textuality
and reduce the Book to "effects of meaning, content, thesis,
or theme." Of necessity, it confines "itself to the discursive
effects of an intention-to-mean," but, once again, "in pointing
out a single thematic nucleus or a single guiding thesis, it
cancels out the textual displacement" wrought by the very
operation "represented." Simply put, in order to write about
the obbligato trope, I had to do the impossible: stop it
from turning, still its textual effect, suppress one of its
aspects. But as an undecidable figure (a "quasi-concept"
whose structure produces a kind of conceptual blinking effect),
traversing the gap between the determined and the
discretionary, and, by extension, other oppositions such as
composition/improvisation, melody/break, speech/writing,

98
literal/figurative, original/copy, tenor/vehicle, inside/out¬
side, etc., this trope resists such operations.2i "Any formal¬
ism, as well as any thematicism," is impotent to dominate
its structure (Piss, 21). Because it speaks of a duplicitous
passage, a irremediable confusion or slippage between the
obligatory (the already written) and the ornamental (the
supplementary mark), it speaks of iterability, that condition
which makes writing (the "so-called 'normal' functioning" of
the mark) possible.22 The point is, without the play between
obbligato as obbligato and obbligato as ad libitum there
could be no writing; there could be no Invisible Man, no jazz.
We still have a problem, though, for we have in no way
answered the question: What can be said of Ralph Ellison's
Invisible Man? But oh 1 someone observes. Do you really
believe that you can go on writing about the novel obliquely?
The answer, of course, is no. As of yet, nothing has been
written about Invisible Man. To presume that it has would
be to accept what could only be labeled a solution by cuteness,
to not take seriously the argument that has been put forth.
The issue here is not so easily solved. If the obbligato
figure traverses all discourse, then how can we speak of it
without essentializing, substantializing, or immobilizing
it? Which is to say, How can we represent the obbligato?
Derrida writes:
[0]ne must choose between text and the theme. It is
not enough to install plurivocity within thematics in
order to recover the interminable motion of writing.
Writing does not simply weave several threads into a
single term in such a way that one might end up unraveling

99
all the "contents" just by pulling a few strings. (Diss,
350)
More specifically, How can one cite Invisible Man? To single
out one part--I am especially interested in the novel's
Prologue--always ends up as an affiliation with a thematic
trying to say. It constitutes a determination to regard the
part as but a repetition (perhaps the most "complete"
repetition) of a whole (that is to say, Platonism), or, what
amounts to the same thing, the whole becomes but an obligatory
thematic exercise, a working out of the part (that is to
say, Aristotelianism). But what would it mean to quote the
whole of Invisible Man? Isn't that Barthes's tactic in S/Z
when he cites Balzac's novella, Sarrasine, in its entirety,
twice? And isn't that Derrida's tactic in "Limited Inc," when
he cites every word of John Searle's reply to "Signature Event
Context"? Absolutely, not. In fact, these texts demonstrate
graphically--they show as well as argue--that the productions
of Balzac and Searle (like the productions of Barthes and
Derrida) always exceeded, were in fact predicated on exceeding,
the limits of their physical boundaries (their putative con¬
texts). In brief, the concept of text implies that books
are never contained by book covers. The textual forces that
make a book possible--e.g., intertextua1ity or the obbligato
figure--also tend to annihilate it as a thing, "closed upon
itself, complete with its inside and its outside" (Diss,
130). We must not forget that books are shaped like
gui1lemets, that gui1lemets are formed in the shape of
opening/closing books. Finally, one cannot cite Invisible

100
Man by reproducing all of its 503 pages. The novel, like
its main character, is invisible. He writes:
A beautiful girl once told me of a recurring nightmare
in which she lay in the center of a large dark room and
felt her face expand until it filled the whole room,
becoming a formless mass while her eyes ran in bilious
jelly up the chimney. And so it is with me. (I_M, 10)
Of those novels, like Invisible Man, "concerned with their own
process of composition," Stewart observes: "exaggeration and
miniaturization are foregrounded as techniques." And she
states succinctly what we have already noticed: "[Ajnything
set off to be depicted threatens an unlimited amount of sig¬
nificance" (Nonsense, 100).
This is perfectly illustrated in Invisible Man when
Brother Tarp gives the protagonist (at this point in the
novel, a Marxist recruit) a link of chain, "a thick dark,
oily piece of filed steel that had been twisted open and
forced partly back into place." Of it, Tarp says, "I think
it's got a heap of signifying wrapped up in it" (£M, 336).
Stewart, we should note, demonstrates this same point through
an example taken from Tristram Shandy, for in this novel
"the idea of dimensions become apparent." She writes:
Consider Uncle Toby's miniature fort in Tristram Shandy,
where the accumulation of details increases until the
miniature becomes larger than life. Each miniature
emphasizes the point that a surplus of signification will
not be diminished by a reduction in the material being
discussed by the discourse. A reduction in physical scale
will not result in a reduction of descriptive scale.
On the contrary, the manipulation of the physical dimen¬
sion of the described object can extend to the limits
of significance beyond the "median" provided by everyday
discourse. (Nonsense, 100)

101
Derrida calls this phenomenon restance; the term, actually a
neologism, signifies that "remainder" or "excess" which resists
thematics. His own writing, it seems, seeks to extend the
limits of significance beyond the median (if by median, we
understand an institutionally sanctioned boundary, always
already ruptured), to demonstrate graphically how the tendency
towards a "surplus of signification" is not an abnormality
of language, but the very condition of its normality (AG, 42).
A thematic program, therefore, might be characterized
as an impossible but persistent attempt to repress restance,
cut down on "a heap of signifying" for the sake of clarity,
truth, sense, responsibility, etc. A program modeled on the
obbligato trope, however, would have to freely—it has no
choice--give itself over to signifi anee. Derrida explains:
If there is thus no thematic unity or overall meaning to
reappropriate beyond the textual instances, no total
message located in some imaginary order, intentiona1ity,
or lived experience, then the text is no longer the
expression or representation (felicitous or otherwise)
of any truth that would come to diffract or assemble
itself in the polysemy of literature. It is this herme¬
neutic concept of polysemy that must be replaced by
dissemination. (Piss, 262)
Like Lester Young blowing obbligati between phrases sung by
Billie Holiday (or like Lady Day insinuating her voice into
Prez's horn lines), dissemination would consist of the reader
writing himself: i.e., of noneschatologica1, nonteleological
text in general. Or to take another model, consider the blank
chapters in Tristram Shandy, which encourage the reader to
contribute to the making of the book, or Book VI, Chapter
38, of the same novel, where Tristram tells the reader to

102
"call for pen and ink" and describe your mistress, thereby
demonstrating how texts function as obbligati: both in prompt¬
ing the reader to complete them and in blocking readings.^3
Or, finally, observe--I have been writing about it all along
--something that Derrida emphasizes in "The Double Session,"
an essay on two texts, one by Plato and another, Mimique, by
Mallarmé (which is to say, Platonics and Ma1larmimesis):
i.e., rhythm, the implications of spacing--between title and
text, between letters, in the margins. Here he advances the
view that in Mallarmé's employment of spacing, idealized and
recognized as a theme by modern criticism, "the very textuality
of the text is re-marked," and the limits of thematic criticism
are determined (Piss, 244). White space on the page, "the
regular intervention of the blanks," Derrida notes, points
to that which allows writing (i.e., without "the law of
spacing" letters could not be differentiated or combined
into different configurations) but also to that (la décolla-
tion) which decapitates and unglues the text, destabilizes
thematic or Idealist readings.
Undoubtedly, Derrida's has an interesting idea, even
compelling in its logic, but one may well ask, How does his
essay avoid being merely a newer or more adequate thematic
reading? What makes the Derridean text more than a rigorously
close reading, designed to close off the text, preempt future
readings? Simply this, Derrida has learned--his essay illus-
trates--the lesson of the obbligato. In Mimique (the same
could be said of any of Derrida's "pre-texts") he found a

103
text with which he could and had to sing along: i.e., he had
things, which he found interesting, to say about it; it was
part of that textual "always already" which had shaped his
consciousness. It triggered something in him. It forced
him and gave him the freedom (the space, if you will) to
unclench his jaws. He writes of Sollers Numbers what could
be said of his own text:
The disappearance of the "authorial voice" ("The Text
speaking there of itself and without the voice of an
author," as Verlaine was told) triggers off a power of
inscription that is no longer verbal but phonic. Poly¬
phonic. The values of vocal spacing are then regulated
by the order of that tainless voice [a reference to a
mirror without backing, a image of the end(s) of mimesis],
not by the authority of the word or the conceptual sig¬
nified, which the text, moreover, does not fail to util¬
ize, too, in its own way. (Piss, 332).
The same goes for Ellison. Along with other texts, in "(What
Did I Do to Be So) Black and Blue?" he discovered--rather it
discovered him--a tune he could hook up with, jazz up. The
resulting text (the same could be held for the original as
well) represents a creative confusion of obbligato as obbligato
and obbligato as ad libitum, a folding together, a hymen,
"between desire and fulfillment, perpetration and remembrance,"
obligation and freedom (Mimique, in Piss, 175). Invisible
Man, therefore, comes to signify the "betweenness" of not
only the black man (what Baker calls "the essential juxtapo¬
sition between white hegemony and black creativity"—p. 196),
but the betweenness of writing itself: the essential, material
juxtaposition between white space and black characters. It
represents both a fusion (marriage) and a separation (tearing).

104
The real question, therefore, becomes: What cannot be said
about Invisible Man? How can one play a wrong note? The only
way to answer that question is to try and see. Blow an obbli¬
gato on the book. Insinuate yourself into its spaces and
folds. Follow the model of jazz, which is to say, Ellison's
model and, arguably, the model of postmodern criticism.
Hawkes, in his description of the new role Barthes envis¬
ioned for the literary critic and the new methodology he
demonstrated in S/Z, makes a direct connection between post¬
modern critical practice and the playing of jazz. He notes
that the critic could now be ranked with the jazz musician,
"as an artist whose art derives from 'given' material, 'given'
signifiers (a text, a chord-sequence) but which creates,
from these, new signifieds, a new reality which is not given,
and which surpasses the original in invention and beauty."24
While one could easily quarrel with Hawkes retainment of the
concept of aesthetic value, not to mention his insistence
that the new text surpass the beauty of the old one (i.e.,
improvise = improve-ize), his point is well taken.
The critic, then, has become, yes, I have become, if one
will pardon the gender bias of what is now m^ expression, an
Invisible Man. "I am the boy / That can enjoy / Invisibility."
My favorite song (some might say my only song)? "(What Did
I Do to Be So) Black and Blue." No, I am not a spook like
those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe--Tekeli-ti! and all that
Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin) mumbo jumbo--nor am
I especially livid anymore. The very act of trying to put

105
it all down has confused me and negated some of the anger
and some of the bitterness. No, I am a man of substance,
full of sperm, water, ink, paint, and perfumed dye: (Get Up,
I Feel Like Being A) Writing Machine, a Puritan-with-reverse-
English, a man of the word.
The joke, of course, is that I don't live in Harlem but
in a border area, the outlying districts, the 'burbs, where
comedy arose--outside the groove of history in The Land of
Discount TV & Hi-Fi. I have a big record collection. I
plan to find time to hear all my records one day. Invisibil¬
ity, let me explain, gives one a slightly different sense of
time; you're never quite on the beat. Sometimes now I listen
to Louis Armstrong playing and singing "(What Did I Do to Be
So) Black and Blue." Perhaps I like him because he's unaware
that he i_£ invisible. And my own grasp of invisibility aids
me to understand his music. When codes become manifest--
>
black and white--lose their transparency--people realize
their invisibility. Let me tell you, Louis is no critic. I
don't suppose he's ever tried to write out the codes that
construct him, that construct his music. He doesn't see
them; they are invisible to him. I, on the other hand, wonder
what made the codes so opaque to me? "Recognition," you see,
Ralph Ellison said this, "is a form of agreement."
Notes
^Kenneth Rexroth, "Disengagement: The Art of the Beat
Generation," A Casebook on the Beat, ed. Thomas Parkinson (New

106
York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1961), p. 182; Silence, p.
92; Dorothy Baker, Young Man with a Horn (Boston: Houghton
Mifflin, 1938), p. 39; Henry James, Preface to The Aspern
Papers, in The Art of the Novel (New York: Charles Scribner's
Sons, 1934), p. 171-72; F. T. Marinetti, in Umbro Apollonio,
ed., Futurist Manifestos, trans. Robert Brain et al., Documents
of Twentieth-Century Art (New York: Viking Press, 1973), pp.
194-95.
^Denis Hollier, The Politics of Prose: Essay on Sartre,
trans. Jeffrey Mehlmañ (Minneapolis: Univ. of Minnesota, 1986),
p. xxv, citing Littré, Dictionnaire de la langue francaise,
Q-Z.
•^Marjorie Perloff, The Futurist Moment: Avant-Garde, Avant
Guerre, and the Language~of Rupture (Chicago: The Univ. of
Chicago Press, 1986), pT 102, quoting Gerald A. Bruns, Inven¬
tions: Writing, Textuality, and Understanding in Literary
History (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press, 1982) , p. 145. Perloff
subsequently cited as FM.
4Viktor Shklovsky, "Art as Technique," in Russian Form¬
alist Criticism: Four Essays, ed. and trans. Lee T. Lemon
and Marion J. Reis (Lincoln: Univ. of Nebraska Press, 1965),
p. 21, in FM, p. 124.
^William Zinsser, Willie and Dwike: An American Profile
(New York: Harper and Row, 1984), pp. 17-21; Bill Beuttler,
"On the Beat," Downbeat, Aug. 1985, p. 21.
^Roland Barthes, The Grain of the Voice: Interviews 1962-
1980, trans. Linda Coverdale (New York: Hill and Wang, 1985),
p. 112. Subsequently cited as GV.
7Theodor W. Adorno, with the assistance of George Simpson,
"On Popular Music," Studies in Philosophy and Social Science,
9 (1941), 18.
^Adorno, p. 17; Theodor W. Adorno, "Perennial Fashion
--Jazz," Prisms, trans. Samuel and Shierry Weber (Cambridge:
The MIT Press, 1967), p. 121.
9Mark C. Gridley, Jazz Styles: History & Analysis, 2nd
ed. (Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1985) , p^ 57.
^Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics
(Cours de Linguistique Générale), trans. Wade Baskin (New York:
The Philosophical Library Inc., 1959), p. 9.
1 ^-Lév i-St r auss , to take but one example, postulates:
"Whereas colors are present 'naturally' in nature, there are
no musical sounds in nature, except in a purely accidental and
unstable way; there are only noises" (R&C, 19).

107
l^Aian M. Perlman and Daniel Greenblatt, "Miles Davis
Meets Noam Chomsky: Some Observations on Jazz Improvisation
and Language Structure," in The Sign in Music and Literature,
ed. Wendy Steiner (Austin: Dniv. of Texas Press, 1981), p. 169
•^Friedrich Nietzsche, "On Truth and Falsity in Their
Ultramoral Sense (1873)," in The Complete Works of Friedrich
Nietzsche: Early Greek Philosophy, trans. Maximillian A.
Mugge, ed. Oscar Levy (New York: The MacMillan Company, 1924),
II, p. 180.
l^Antonio Gramsci, quoted in Dick Hebdige, Subculture:
The Meaning of Style (London: Methuen, 1979), p. 16. Hebdige
subsequently cited as Sub.
l^Susan Stewart, Nonsense: Aspects of Intertextua1ity in
Folklore and Literature (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press,
1978) , p~. 100. Subsequently cited by title in the body of
the text.
16Houston Baker, Blues, Ideology, and Afro-American
Literature: A Vernacular Theory (Chi cago: Univ. of Chicago
Press, 1984) , pT 176. Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (New
York: The New American Library, 1947). Baker subsequently
cited parenthetically in the body of my text. Invisible Man
subsequently abbreviated as IM.
l^Corbett, p. 71.
18This final sentence is a a paraphrase of a statement
of summation in Pat Rogers, "Shaftesbury and the Aesthetics
of Rhapsody," British Journal of Aesthetics, 12 (1972), 254.
Here Rogers argues that an aesthetics of rhapsody, even in its
"ruptures," presumes an "organist" world view.
^Robert G. O'Meally, The Craft of Ralph Ellison (Harvard
1980), p. 90; Gary Lindberg, The Confidence Man in American
Literature (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1982) , pp. 248-49.
Lindberg subsequently cited as CMAL.
20pierre Boulez, Orientations: Collected Writings, ed.
Jean Jacques Nattiez, trans. Martin Cooper (Cambridge: Harvard
Univ. Press, 1986), pp. 356-57.
2-*-Jacques Derrida, "Limited Inc," Glyph 2: Johns Hopkins
Textual Studies (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1977 ) ,
188-89
22jacques Derrida, "Signature Event Context," in Margins
of Philosophy, trans. Alan Bass (Chicago, Univ. of Chicago,
19 72 ) , p"! 321. Subsequently cited as "SEC."
^Laurence Sterne, The Life and Opinions of Tristram
Shandy, Gentleman, ed. James Aiken Work (Indianapolis: The
Bobbs-Merri 11 Co., 1940 ), pp. 621-22 , 471-72.
^Hawkes, p. 121.

CHAPTER 3
SATURA: FILE GUMBO
"Notes is good enough for you people, but us likes a mixtery."
--Nathaniel Mackey
The sound filled the beige chamber with a muted desolation.
A fuzzy, hybrid tone, an acoustical alloy.
--Josef Skvorecky
That grand wild sound of bop floated from beer parlors; it
mixed medleys with every kind of cowboy and boogie-woogie in
the American night.
--Jack Kerouac
Thought I knew his blues before, and the hymns at funerals,
but what he is playing now is real strange and I listen careful
for he's playing something that sounds like both. I cannot
make out the tune and then I catch on. He's mixing them up.
He's playing the blues and the hymn sadder than the blues
and then the blues sadder than the hymn. That is the first
time I ever heard hymns and blues cooked up together.
--Michael Ondaatje^
Amalgam
Because of their failure to deal "with the music itself
in anything more than general descriptive or impressionistic
terms," Schuller views the majority of books written about
jazz as glosses: adornments, ornaments, and embellishments,
tangential to the real item, the referent jazz. Instead of
generating "genuine musicological research," analyzing the
"techniques and actual musical content" of jazz, these texts
"concentrated on the legendry of jazz" (EJ_, vii). This
amounted to gilding the lily, or to employ a more musically
oriented metaphor, jazzing jazz.
108

109
Viewed collectively, though, Schuller imagines the liter¬
ature of jazz as "little more than an amalgam of well-meaning
amateur criticism and fascinated opinion" (EhJ, vii). Probably
he gave little thought to this image of the amalgam. Probably
he did not expect his readers to make much of it either. But
should not Early Jazz, regardless of Schuller's intentions,
be held accountable for its metaphors? (And furthermore, by
what means do I determine what Schuller expected, distinguish
it from what the text says and what I want to say?) Amalgam,
after all, like the figure of agréments, is a good image for
the multifarious body of writing about jazz that has accum¬
ulated over the years. In the following pages we shall survey
this body.
Roger Pryor Dodge wrote "Consider the Critics," one of
the earliest surveys of jazz criticism in 1939. According
to the editors of Jazzmen, the book in which it appeared, it
is a "careful résumé of the critical attitude which developed
along with jazz." It is also a thinly veiled polemic, opposing
the process of recuperation where "premature white-collar
meddling" replaces "primitive improvisation" with "symphonic
jazz" (Jazzmen, xi, 301). One year earlier, in Jazz; Hot
and Hybrid, Sargeant had iterated these two kingdoms of jazz:
Small differences aside, then, we have distinguished
for our present purposes two general types of jazz,
both of which represent types of performance rather
than types of compos ition. They are "hot" jazz and
"sweet" or commercial jazz. The former is more purely
Negroid, more purely improvisatory, and comparatively
independent of composed "tunes." The latter is the
dance and amusement music of the American people as a
whole. The tunes on which it is based issue from Tin Pan
Alley, the center of the popular song-publishing industry.

110
These tunes are, some of them, purely Anglo-Celtic or
Central European in character, some of them pseudo-Neg-
roid. (p. 54)
Henry Osgood, in So This Is Jazz (1926), an early attempt to
legitimate the productions of Paul Whiteman and George Ger¬
shwin, championed "sweet" or commercial jazz. Both Sargeant
and Dodge boosted "hot" jazz. They were not alone. In 1934,
Hugues Panassié had published Le Jazz Hot. Of it Whitney
Balliett writes: "Aside from the erratic Aux Frontieres du
Jazz, brought out two years before by the Belgian Robert
Goffin, it was the first book of jazz criticism, and it put
jazz on the map in Europe and in its own country—an English
translation was published here in 1936 as HotJazz--where
the music had been ignored or misunderstood its forty-year
life.Novelist Josef Skvorecky has the protagonist of The
Bass Saxophone liken it to the "Book of Mormon written in
the language of angels."3
Panassié strikes an exceptional figure in jazz history.
In addition to writing over a dozen books, he organized four
recording sessions for RCA Victor in 1938, presaged (and,
probably, precipitated) the New Orleans revival (which ran,
roughly, from 1940 to 1947), and became the nemesis of
beboppers, after concluding that bebop was a "form of music
distinct from jazz."^ Along with Charles Delaunay (only
child of the geometric-futurist painters, Sonia and Robert
Delaunay, the first discographer of jazz, and the biographer
of gypsy guitarist Django Reinhardt) he started Jazz Hot,
now the world's oldest pure jazz magazine" (AM, 4-7).

Ill
But, of course, the nonfiction, literary representation
of jazz did not begin with Panassié and Delaunay. Starting
in the 1920s, jazz became a locus of critical debate. Schuller
states:
there was an avalanche of derogatory articles and pamph¬
lets by popular writers who fantasized relentlessly
over the pernicious influence of jazz on music and morals.
Moreover, the statements of many jazz musicians themselves
in the early years of jazz encouraged others to treat
the subject lightly. (EJ, vii)
The final sentence of this statement warrants something of a
digression. It undoubtedly refers to statements made by
members of the Original Dixieland Jazz Band, for later in
his book, Schuller portrays this band as "a press agent's
dream come true." From my point of view, they articulated
the four t(r)opics of jazz: (1) jazz as "jumble," amalgam or
satura, (2) jazz as rhapsody or counterfeit, a garment stitched
together, bordered with lace, (3) jazz as a politicized space,
emblematized by the charivari or the chasse beaux, a figure
of disjunction/conjunction, and (4) jazz as improvisation,
the obligation to play freely, which I have called the trope
of agréments or the figure of the obbligato. ODJB trombonist
Edward B. Edwards, "who read music and was well-trained on
his instrument," told reporters, "Jazz, I think, means jumble"
(EJ, 176). Nick La Rocca, the band's leader and cornet player,
in describing "how jazz works," said, "I cut the material,
[clarinetist Larry] Shields puts on the lace, and Edwards
sews it up" (EJ, 177). Another time, "in a widely published
interview," La Rocca described jazz as "revolution in 4-4
time," and after ODJB pianist Henry Ragas, died of alcoholism

112
—"a strenuous round of parties and engagements" which had
"undermined his health"--the band's leader recalled, "I don't
know how many pianists we tried before we found one who
couldn't read music" (Jazzmen, 51). "The career of the ODJB
was," in Schuller's words, "both as fantastic and as typical
as any that jazz has had to offer." He continues:
Its story features the inevitable high points: the gradual
grouping together of basically self-taught musicians,
their sudden catapulting to world-wide fame, their equally
sudden demise, and, in between, the million dollar law
suits over copyrights and the petty jealousies, alco¬
holism, premature deaths, and all the rest. (EM, 176)
At this point, we would do well to begin to mark the
rhetorical strategy that prompts Schuller (a metonym for
musicological literature devoted to the study of jazz) to
demythologize jazz. He acknowledges that the ODJB's claim
of musical illiteracy greatly contributed to the effect that
"their playing was ipso facto freshly improvised and inspired
during each performance" (EM, 180). And he likens the contro¬
versy which surrounded the music of the ODJB to "the initial
controversy over the Beatles" (EM, 176; it would appear that
a comparison with the debate which surrounded Elvis Presley's
early recordings for Sun Records and RCA or the Sex Pistols'
record, "Anarchy in the U.K.," is also merited, perhaps even
more appropriate). But he makes these observations with an
eye towards establishing a clear distinction between music and
"extra-musical factors," that is, between rhetoric (what one
claims to be the case) and dialectic (what, arguably, is the
case) and, more specifically, between language about music
and language about music makers. Unlike Hebdige, who, in

113
Subculture: The Meaning of Style, postulates that the musical
object imbricates and is implicated by ideology (the dissemi¬
nation of a single, unitive musical subject), Schuller evokes
the musical subject for the express purpose of denying it
admittance to his study of musical objects, but he fails to
realize that it is this rhetorical operation where one evokes,
bars, and subsequently (unconsciously or surreptitiously)
invites back the suppressed term that makes his text (and
the musical object) possible. Hebdige examines how a fractured
social order—in his example, one encoded in the music created
by the youth subcultures of post-war Britain and designated
as "'folk devil,' Other, or Enemy" — is repaired when the
subculture which broached culture is "incorporated as a divert¬
ing spectacle within the dominant mythology from which it in
part emanates" (Sub, 96). Schuller, one might argue, actively
participates in a recuperative process analogous to the one
Hebdige describes. Here a subcultural sign, for instance
jazz or a calculatedly provocative statement by a musician,
which marks a rupture or a contestation of a cultural code,
is assimilated by a dominant mythology (musicology): institu¬
tionally appropriated or diverted as a spectacle.
For example, in his discussion of the ODJB Schuller
undercuts "the myth of total anarchy" which the band
cultivated, by asserting that their "playing contradicted the
effect that their statements were designed to create" (EJ,
180). He, thereby, re-defines (recuperates) their music as
nonsubversive. This allows him to easily dismiss the

114
jazz rhetoric which surrounded the first jazz band to make a
record—their most famous recording, 'Livery Stable Blues,'
outsold Sousa and Caruso--as pure fantasy "over the pernicious
influence of jazz on music and morals" (EJ, vii, 181). He
thus converts a potentially subversive sign into one suitable
for mass consumption.
This rhetorical strategy--what we could label a musico-
logical imperative—demands that one acknowledge the social
consequences of the language which informs music, but it
also demands that one proceed by denying that that language
actually affects music. In other words, if Schuller does
not create the effect of erasing or bracketing off the impli¬
cations of the comments make by the ODJB, then he cuts himself
off from the institutional base that sustains his discourse
and gives it power, because he has acknowledged that the
musical object and the language that represents it cannot be
demarcated. His text becomes, at best, a book concentrating
on the legendry of jazz, at worst, a book never published—
instead of the authoritative voice of musicology, and jazz
loses cultural legitimacy or even viability (i.e., it could
cease to be represented).
Returning to our survey of the literature which brought
jazz into language, we note the obvious. Early jazz had its
patrons. There were composers and conductors—Aaron Copland,
Ernest Ansermet, Igor Stravinsky, George Gershwin, Edward
Burlingame Hill, Constant Lambert, Darius Milhaud, and Virgil
Thomson—critics and publicists--Alfred Frankenstein, Carl

115
Engel, Henry Osgood, Masimo Mila, Gilbert Seldes, Carl Van
Vechten, and John Hammond--who were not only sympathetic to
jazz, they regarded it as metaphor of modernism, an emblem
of America. As MacDonald Smith Moore notes, in a study which
I shall soon discuss more fully:
Claims that jazz represented America . . . emanated
primarily from two sources: domestic white critics with
impeccable old-line Protestant credentials, and foreign
observers caught up in the romance of America as a symbol
of cultural freedom.5
Among its early supporters, debate also raged as to what
constituted jazz ("When a musical piece deviates from an
inherited, socially-produced folk base is it still jazz?"),
what in jazz music merited support and critical attention
("Is symphonic jazz merely a dilution of hot jazz?" "Is hot
jazz more than a folk music?"), and what direction the music
should take in order for it to gain or maintain artistic
credibility.
In examining the assimilation of jazz into mass culture,
Neil Leonard asks, "Did the events involved in the acceptance
of jazz fall into any pattern?" Not surprisingly, he discovers
exactly what he was looking for: a pattern of Hegelian deri¬
vation with a thesis, antithesis and synthesis that accounts
for the reception of jazz, specifically, and aesthetic novelty,
generally.^ His book, Jazz and the White Americans (which
stops its analysis with the advent of bebop), superficially
resembles Subculture: The Meaning of Style, but instead of
employing semiotic theory, reading subcultures as contradictory
sign systems--textual ensembles--defined only in relation to

116
each other, as Hebdige does, Leonard tends to define sub¬
cultures as stable, predefined entities. For example, he
writes:
A new art form or style, touching upon the basic assump¬
tions of a culture-system, usually provokes controversy.
Traditionalists, that is, those who hold strongly to
conventional values (esthetic and non-esthetic), tend
to disregard or oppose the innovation. On the other
hand, modernists, who find that the innovation satisfies
esthetic and other needs, react against traditionalist
opposition by drawing together in an area of understanding
or brotherhood and often ignore or flout important tradi¬
tional values. Before long, a group of moderates arises
and tries to bridge the gap between the sensibilities
of the two camps, (p. 156)
Admittedly, this a highly workable (though not especially
original), generalizable model for explaining the cultural
assimilation of jazz, but Jazz and the White Americans neither
examines the dynamic by which a musical event comes to be
counted as old or new, nor the dynamic by which a social
group comes to be labeled traditional, moderate, or modern.
Its blatantly tautological arguments are ultimately less
concerned with the consumptive patterns which determine, and
are determined by, ideology than with the ultimate acceptance
of pre-defined products by pre-defined social groups. Although
it shifts critical attention from the production of jazz to
its consumption, an admirable feat indeed, it never adequately
demonstrates how patterns of consumption, through a kind of
feedback loop, alter or modify the production of music.
Nevertheless, this is an admirable study. Few books have
attempted to discuss jazz on any level other than that of
production.

117
One exception, though, deserves special notice: Moore's
Yankee Blues: Musical Culture and American Identity. It
argues that cultural debate employed the representation of
music as a vehicle for manipulating "the root metaphors of
symbolic groups in the United States" (Yji, 2).
Here is a brief summary of the book. In the 1920s, Yankee
composers and critics--among them, Charles Ives, Daniel Gregory
Mason, and Henry Adams--feeling "increasingly isolated from
the sources of political and economic power," "found it dif¬
ficult to extol an individualistic, boundless, and rootless
progressivism, as Emerson had done," as they saw special
interest groups repeatedly appropriating "the symbolism of
redemptive America to identify their own interests with a
transcendent national destiny." Armed with the belief that
such a misuse of Yankee ideals fed a materialistic society,
these composers and critics "sought to reestablish their
vision of an essentialist American faith that would delineate
not merely a horizontal democratic order but a vertical order
of transcendental values" (YB, 6). To accomplish this aim,
they "managed to link music in the United States with issues
of American identity" (YB, 3). Thus, "racialism shaped the
metalanguage of this American drama of national consciousness,"
and when "Yankee spokesmen such as Mason proved unable to
control the interpretations placed on their metaphorical
system," "music criticism became a primary locus of national
cultural conflict" (YB, 66-67, 2).

118
"Through metaphors of musical valuation," Moore writes,
"Americans struggled to define and rank the key symbolic
groups in American society of the twentieth century: Yankees,
Negroes, and Jews" (Y_B, 3). "Writers of all backgrounds
attributed a sensual culture to Negroes and a spiritual culture
to Yankees." Jews--emblematized as both "coarse and sensual"
and "neither black nor white"--were understood as terms of
mediation--"rootless middlemen . . . who combined in an ethos
of consumption capitalism the bewildering intellectuality of
technology and the preference for immediate gratification"
(YB, 170).
Jazz, Moore explains, came to be read as expressive of
the paradoxical temper of modern America: "its egoistic frag¬
mentation of community, its materialism, its fascination with
modernism in general and with avant-gardism in particular"
(YB, 66). It was championed by "white rebels" or "foreign
observers" who, "drawing on romantic racialism," "affirmed
the artistic, spiritual, and national value of sensualism"
(YB, 68). And it was damned by those who saw it standing
"for the basest form of musical romanticism, the devolutionary
forces of sensual blackness" and, paradoxically, "the antimusic
of robots and riveting machines, the technology of urban
civilization" (YB, 82, 108). Critics attributed its popularity
"among whites not to Negroes, deemed too dull to exploit
their own essential characteristics, but to an intermediate
symbolic group, the Jews." "[T]he religious metaphor of
Jew-as-horned-Devi1 was replaced gradually by the racial

119
metaphor of Jew-as-Oriental," a merchant "trading on the
base sensuality attributed to Negroes and the Anglo-Saxon,
spiritual tradition associated with Yankees" (YB, 170, 71).
Moore ends his brilliant reading of American culture by
observing that the Yankee vision of redemptive culture (a
secular version of the Puritan's God-given mission to the
wilderness) perished during World War II, but he postulates
that its principles bore curious fruit decades later (YB,
168). His conclusion will allow me to continue this survey
of the nonfiction literature of jazz:
Ironically, redemptive culture was resurrected in the
1960s, but in a new color: black, not white. Nominated
to be art music by some white Americans and Europeans
in the 1920s, jazz gradually gained in status among
Negroes as well. Black intellectual pride in jazz rose
inversely with the decline of jazz as a popular black
music. As the ideological rationales for "Black Power"
peaked in the late 1960s, jazz served increasingly as
the cherished touchstone of self-worth for Negro intel¬
lectuals. No longer just entertainment, jazz was believed
to express specifically Afro-American values. In the
black aesthetic of identity, jazz possessed a uniquely
organic beauty which drew inspiration from the sensual
warmth--"soul"--of the Negro spirit. Black redemptive
culture came full circle; some black writers, including
Harold Cruse, voiced antiwhite and occasionally anti-
Semitic racism. Still trapped by their opposition and
by the metaphors of the old racial stereotypes, in pain
and anger they acted out roles drawn from the music
drama of the 1920s. (YJB, 171)
Examples of nonfiction writing about jazz informed by a
"black aesthetic of identity" abound, but I shall provide
only two examples. LeRoi Jones, in Blues People, reads "black"
music as an index (or, as he calls it, "an analogy") of the
Negro's historical experience in America. He interprets
jazz as a text that says "something about the essential nature
of the Negro's existence in this country ... as well as

120
something about the essential nature of this country, i.e.,
society as a whole." Ortiz Walton's Music: Black, White and
Blue is less a history of black music, than "a sociological
study of its development, its use and misuse." He states,
"[E]ven though a deliberate plan was executed to deprive
Blacks of their African culture . . . what persevered and
developed were the essential qualities of the African world
view, a view concerned with metaphysical rather than purely
physical interrelationships."^ Explainable (or recuperable)
as perverse readings—examples of radical catachresis or
synaesthesia (eg., black music?)--or easily dismissible as
essentialism or romantic, Marxist criticism of the most vulgar
sort, the approaches of Jones and Walton, in their emphasis
on "verifiable emotional referents and experiential cate¬
gories of Afro-American culture," not only sought to question
or discredit the musicological approach to jazz epitomized
by white scholars such as Sargeant and Schuller, but by reveal¬
ing that so-called "objective analysis" always functions as
"criticism" (raises and resolves issues of meaning and value)
and arguing that the cultural codes which made normative
judgments possible were, by definition, inaccessible to white
writers, they also implied or stated outright that such analy¬
sis never ceased to be informed by racialism.8
The musicological, that is, the analytical, literature
of jazz may eschew the rhetoric of "romantic racialism" which
animates pronouncements by writers associated with, first,
the Harlem Renaissance (Van Vechten, Langston Hughes, and

121
James Weldon Johnson), later, with the Beats (Mailer and
Kerouac), and, more recently, with the Black Power movement
(Baraka or Frank Kofsky), but its insistence on positivistic
methodology is ambivalent and can be read in either of two
ways. One, the discourse of positivistic methodology signals
the arrival (or evolution) of a disinterested, ideologically
neutral attempt to represent jazz in a metalanguage most
adequate to such a task. Second, the discourse of positi¬
vistic methodology belies an attempt to block all the connota¬
tions of jazz that would destabilize the hegemonic power
enjoyed by musicology as an institution; it is an integral
part of the process by which aberrant readings of jazz are
recuperated by the dominant mythology. Hence, and this is
very important, any reintroduction of connotation into musi-
cological discourse--which can take the form of introducing
non-preferred connotations or simply pointing out that what
is taken as denotation is, in fact, a preferred connotation
--will be dismissed by musicologists: counted as naive, scan¬
dalous, inept, racist, impressionistic, and so on.
Thus, the normalization of the language of musicology (a
process which, by concealing its own metaphorical basis, labels
all other discourses about jazz as merely metaphorical)
provides yet another illustration of the replacement of a
non-preferred language (impressionism, myth, Marxism) with
the analytic language of science. The naturalness, the unques¬
tioned appropriateness, of the frequently made claim, "I
study music itself" reveals the extent to which musicology

122
has been able to solidify its power: discredit or preclude
alternative discourses (i.e., approaches to study). Schuller,
in the following passage, details the emergence of "genuine
musicological research" and unwittingly chronicles the steps
musicology took as it normalized its language and co-opted
jazz. He completes my historical survey of nonfiction writing
about jazz.
After 1930, however, there appeared a number of books
that were not only sympathetic and serious in intent but
revealed an understanding of the essential nature of
jazz: Robert Goffin's Aux Frontieres du Jazz (1932),
Wilder Hobson's American Jazz Music (1939), Frederic
Ramsey's and Charles Edward Smith's Jazzmen (1939), and
Hugues Panassié's The Real Jazz (1942). But even in
these books, a musician interested in learning about
jazz as a musical language could learn very little about
its harmonic and rhythmic syntax, its structural organi¬
zation, its textures and sonorities, or what in technical
terms made one performance better than another. In
addition, these authors were so heavily committed to
propagating the absolute primacy of New Orleans jazz that
their books were anything but comprehensive.
The first book to look closely at materials and grammar
of jazz was Winthrop Sargeant's Jazz: Hot and Hybrid
(1946). Dissatisfied with the speculative or impression¬
istic approach of his predecessors, Sargeant used the
tools of theoretical analysis to define jazz and to
describe its musical anatomy. The standards Sargeant
set were not met again until ten years later when the
French writer and composer André Hodeir published Jazz:
Its Evolution and Essence, in which the analytical screws
were tightened once more, taking full advantage of the
perspective provided by the innovations of Charlie Parker
and the whole modern jazz movement. Apart from the
intrinsic value of Sargeant's and Hodeir's books, they
helped to stimulate new standards of excellence in jazz
criticism. Their influence on Martin Williams, Nat
Hentoff, Max Harrison, the present author, and a host
of other writers contributing to magazines like the
Jazz Review, is undeniable. (EJ, viii)
body
but,
To summarize, Schuller may envision the accumulated
of writing about jazz synchronica1ly, as an amalgam,
more importantly, to employ a term of Hayden White's,

123
he "emplots" it as moving diachronically towards a purity of
essence (in the body of his own work).
It is difficult to think about an amalgam without thinking
about dentistry. The word, of course, refers to the soft,
alloy used in dental fillings; it derives from the Greek
malagma, an emollient, which was itself derived from malassein,
to soften. It denotes a combination, mixture, or blend,
and, specifically, "any alloy of mercury with another metal
or other metals."
Jazz is always conceptualized as an amalgam: a synergis¬
tic, uneasy conjunction of diverse musical elements. And
although I shall not pursue the association now, do note
that the popularity of jazz is coterminous with the popularity
of collage, and that "collage, literally a pasting, is also
a slang expression for two people living (pasted) together--
that is to say, an illicit sexual union—and that the past
participle collé means 'faked' or 'pretended'" (FM, 51).
These things will become more and more important as we proceed
in our study of jazz tropes.
Gridley writes that jazz "is the result of a gradual
blending of several musical cultures." Sargeant argues that
jazz and spirituals "represent a fusion of musical idioms in
which both White and 'African' contributions play indispensable
roles." Feather declares:
The music we recognize today as jazz is a synthesis drawn
originally from six principal sources: rhythms from West
Africa; harmonic structure from European classical music;
melodic and harmonic qualities from nineteenth-century
American folk music; religious music; work songs; and
minstrel shows.

124
And Schuller concludes: "It seems in retrospect almost inevit¬
able that America, the great ethnic melting pot, would pro¬
create a music compounded of African rhythmic, formal, sonoric,
and expressive elements and European rhythmic and harmonic
practices" (EJ, 3).
Thus we see that jazz is conceptualized by exactly the
same image, imaged by the same vehicle, that Schuller assigns
to the body of writing about jazz. "And yet," to quote Hollier
(who is himself playing a variation on a theme by Lyotard),
"who would be able to say, precisely, concerning a metaphor,
where and when it starts--or stops?"10 Once a tenor (from the
French tenere) finds a vehicle, who can hold it back? What
is to keep us from making something of jazz, taking a vehicle
which structures it somewhere it has not been? What happens
when the amalgam--an institutionally sanctioned image associ¬
ated with synthesis, fusion, blending, the melting pot, and
the satura--is made to carry a melody?
Satura
Satura, the term from which we derive the English word
"satire," literally means a "mixed dish," a "farrago," "hodge¬
podge," or "medley." Originally employed as an adjective
meaning "full" in the phrase satura lanx, or "full plate,"
it referred to a platter of mixed fruits offered to the gods
and was associated with copiousness.11

125
Secularized and generalized as a metaphor, satura received
its literary formulation in any number of encyclopedic works
--Apuleius' Golden Ass, Rabelais' Gargantua and Pantagruel,
Burton's The Anatomy of Melancholy, and Sterne's Tristram
Shandy--but one could argue that it was in the Satyricon--a
first-century work whose title, Arrowsmith notes, may be a
pun on both satura, a potpourri of "mixed subjects in a variety
of styles," and saturika, a literary piece "concerned with
satyrs, which is to say, lecherous, randy"--that the term
was first, completely extrapolated as a generative device
for writing. Here Petronius, its author, not only created a
literary medley, a written piece whose form seems modeled
after a dish of mixed fruits, he frequently worked off gastro¬
nomic associations suggested by his title. The classic example
of this is, of course, the famous scene at Trimalchio's banquet
(Ch. 5), but even in the first chapter, Petronius, in a fine
bit of overblown rhetoric, links literary composition with
the preparation of food. He accuses rhetoricians of concocting
"great sticky honeyballs of phrases, every sentence looking
as though it had been plopped and rolled in poppyseed and
sesame." He charges, "by reducing everything to sound,"
they concocted a "bloated puffpaste of pretty drivel whose
only real purpose is the pleasure of punning and the thrill
of ambiguity.
Marcus Terentius Varro (116-27 B.C.) adds another gastro¬
nomic association to satura. He states that it may have
been an alternate term for a kind of stuffing ("farcimen,"

126
from which "farce" is derived). We should also observe that
the title of his own Saturae Menippeae--about 150 works named
after Menippus of Gadara (340-270 B.C), of which only frag¬
ments, some 600 lines, survi ve—according to C. A. Van Rooy,
meant "satiric medleys in the (Cynic) manner of Menippus."1-*
Or to give two more examples of this term, another logophage,
Juvenal, in Satire I, refers to "the mixed mash [or 'farrago']
of my verse."14 And according to Highet, when Quintus Ennius
(239-169 B.C.), the originator of Roman "satire," took the
term saturae for the title of his four books of miscellaneous
poems,
he meant not only that they were a mixed dish of simple
coarse ingredients, but that they grew out of an impro¬
vised jollification which was (although devoid of plot)
dramatic, since it mimicked and made fun of people and
their ways, and contained dialogue sung or spoken.1^
The section that follows is not a satire, in the generic
sense of the word, but it is a satura, a literary cornucopia.
It surveys the specifically literary discourse of jazz by
creating a thesaurus of comments and citations, and it finds
its model--actually feeds off--two texts: John Cage's Silence,
a collection of experimental essays by one of the foremost
composers of this century, and Michael Ondaatje's docu-novel
Coming Through Slaughter, a collage narrative which tells
the story of jazz's first mythical figure, trumpeter Buddy
Bolden.

127
Eight to the Bar:
Ondaatje's "Coming Through Slaughter,” Cage's "Silence”
and a Gathering of Jazz Fiction
That special blend of legend and fact, which flavors
the lives of many great jazz musicians, has it that Buddy
Bolden was, as Michael Ondaatje writes in Coming Through
Slaughter, "the first to play the hard jazz and blues for
dancing," and that on his last and finest gig--a parade down
New Orleans' Iberville Street with Henry Allen's Brass Band
in 1907—he went totally insane. "Dementia Praecox, Paranoid
Type" (CTS^, 24 , 132).
There is more to Bolden's story than its archetypal,
tragic ending, however. For one thing, although he never
recorded, Bolden's innovation of mixing secular and sacred
music--hymns and blues cooked up together like some beautiful,
hellish gumbo--cuts its way into every recording in jazz
history. It provides an image, a code, that structures all
representations of jazz. For another thing, his mandate to
mix, create farragoes, also suggests a model for writing
about jazz and using jazz as a model for writing, because,
as legend also has it, in addition to cutting hair for a
living, Bolden ran a gossip sheet called The Cricket. He was
the first jazz publisher. Ondaatje writes that Bolden
"respected stray facts, manic theories, and well-told lies,"
and that he took all the thick facts and dropped them into
his pail of sub-history" (CTS, 24). This, we are told, is how

128
he composed--both music and texts. And this is also how
Ondaatje composed Coming Through Slaughter.
The sources of the stray facts employed in Coming Through
Slaughter are listed, like credits in a movie, on the Acknowl¬
edgements page. They include Ramsey and Smith's Jazzmen,
Martin Williams' Jazz Masters of New Orleans, Al Rose's Story-
ville, New Orleans, tape recordings of jazz musicians from
the Jazz Archives at Tulane, and files from the East Louisiana
State Hospital. Other material, "expanded or polished to
suit the truth of fiction," could be filed under the heading
well-told lies: e.g., the characters of Nora Bass (Bolden's
wife), Nora's mother, Webb (Bolden's detective friend), or
the pimp, Tom Pickett. Under the category "manic theories,"
one could single out the "private and fictional magnets"
which Ondaatje says drew E. J. Bellocq, a Storyville photogra¬
pher, and Bolden together, but this is not nearly as noteworthy
as another theory which self-reflexively accounts for the
existence of Coming Through Slaughter itself. Towards the
close of the narrative, after the resolution and after a
page of "facts" that functions as something of a résumé of
Bolden's life, Ondaatje writes himself into his novel. He
describes Gravier, Phillip, and Liberty, the streets Bolden
traveled seventy years earlier, mentions that, today, people
in that old neighborhood have not heard of the famous cornet
player, and, then, says, "When he went mad he was the same
age as I am now" (CTS, 133). It is a startling passage, for
not only does the novelist interpolate himself into his own

129
fiction, he raises a most important question. Why are we as
writers or readers drawn to (and drawn by) certain texts?
He ponders this question, and, through the surrealistic meta¬
phor of a speculum confusing subject and object (representor
and thing represented), he images a possible answer. He
writes:
Why did my senses stop at you? There was the sentence,
'Buddy Bolden who became a legend when he went berserk
in a parade . . .' What was there in that, before I
knew your nation your colour your age, that made me
push my arm forward and spill it through the front of
your mirror and clutch myself? Did not want to pose in
your accent but think in your brain and body, and you
like a weatherbird arcing round in the middle of your
life to exact opposites and burning your brains out so
that from June 5, 1907 till 1931 you were dropped into
amber in the East Louisiana State Hospital. Some saying
you went mad trying to play the devil's music and hymns
at the same time, and Armstrong telling historians that
you went mad by playing too hard and too often drunk
too wild too crazy. The excesses cloud up the page.
There was the climax of the parade and then you removed
yourself from the 20th-century game of fame, the rest
of your life a desert of facts. Cut them open and spread
them out like garbage. (CTS, 134)
Were it not for this statement, Coming Through Slaughter--in
spite of its artful arrangement of quasi-factual materials,
imagined dialogue and monologue, and poetic patches spread
out like garbage in the manner of collage—could be read as
a relatively straight-forward documentary, a kind of literary
version of cinéma vérité. But by jumbling autobiography and
biography--or, rather, by revealing that personal and histor¬
ical materials are always thoroughly imbricated in any repre-
sentation--this passage denies the possibility of receiving
the novel as either an expression of subjectivity or objec¬
tivity. In fact, it prohibits us from accurately calling

130
Corning Through Slaughter a novel or a fictionalized biography.
It is a mixed dish: in every sense of the word a farrago.
Such is also the case with another omnium gatherum, the
writings of composer, author, and mycologist John Cage; they
exemplify the practice of "saturic" composition. For instance,
on what we could call the syntagmatic axis, that is, the
level of arrangement, they frequently display the utilization
of montage/collage techniques, similar to Cage's musical
compositions. He writes in the Foreword to Silence, his
best known work:
For over twenty years I have been writing articles and
giving lectures. Many of them have been unusual in
form--this is especially true of the lectures--because
I have employed in them means of composing analogous to
my composing means in the field of music. My intention
has been, often, to say what I had to say in a way that
would exemplify it; that would, conceivably, permit the
listener to experience what I had to say rather than
just hear about it. (p. 3)
Consequently, Cage has employed a panoply of styles and tech¬
niques to do theoretical writing. For example, in Silence
he composes a manifesto on the use of noise to make music,
writes a mock field guide on contemporary music and mushrooms,
weaves together multiple narrative lines to form a single text,
pontificates on the concept of indeterminacy, repeats phrases
for rhythmic effect, imagines a dialogue on experimental
music between "an uncompromising teacher and an unenlightened
student," converses with the deceased, French composer Erik
Satie, constructs a lecture out of questions and quotations,
details a means of using the I-Ching (Book of Changes) to
compose music, relates the history of experimental music in

131
the United States, arranges written text according to chance
operations (such as following the imperfections in the sheets
of paper on which one works), and tells some ninety anecdotes.
One goes like this:
Two wooden boxes containing Oriental spices and foodstuffs
arrived from India. One was for David Tudor, the other
for me. Each of us found, on opening his box, that the
contents were all mixed up. The lids of containers of
spices had somehow come off. Plastic bags of dried
beans and palm sugar had ripped open. The tin lids of
cans of chili powder had come off. All of these things
were mixed with each other and with the excelsior which
had been put in the box to keep the containers in posi¬
tion. I put my box in a corner and simply tried to
forget about it. David Tudor, on the other hand, set
to work. Assembling bowls of various sizes, sieves of
about eleven various-sized screens, a pair of tweezers,
and a small knife, he began a process which lasted three
days, at the end of which time each spice was separated
from each other, each kind of bean from each other, and
the palm sugar lumps had been scraped free of spice and
excavations in them had removed embedded beans. He
then called me up to say, "Whenever you want to get at
that box of spices you have, let me know. I'll help
you." (Silence, 193)
This anecdote, one should immediately notice, illustrates
Cage's principle of textual arrangement. He mixes things:
sounds with sounds, words with words. And, to further alle¬
gorize the story, he always forces his auditors or readers
to make a choice. Should they set to work and try to sort
it all out or simply try to forget about it?
The anecdote also illustrates one of Cage's favored
principles of selection, one which, we might say, orders the
paradigmatic axis of his texts. His writings abound in refer¬
ences to food and dining. For example, in "What Are We Eating?
And What Are We Eating?" Cage writes an account of his travels
with Merce Cunningham's dance troupe by detailing what they

132
ordered when they stopped to eat, and as I have already men¬
tioned, Cage is an expert on mushrooms; he tells many anecdotes
about studying, gathering, consuming, and, occasionally,
vomiting them. But, one might ask, what is to be gained
from noticing that Cage, in the tradition of the satura lanx,
frequently talks about food and makes texts that look like
medleys? Or what can we make of the pun, dining and dinning,
which, Ulmer notes, informs all of Cage's texts?1** Simply
this. Cage's texts demonstrate the enormous, inventive possi¬
bilities gained from collapsing the syntagmatic and paradig¬
matic axes, folding together form and theme. His writings
show how arrangement or form can be generalized from, or
modeled after, favored paradigms, that is, how an ideology
can be extrapolated from an idiom; conversely, they also
show how principles of arrangement channel or delimit par¬
ticular interests, that is, how the idiomatic is constrained
by the ideological.
Cage, and I am still speaking specifically of Silence,
restates, extends, and applies what we observed in Coming
Through Slaughter. Like Ondaatje, he demonstrates the imbri¬
cation of the idiomatic (personal) and the ideological
(historica1)--how exposition or documentation is implicated
by desire--and in his theories on music he demonstrates the
imbrication of sound and silence: how music is actually a
question of which sounds to frame as musical, which sounds
to frame as noise, and which sounds to frame as silence. He
writes: "There is no such thing as silence. Something is

133
always happening that makes a sound" (Silence, 191). Enter
an anechoic chamber and one will "hear," not silence, but the
sounds of one's own body making sound. Or stated differently,
the music one hears in a symphony hall necessarily includes
the sounds of musical instruments, environmental sounds, sounds
made by the bodies of performers, and sounds made by the
audience. Furthermore, the fact that these sounds ceaselessly
impinge upon one another, paradoxically, makes it both possible
to hear them and impossible to demarcate them. The world of
musical signs, if you please, is a hodgepodge, and Cage's
practice, both in his written and musical compositions, is
to create the effect of a satura lanx.
*****
The
remaining portion
of
thi
crat i
c,
annotated bibliogra
phy of
is on
iy
occasionally abated
by a
S i len
ce.
One might say tha
t
it i
but i
t i
s, after all, only
a
half
of cooki
ng up a literary ve
rs
i on
based
on
a recipe provided
by
Cag
given
my
self over to my whi
ms
and
mater
ial
s needed to make su
ch
a d
to th
i nk
that what follows
i s
a 1 s
thing
s:
s chapter is an idiosyn-
jazz fiction, whose monotony
citation, usually one from
s modeled on the satura,
-baked offering, for instead
of fully-done jambalaya
e and Ondaatje, I have merely
gathered together the raw
ish. Nevertheless, I like
o analogous to any of these
1) the boxes of spices and foodstuffs Cage and Tudor
received;

134
2) a field, a cow pasture, with an occasional outcropping
of mushrooms;
3) a blueprint, shopping list, or menu (for making a
quasi-1iterary, coffee-table, anthology of jazz fiction);
4) a banquet, where I feed off representations of jazz
and which Cage and others occasionally interrupt;
5) a jazz recording.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
I BELIEVE THAT THE USE OF NOISE TO MAKE MUSIC WILL CONTINUE
AND INCREASE UNTIL WE REACH A MUSIC PRODUCED THROUGH THE AID
OF ELECTRICAL INSTRUMENTS WHICH WILL MAKE AVAILABLE FOR MUSICAL
PURPOSES ANY AND ALL SOUNDS THAT CAN BE HEARD. (Silence, 3-4)
★ ★ ★ * ★
Baker, Dorothy. Young Man with a Horn. New York: Houghton
Mifflin Company, 1938. The Prologue of this novel
succinctly recounts the story of a jazz trumpet player
who cannot "keep the body in check while the spirit
goes on being what it must be" and who, therefore, "goes
to pieces, but not in any small way" (p. 6). The novel
fills out the details of this theme. Based loosely on
the life of trumpeter Bix Beiderbecke, it is, to my
knowledge, the first jazz version of the myth of the
self-destructive artist, what Vance Bourjaily calls "The
Story."
The Story goes like this: a musician of genius,
frustrated by the discrepancy between what he can
achieve and the crummy life musicians lead (because
of racial discrimination, or the demand that the
music be made commercial, or because he has a poten¬
tial he can't reach), goes mad, or destroys himself
with alcohol and drugs. The Story might be a
romance, but it is a valid one. Beiderbecke's was
far from the only life that followed that pattern.

135
The Story is used, with variations, in more
than half the jazz stories I could call to mind,
not all by prominent writers--though James Baldwin
was there with "Sonny's Blues," Shelby Foote with
"Ride Out" and James Jones with "The King." The
four I recalled most vividly are by Richard Yates,
Terry Southern, Eudora Welty and a writer about
whom I knew nothing except that he'd written it.
This was Charles Beaumont, anthologized along
with some--not all--of the others in "Eddie Condon'
Treasury of Jazz." The Beaumont piece is called
"Black Country" and it tells The Story memorably
with a voodoo undercurrent. . . .17
★ * * * *
Ragtime. Jazz. Blues. The new thang. That talk you drum
from your lips. Your style. What you have here is an experi
mental art form that all of us believe bears watching. So
don't ask me how to catch Jes Grew. Ask Louis Armstrong,
Bessie Smith, your poets, your painters, your musicians, ask
them how to catch it. (Mumbo Jumbo, 174)
*****
Jazz per se derives from serious music. And when serious
music derives from it, the situation becomes rather silly.
(Silence, 72)
*****
Baldwin, James. "Sonny's Blues." In Going to Meet the Man.
New York: Dial Press, 1965. The definitive, bebop short
story, "Sonny's Blues" should be printed in its entirety
in any anthology of jazz fiction, but if it had to be
shortened, one could begin with the concluding episode.
In it Baldwin writes:
All I know about music is that not many people
ever really hear it. And even then, on the rare
occasions when something opens within, and the
music enters, what we mainly hear, or hear corrobor
ated, are personal, private, vanishing evocations.
*****
It is necessary to see that there is not only a sharp distinc
tion to be made between composing and listening but that
although all things are different it is not their differences

136
which are to be our concern but rather their uniquenesses
and their infinite play of interpenetration with themselves
and with us.
• • •
No one can have an idea once he starts really listening.
(Silence, 171, 191)
*****
Barthelme, Donald. "The King of Jazz." In Sixty Stories.
New York: E. P. Dutton, 1981. This short story, wherein
trombonist Hokie Mokie, the once and future king of
jazz, loses and then regains his crown can be read as a
parody of the "cutting session," or, rather, accounts
of "cutting sessions."
Bourjaily, Vance. "In and Out of Storyville: Jazz and
Fiction." The New York Times Book Review, 13 Dec. 1987,
pp. 1, 44-45. Bourjaily surveys the literature of jazz
and mentions many authors mentioned here, plus a few I
omit: John Edgar Wideman (Sent for You Yesterday), Ntozake
Shange (Sassafras, Cypress & Indigo), Robert Paul Smith
(So It Doesn't Whistle), John Clellon Holmes (The Horn).
*****
If we drop beauty, what have we got?
Have we got truth?
• • •
But music, do we have any music?
Wouldn't it be better to just drop music too?
Then what would we have?
Jazz?
What's left? (Silence, 42-43)
★ * * ★ *
Cartiér, Xam Wilson. Be-Bop, Re-Bop. New York: Ballantine,
1987. Jazz funerals in New Orleans, as is commonly known,
have what is called a first line and a second line. The

137
first-line, composed of mourners and a band, marches
slowly with the deceased to the cemetery. On the way
back, though, a second-line forms, the music picks up
and the dancing starts. Jazz—Lacan, Derrida, and others
have noticed this of writing—is frequently associated
with death. Hermes, god of communication and inventor
of the lyre, was also the conductor of the dead.
Cartiér's novel (in a chapter entitled, "Be-Bop,
Re-Bop & All Those Obligatos") begins with the death of
Double, the father of the protagonist.
The liquor was flowing, everyone had a plate, folks
had visited all the way back to the kitchen. . . .
We were just settling into the spirit of Double's
funeral wake when Vole took it in mind to drive
all the guests from the house. (p. 3)
Although I shall not go into it now, this novel makes
something of this interrupted second line; it suggests
a connection between jazz, writing, mourning, and memory.
Cortázar, Julio. Hopscotch. Trans. Gregory Rabassa. New
York: Pantheon Books, 1966. The scene described in
Chapters 10-18 (pp. 40-75), which takes place at "the
club," rates as literature's most sustained discussion
of the implications of playing jazz records. The final
paragraph of Chapter 17 (a portion of which forms the
epigraph for Chapter 1 of this study) is a written equiva¬
lent of the jazz solo.
* * * * ★
Why is it so necessary at certain times to say: "I loved
that"? I loved some blues, an image in the street, a poor
dry river in the north. Giving testimony, fighting against
the nothingness that will sweep us all away. That's how in

138
the air of the soul little things like that will linger, a
sparrow that belonged to Lesbia, some blues that in the memory
will fill the small space saved for perfumes, stamps, and
paperweights. (Hopscotch, 411)
★ ★ *r ★ ★
. . . art is a sort of experimental station in which one
tries out living. . . . (Silence, 139)
*****
"The Pursuer." In Blow-Up and Other Stories
(originally published as End of the Game and Other
Stories). Trans. Paul Blackburn. New York: Collier
Books, 1963. This first person narrative--actually a
novella, written from the position of a jazz critic,
who is sensitive enough to know that alto saxophonist
Johnny (a stand-in for Charlie Parker) is "the mouth"
and "[e]very critic, yeah, is the sad-assed end of some¬
thing that starts as taste"--is virtually a catalog of
received bebop truths (especially pp. 183-85) as well
as a critique of jazz mythology.
*****
Giving up Beethoven, the emotional climaxes and all, is fairly
simple for an American. But giving up Bach is more difficult.
Bach's music suggests order and glorifies for those who hear
it their regard for order, which in their lives is expressed
by daily jobs nine to five and the appliances with which
they surround themselves and which, when plugged in, God
willing, work. . . . Jazz is equivalent to Bach (steady beat,
dependable motor), and the love of Bach is generally coupled
with the love of jazz. Jazz is more seductive, less moralistic
than Bach. It popularizes the pleasures and pains of the
physical life, whereas Bach is close to church and all that.
Knowing as we do that so many jazz musicians stay up to all
hours and even take dope, we permit ourselves to become,
sympathetically at least, junkies and night owls ourselves:
by participation mystique. Giving up Bach, jazz, and order
is difficult. . . . For if we do it--give them up, that is--
what do we have left? (Silence, 262-63)

139
* * * * *
It all became a jumble in Byron's mind, a jumble of meaningless
phrases accompanied by the hard, insistent, regular beating
of the drum, the groaning of the saxophone, the shrill squeal¬
ing of the clarinet, the laughter of the customers and
occasionally the echo of the refrain, Ef you hadn't gone
away! A meaningless jumble. Like life. Like Negro life.
Kicked down from above. Pulled down from below. (Van Vechten,
278)
*****
Davis, Arthur P. and Redding, Saunders, eds. Cavalcade; Negro
American Writing from 1760 to the Present. Boston;
Houghton Mifflin, 1971. Robert Hayden's poem "Homage
to the Empress of the Blues" (p. 387), the stanza from
Gwendolyn Brooks poem "The Sundays of Satin-Legs Smith"
that includes the phrase, "Since a man must bring / To
music what his mother spanked him for
/ When he was
two" (p. 519), and Sterling A. Brown's "Slim in Atlanta"
(p. 407) should be included in a jazz anthology.
Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. New York; New American
Library, 1947. Ellison, as is commonly known, worked
for a time as a jazz musician. Interestingly though,
when he writes of jazz, it is frequently of jazz on
record. For instance, the Invisible Man says:
I moved with the
listening to the
growing sound of
a languid blues.
crowd, the sweat pouring off me,
grinding roar of traffic, the
a record shop loudspeaker
I stopped. Was this all
blaring
that
history
would be recorded? Was this the only true
of the times, a mood blared by trumpets, trombones,
saxophones and drums, a song with turgid, inadequate
words? (p. 383)
This passage, which serves as a preface to the novel's
final, apocalyptic scene, is vaguely reminiscent of the

140
argument Benjamin advances in "The Work of Art in the
Age of Mechanical Reproduction." It suggests that jazz
signifies an art form revolutionized by technique and
technology. What makes this thesis doubly interesting,
though, is the fact that Benjamin's argument uses film
as the grand example of how mechanical reproduction
makes possible the politicization of art and its subse¬
quent emancipation from a "parasitical dependence on
ritual," and Adorno, in "On the Fetish-Character in
Music and the Regression of Listening," uses music, and
specifically jazz, as a counter example to oppose his
cousin's pipe dream. Adorno states flatly: "It is illu¬
sory to promote the technical-rationa1 moments of contem¬
porary mass music . . . because the technical innovations
of mass music really don't exist."!**
★ ★ * * *
One of the foremost tasks of art has always been the creation
of a demand which could be fully satisfied only later. The
history of every art form shows critical epochs in which a
certain art form aspires to effects which could be fully
obtained only with a changed technical standard, that is to
say, in a new art form. . . . Every fundamentally new, pio¬
neering creation of demands will carry beyond its goal.
("The Work of Art," 690)
* * * * *
Percussion music is revolution,
too long been submissive to the restr
century music. Today we are fighting
Tomorrow, with electronic music in ou
f reedom.
Instead of giving us new sounds,
composers have given us endless arran
We have turned on radios and always k
to a symphony. The sound has always
has not been even a hint of curiosity
Sound and
ictions of
for their
r ears, we
rhythm have
nineteenth-
emancipation,
will hear
the nineteenth-century
gements of the old sounds,
nown when we were tuned
been the same, and there
as to the possibilities

141
of rhythm. For interesting rhythms we have listened to jazz.
(Silence, 87)
★ ★ * * *
Shadow and Act. New York: Random House, 1965.
This book does not qualify as "literature," in the narrow
sense of the word. Nonetheless, Ellison frequently
writes of jazz in this collection of essays. Early on
--eg., in the Introduction--he makes it clear that, as
a boy, he sought "examples, patterns to live by" and that
"the jazzmen, some of whom we idolized, were in their
own way better examples for youth to follow than were
most judges and ministers, legislators and governors"
(pp. xv, xiv). For Ellison, like Foucault, institutions
play--actually try to create symphony--with peoples'
bodies (Invisible Man, 499).
Ferlinghetti, Lawrence. A Coney Island of the Mind. New
York: New Directions Publishing Corp., 1958. "Junkman's
Obbligato," the only poem from Coney Island that half¬
way interests me, is found in Section 2 of this collection
of poems. Of this section, entitled Oral Messages,
Ferlinghetti wrote:
These seven poems were conceived specifically for
jazz accompaniment and as such should be considered
as spontaneously spoken "oral messages" rather
than as poems written for the printed page. As a
result of continued experimental reading with jazz,
they are still in a state of change. (p. 48)
When I first read this statement, my response was spon¬
taneous laughter. How are we to take this mini-manifesto,
this command to ignore writing?

142
★ ic ★ ★ -k
When I was studying with Schoenberg one day as he was writing
some counterpoint to show the way to do it, he used an eraser
• • •
Composing, if it is writing notes, is then actually writing,
and the less one thinks it's thinking the more it becomes
what it is: writing. (Silence, 34)
★ * * * *
Gass, William. A Philosophical Inquiry: On Being Blue.
Boston: David R. Godine, 1976. Gass never mentions
Billie Holiday's version of "Am I Blue," which I take
to be a major oversight, but in his "five common methods
by which sex gains an entrance into literature" (p.
10), he does offer a potential means of theorizing a
jazz aesthetic.
Harper, Michael S. Dear John, Dear Coltrane. Urbana: Uni¬
versity of Illinois Press, 1985. Harper has written
numerous poems dedicated to, and about, jazz musicians:
"Alone" (for Miles Davis), "For Bud [Powell]," "Dear
John, Dear Coltrane," and "Mr. P.C." (for Paul Chambers)
He reads "Last Affair: Bessie's Blues Song" (for Bessie
Smith) on drummer Ronald Shannon Jackson's recording
Pulse (OAO/Celluloid, 5011, 1984).
★ * ★ ★ *
I was explaining at the New School that the way to get ideas
is to do something boring.
• • •
We know two ways to unfocus attention: symmetry is one of
them; the other is the over-all where each small part is a
sample of what you find elsewhere. In either case, there is
at least the possibility of looking anywhere, not just where
someone arranged you should. (Silence, 12, 100)
★ * ★ ★ ★

143
Himes, Chester. The Real Cool Killers. Chatham, N.J.: The
Chatham Bookseller, 1973. The following passage reads
like a lyric to a song by Louis Jordan (I am thinking,
especially, of the rhythm and parlando effect established
by the repetition of "was" and "were" in the third para¬
graph). It constitutes a typical instance of jazz as a
seme or signifier of primitivism:
Grave Digger flashed his badge at the two harness
bulls guarding the door and pushed inside the Dew
Drop Inn.
The joint was jammed with colored people who'd
seen the big white man die, but nobody seemed to
be worrying about it.
The jukebox was giving out with a stomp version
of "Big-Legged Woman." Saxophones were pleading;
the horns were teasing; the bass was patting; the
drums were chatting; the piano was catting, laying
and playing the jive, and a husky female voice was
shouting:
". . . You can
feel my thigh. But don't
you feel up high." (p. 57)
Hughes, Langston. Ask Your Mama: 12 Moods for Jazz. New
York: Knopf, 1961. With Hughes, I often get the feeling
that jazz is less an object of study, and more a trusted
signifier invoked for some overarching program or purpose,
but this is not so much the case here in his most complete
integration of jazz music and poetry.
* * * * *
IN THE NEGROES OF THE QUARTER / PRESSURE OF THE BLOOD IS
SLIGHTLY HIGHER / IN THE QUARTER OF THE NEGROES / WHERE BLACK
SHADOWS MOVE LIKE SHADOWS / CUT FROM SHADOWS CUT FROM SHADE
/ IN THE QUARTER OF THE NEGROES / SUDDENLY CATCHING FIRE /
FROM THE WING TIP OF A MATCH TIP / ON THE BREATH OF ORNETTE
COLEMAN. (12 Moods, 77)
★ ★ ★ * ★

144
Joans, Ted. Black Pow-Wow: Jazz Poems. New York: Hill and
Wang, 1969. Reflecting on the literature of jazz,
Bourjaily notes, "A fair amount of jazz fiction--and
nonfiction as well--was written in musicians' jargon:
even at its most authentic, the vocabulary had dated
very quickly." This is certainly the case with Joans's
poems. And yet, it is their very datedness that raises
a crucial question. What makes a poem a "jazz poem"?
What criteria must be met before a piece of writing can
qualify as "jazz writing"? Must it refer to some aspect
of jazz? Should it affect syncopation? Should it call
forth privileged signifiers--zoot suits, Conn saxophones
with reeds as hard as flint, back-lit cigarette smoke,
narcotics and reefer, half-mumbled jive talk, the sound
of a bass played pizzicato, etc.--the cultural codes of
jazz? Should it repeat The Story?
These questions, of course, will not be resolved
here. They are, in fact, larger than this study, because
they arise whenever one seeks to delimit writing, pair
it with a modifier: What is American writing? Jewish
writing? Women's writing? Cinematic writing? Poetic
writing? Good writing? Nevertheless, one point needs to
be emphasized. It is the same point I hinted at earlier
when I cited Hollier. Once one begins to speak of (what-
ever-kind-of) writing, one cannot, without a certain
violence, stop speaking. For instance, the moment one
claims, "Jazz is structured by images of embellishment

145
(obbligato), conjunction (satura), weaving (rhapsody),
and disjunction (charivari)," all writing potentially
becomes "jazz writing." Once the metaphorical vehicle
starts, who is to stop it? The answer to this question,
however, brings us back to Joans, for, more than anything
else, the jazz poet (whether of the Harlem Renaissance,
the Beat era, or the militant 1960s) represents an insti¬
tutional attempt to halt or freeze the signifiers of
jazz.
Four poems in this collection could make it to my
imagined anthology of jazz: "Passed on Blues: Homage to
a Poet" ("the sound of black music / the sad soft low
moan of jazz ROUND BOUT MIDNIGHT . . . That was the
world of Langston Hughes. . . ."); "Stormy Monday Girls"
("THEY ALL CAME OUT THAT STORMY MONDAY / WHITE BOYS
THAT COLLECTED JAZZ RECORDINGS / WHITE MEN THAT WROTE
ABOUT JAZZ PLAYERS / WHITE MIDDLE AGED MARRIED COUPLES
WHO DANCED TO JAZZ / AND OF COURSE WHITE WOMEN THAT
COLLECTED BLACK JAZZ MUSICIANS AT / THESE STORMY MONDAY
EVENING SESSIONS. . . ."); "Jazz Is My Religion" ("JAZZ
is my religion and it alone do I j3ig the jazz clubs
/ are my houses of worship. . . ."); and "Jazz Must Be
a Woman."
Jones, (Everett) LeRoi (Imamu Amiri Baraka) and Neal, Larry,
eds. Black Fire: An Anthology of Afro-American Writing.
New York: Morrow, 1968. Any good jazz reader must have
some radical '60's raps (conterminous with the death of

146
John Coltrane, Albert Ayler, and Eric Dolphy). Poems
by the following would work for starters: Stanley Crouch
("Chops Are Flyin" and "The Revelation"), Jayne Cortez
("How Long Has Trane Been Gone?"), Walter K. Dancy ("Jazz
Coltrane Sings"), and Al Young ("A Dance for Militant
Dilettantes"). Cortez, by the way, was, for a time,
the wife of Ornette Coleman.
Jones, LeRoi. Dutchman. From Dutchman and The Slave. New
York: William Morrow, 1964. Jean-Luc Godard appropriated
the following passage from Dutchman for his film Masculin-
Feminin:
Old bald-headed four-eyed ofays popping their fingers
. . . and don't know yet what they're doing. They say,
"I love Bessie Smith." And don't even understand that
Bessie Smith is saying, "Kiss my ass, kiss my black
unruly ass." (pp. 34-36)
*****
A man named Buzz Green worked with me years ago at the Boeing
Company. He had once been a jazz musician and along with a
man named Lu Waters had founded a jazz band well known in
its day. Buzz once said of Lou McGarrity, a trombone player
we both admired, "He can play trombone with any symphony
orchestra in the country but when he stands up to take a
jazz solo he forgets everything he knows." So if I seem to
talk technique now and then and urge you to learn more, it
is not so you will remember it when you write but so you can
forget it. Once you have a certain amount of accumulated
technique, you can forget it in the act of writing. Those
moves that are naturally yours will stay with you and will
come forth mysteriously when needed.19 (Richard Hugo, 17)
* * * * *
Kerouac, Jack. On the Road. New York: New American Library,
1955. Three of the greatest passages in bop prosody
are in this book: (1) Dean meets Slim Gaillard (Part
Two, Chapter 11); (2) Sal hips the world on "the great

147
jazz of Frisco" (Part Three, Chapter 4); (3) Sal, patri¬
arch that he is, tells the story of "the children of
the great bop innovators" (Part Three, Chapter 10).
MacKey, Nathaniel. Bedouin Hornbook. Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins, 1986. This is an epistolary novel written by
a professor in the Board of Studies in Literature at
the University of California, Santa Cruz. It manifests
a "somewhat French-inflected sense of African drumming"
(BH, 144).
Norman Mailer. "The White Negro." In Advertisements for
Myself. New York: Panther, 1968. My alternate title
for this infamous essay is "The Meta-Negro," or "The
Norman-itive Ur-Male." The passage on jazz as orgasm
(p. 341) and Section 4 (pp. 349-52), on the language of
the hipster, are eminently citable. American existen¬
tialism at its zaniest!
*****
Noises, too, had been discriminated against; and being Ameri¬
can, having been trained to be sentimental, I fought for
noises.
• • •
A cough or a baby crying will not ruin a good piece of modern
music.
• • •
We can tell very easily whether something we're doing is
contemporarily necessary. The way we do it is this: if some¬
thing else happens that ordinarily would be thought to inter¬
rupt it doesn't alter it, then it's working the way it now
must. (Silence, 139, 161, 238-39)
* * * * *
Mezzrow, Milton, with Wolfe, Bernard. Really the Blues.
New York: Random House, 1946. If Mezzrow, a Jewish
clarinet player and sometimes opium addict from Chicago,

148
faithfully lived out the narrative his autobiography
details, then he should be regarded as the original
White Negro. In any event, Really the Blues is a treasure
trove of jazz mythology--the flip side of the Benny
Goodman story. A jazz anthology should excerpt the
passages on Bix Beiderbecke (pp. 77-83, 120-128).
Mingus, Charles. Beneath the Underdog. New York: Penguin
Books, 1971. Mingus cast his autobiography as an extended
session with his psychoanalyst. Thus, when the narrative
is pornograph
Mingus didn't
key of Freud,
is frequently
Ondaatje, Michael.
Penguin, 1976
ic--as it frequently is—one wonders if
merely decide to improvise in the (expected)
Chapter 21, on trumpeter Fats Navarro,
singled out as the best moment in the book.
Coming Through Slaughter. New York:
. Perhaps I have written enough about this,
my favorite, book on jazz. Nevertheless, the following
passage could function as a metacomment, stating the goal
of this section on the satura. Bolden is philosophizing
about the band of John Robichaux:
Did you ever meet Robichaux? I never did. I loathed
everything he stood for. He dominated his audiences.
He put his emotions into patterns which a listening
crowd had to follow. . . . When I played parades
we would be going down Canal Street and at each
intersection people would hear just
happened to be playing and it would
further down Canal. They would not
hear the end of phrases, Robichaux's
the fragment I
fade as I went
be there to
arches. I
wanted them to be able to come in where they pleased
and leave when they pleased and somehow hear the
germs of the start and all the possible endings at
whatever point in the music that I had reached
then. Like your radio without the beginnings or
endings. The right ending is an open door you

149
can't see too far out of. It can mean exactly the
opposite of what you are thinking. (CTS, 93-94)
k k k k k
If at any moment we approach that moment with a pre-conceived
idea of what that moment will provide, and if, furthermore,
we pre-sume that having paid for it makes us safe about it,
we simply start off on the wrong foot. (Silence, 136)
k k k k k
Parkinson, Thomas, ed. A Casebook on the Beat. New York:
Crowell, 1961. Ginsberg claimed that many of his poetic
forms, as he put it, "developed out of an extreme rhap¬
sodic wail I once heard in a madhouse" (p. 29). Here
are the only lines from Howl that I (sort of) like:
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown,
yet putting down here what might be left to
say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of
jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and
blew the suffering of America's naked mind
for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabac-
thani saxophone cry that shivered the cities
down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered
out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand
years. (11. 75-77)
Parkinson's book also contains Kerouac's "Essentials of
Spontaneous Prose" (pp. 65-68) and his essay, "The Origins
of the Beat Generation" (pp. 72-74, "When I first saw
the hipsters creeping around Times Square . . .").
*****
The distinguishing characteristic of the Beat Generation is,
it seems to me, the fact that they have a myth. The myth
follows authentic archaic lines, and goes something like
this. The hero is the "angelheaded hipster." He comes of
anonymous parentage .... He has received a mysterious
call--to the road, the freights, the jazzdens, the "negro
streets." (Dorothy Van Ghent, in Parkinson, p. 213)
k k k k k

150
Pynchon, Thomas. "Entropy." In Slow Learner: Early Stories.
Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1984. In this story,
information theory meets jazz when the Duke di Angelis
quartet go "through the motions of a group having a
session, only without instruments," play with perfect
redundancy (flawlessly communicate), and, hence, experi¬
ence a statistically improbable moment when entropy is
reduced to zero.
V.. New York: Bantam, 1961. In which McClintic
Sphere, in a scene modeled on accounts of Ornette Cole¬
man's debut at the Five Spot (1959), plays the V-Note
(pp. 47-49).
Reed, Ishmael. Mumbo Jumbo. New York: Avon Books, 1971.
For now, let us put it this way. Mumbo Jumbo is a history
of jes grew, and, as Reed puts it, "Jes Grew was the
manic in the artist who would rather do glossolalia
than be 'neat clean or lucid'" (p. 241).
*****
Coming back from an all-Ives concert we'd attended in Con¬
necticut, Minna Lederman said that by separating his insur¬
ance business from his composition of music (as completely
as day is separated from night), Ives paid full respect to
the American assumption that the artist has no place in
society. (Silence, 264)
★ * * * ★
Sartre, Jean-Paul. Nausea. Trans. Lloyd Alexander. New
York: New Directions, 1964. The English word "noise"
comes from the Old French word nausea (which derives
from the Greek word for seasickness). Sartre's Nausea

151
is a record (the found notebooks of Antoine Roquentin);
it often skips.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★
I write in order to hear; never do I hear and then write
what I hear. (Silence, 169)
*****
Skvorecky, Josef. The Bass Saxophone: Two Novellas. New
York: Washington Square Press, 1977. In "Red Music,"
the Preface to this work, Skvorecky gives a brief history
of Slavic jazz under the Third Reich and the Soviets.
He argues that the essence of jazz, "no matter what
LeRoi Jones says to the contrary ... is not simply
protest," but "an elan vital, a forceful vitality, an
explosive creative energy" and so on and so forth (p.
4). Skvorecky even goes so far as to claim that jazz is
"a faith without ideology, indeed a faith which cancels
ideologies" (pp. 151-54).
*****
Counterpoint is the same proposition as harmony except that
it is more insidious. I noticed in 1938 that some young
people were still interested in it. (Silence, 164)
* * * * *
Van Vechten, Carl. Nigger Heaven. New York: A. A. Knopf,
1926. Two passages--a detailed account of the Negro's
"primitive birthright" (pp. 89-90) and the scene at the
world's most primitive night club (pp. 252-56)--represent
everything America hoped (and feared) jazz could be.
Welty, Eudora. "Powerhouse." The Collected Stories of Eudora
Welty. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1980.

152
Towards the end of this story, based on Fats Waller's
appearance in a Southern town, the narrator asks, "And
who could ever remember any of the things he [Powerhouse]
says?" How are we to understand this question, coming
as it does, after almost eight full pages of dialogue?
Is the narrator joking, lying, being coy, playing dumb,
or has she heard and written and immediately forgotten
what she wrote? Is the story a rapp?
it it it it ★
My point is this: various techniques can go together all at
the same time. (Silence, 164)
*****
Wright, Richard. Native Son. New York: Harper and Row,
1940. Wright understands jazz in terms similar to Adorno
i.e., as a means of social control. In his Introduction,
"How 'Bigger' Was Born," he ponders why the majority of
Negroes, living under the same social conditions as
Bigger Thomas, did not revolt. "Some," he wrote, "got
religion." "Others . . . employed a thousand ruses and
stratagems of struggle to win their rights. Still others
projected their hurts and longings into more naive and
mundane forms--blues, jazz, swing--and, without intellec¬
tual guidance, tried to build up a compensatory nour¬
ishment for themselves" (p. xiii). Later, in the novel,
Bigger feels "an urgent need to hide his growing and
deepening feeling of hysteria" and longs "for a stimulus
powerful enough to focus his attention and drain off
his energies.
Wright writes: "He wanted to run. Or

153
listen to sorae swing music. Or laugh or joke. Or read a
Real Detective Story Magazine. Or go to a movie. Or
visit Bessie" (p. 30).
★ ★ ★ * *
"Madeleine, would you put the record back? Just once, before
I leave." (Nausea, 176)
Notes
^-Statement made by "an ex-slave on one of the Georgia
Sea Islands to a white folklorist in 1984" (Bjl, p. 39); Josef
Skvorecky, The Bass Saxophone: Two Novellas by Josef Skvorecky
(New York: Washington Square Press, 1977) , p. 144; Jack
Kerouac, On the Road (New York: New American Library, 1955),
p. 72; Michael Ondaatje, Coming Through Slaughter (New York:
Penguin, 1976), p. 81. Ondaatje subsequently cited as CTS.
^Whitney Balliett, "Panassié, Delaunay et Cié," American
Musicians (New York: Oxford LJniv. Press, 1986), p. 3. Sub¬
sequently cited as AM.
-^Skvorecky, p. 121.
^Panassié's reasons for dismissing bop were: "(1) its
players have abandoned the classic instrumental jazz tradition.
Instead of making their instruments sing like the human voice
with inflections, vibrato, sustained notes and phrases full
of contrast, the boppers play according to the European instru¬
mental tradition; (2) because the bop rhythm section breaks
the continuity of the swing . . . (3) because boppers systemat¬
ically use chords and intervals adopted from modern European
music and destroy the harmonic atmosphere of jazz." Hugues
Panassié, Guide to Jazz (1956), in AM, p. 4.
^MacDonald Smith Moore, Yankee Blues: Musical Culture and
American Identity (Bloomington: Univ. of Indiana Press, 1985),
p. 92. Moore states that these men "committed a kind of class
treason against the old-stock families from which they sprang."
Their importance in shaping American's music cannot be under¬
estimated. For example, Hammond--whose mother was a Vander-
bi lt--discovered Billie Holiday, Count Basie, Teddy Wilson,
Charlie Christian, Benny Goodman (who later married Hammond's
sister), Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Aretha Franklin, and
George Benson. Subsequently cited as YB.

154
^Neil Leonard, Jazz and the White Americans: The Accep-
tance of a New Art Form (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press,
1962), pp. 3, 154-56.
7LeRoi Jones, Blues People: Negro Music in White America
(New York: William Morrow and Company, 1963), pp. ix-x; Ortiz
Walton, Music: Black, White and Blue (New York: William
Morrow and Company, 1972) , p"! 2~. Other texts, similar in
thrust, could just have easily illustrated "black redemptive
culture," for instance: Rob Backus, Firemusic: A Political
History of Jazz (Chicago: Vanguard Books, 1977) ; Frank Kofsky,
Black Nationalism and the Revolution in Music (New York:
Pathf i nder, 1970) ; A~. B^ Spellman, Black Music, Four Lives
(New York: Pantheon Books, 1966).
^Houston A. Baker, Jr., pp. 74-78.
^Gridley, p. 56; Sargeant, p. 211; Feather, p. 24.
l0Hollier, p. 3.
^Throughout this section I follow a history of Menippean
satire found in James Thomas Gresham, "John Barth as Menippean
Satirist," Diss. Michigan State University 1972, pp. 10-19.
He includes this note on the etymological literature discussing
the word satura. "Van Rooy's study [listed in the note below]
analyzes the origins of both (1) the term and (2) the genre,
utilizing (1) the list of four etymologies in Ars Grammatica,
by the 4th century grammarian Diomedes, and (2) Quintilian's
famous dictum about the origin of the genre, "Satura Quidem
Tota Nostra Est." An earlier critical study of the subject
is G. L. Hendrickson's "Satura Tota Nostra Est," reprinted
in Ronald Paulson's anthology, Satire: Modern Essays in Criti¬
cism (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: 1971) , pp. 3(5-60. Numerous
other critics deal with the origins and etymology of satire,
including Mary Claire Randoph, "The Medical Concept in English
Renaissance Satiric Theory," reprinted in Paulson's anthology,
pp. 135-170 (she, for example, comments on Milton's adherence
to the satire-satyr etymology in his Apology against Smectym-
nuus); Highet; Robert and Alvin Kernan, The Cankered Muse:
Satire of the English Renaissance (New Haven, Conn., 1959)--
here Kernan links Elizabethan satire with the satyr-etymology.
Casaubon exposed the satyr-satire fallacy in his Graecorum
poesi et Romanorum satira.
12Petronius, The Satyricon, trans. William Arrowsmith
(New York: New American Library, 1959), pp. vii, 21-22.
!3c. A. Van Rooy, Studies in Classical Satire and Related
Literary Theory (Leiden: E^ 3"! Brill, 1965) , pT 5TT
14Juvenal, The Sixteen Satires, trans. Peter Green (New
York: Penguin Classics, 1967) , p"! 68.

155
â– ^Gilbert Highet, Anatomy of Satire (Princeton: Princeton
Univ. Press, 1962), p. 233.
^Comments on "What Are We Eating? And What Are We Eat¬
ing," as well as the dining/dinning pun, from Ulmer, "The
Object of Post-Criticism," p. 103.
l^Vance Bourjaily, "In and Out of Storyville: Jazz and
Fiction," The New York Times Book Review, 13 Dec. 1987, p.
44. Subsequent references to jazz literature in this chapter
are found in the body of the essay.
18Benjamin, p. 681; Theodor W. Adorno, "On the Fetish-
Character in Music and the Regression of Listening," Esthetic
Theory and Cultural Criticism (Boston: Routledge & Kegan
Paul, 1984), pT 296.
19Richard Hugo, The Triggering Town: Lectures and Essays
on Poetry and Writing (New York: W. W. Norton, 1979) , p"! 17.

CHAPTER 4
RHAPSODY: CON AMORE
Jazz is not a "form" like, let us say, the waltz or the fugue,
that leaves the composer's imagination free within the form;
it is a bundle of tricks—of syncopation and so on.
--Ernest Newman
I often think of my playing as a crap game—sometimes I get
real lucky.
--Jess Stacy
And here is the thing that made King Bolden Band be the First
Band that played Jazz. It was because it did not Read at
all. I could fake like 500 myself; so you tell them that
Bunk and King Bolden's Band was the first ones that started
Jazz in the City or any place else.
--Willie G. "Bunk" Johnson
[T]he jazz fan, however knowledgeable, is fundamentally a
lover.
—E. J. Hobsbawm
All glamor is bound up with some sort of trickery.
--Theodor W. Adorno^-
Counterfeit
After characterizing the body of writing which accumulated
around the signifier jazz as "little more than an amalgam of
well-meaning amateur criticism and fascinated opinion," Schul¬
ler (a designation which, at this point, refers more to the
logic of the trope than to the demonstrable logic of an identi¬
fiable consciousness) takes his poetic vehicle--the amalgam
(an alloy of mercury with another metal)--to its destination.
He writes that it "was allowed to pass for scholarship and
serious analysis."
156

157
An alloy passing for refinement: this is the trope of the
counterfeit. By a twist or a trick, jazz writing--an ornament
and an amalgam--signifies an impoverished or bankrupt economy
where an imitation (a simulacrum or double) may pass for the
genuine.
Watch my words closely, though. I am not suggesting that
Schuller regards all writing about jazz as counterfeit.
Clearly, that is not the case. Instead, I am arguing that
Schuller represents jazz writing--and here again we shall
see that his representation of jazz writing repeats an image
conventionally employed when conceptualizing jazz music--as
the site of an elaborate confidence game. With this metaphor,
jazz writing becomes less a thing and more a space--a place
or topos--where counterfeits pose real threats, by consistently
passing for, contesting, that which is genuine. Schuller
aims, therefore, to distinguish the authentic from the spurious
by presenting his readers with an example of "genuine musico-
logical research"--"a systematic, comprehensive history dealing
with the specifics of the music." That task completed, the
reader should be able to measure jazz writing against an
established standard. Fraudulent imitations of "scholarship
and serious analysis" will be seen for what they are.
But what are they? Schuller avoids words I have used,
adjectives like fraudulent, counterfeit, and spurious. He
prefers "fascinated," "well-meaning," and "amateur." And even
when he details the shortcomings of books about jazz--"critica1
gaps or misjudgments," falling "prey to basic misconceptions,"

158
an attendance to the "general descriptive or impressionistic,"
and a failure "to capture the elusive essentials of jazz"--
he never lists counterfeiting--imitating serious scholarship
with an intention to defraud--as one of the jazz author's
nefarious practices. His point is more subtle. "Well-meaning
amateur criticism and fascinated opinion" may have passed "for
scholarship and serious analysis," but they did so, not through
artfulness (for they had none), but by permission. Bias
prompted tolerance. Since jazz lacked "academic credentials"
--it had a "humble, socially 'unacceptable' origin" and was
produced "by self-taught, often musically illiterate musi-
cians"--it "did not warrant genuine musicological research."
Therefore, what writing jazz happened to elicit, although it
counted for very little and was "hardly sufficient to produce
a serious interest," "was allowed to pass for [i.e., 'in
place of'] scholarship."
This writing, Schuller's "amalgam of well-meaning amateur
criticism and fascinated opinion," had exchange value — it
passed as currency but accrued little interest--within a
particular, aesthetic economy, one which defined musical
legitimacy and musical literacy (and whose genealogy is given
in Weber's The Rational and Social Foundations of Music).2
And like a coin, it had two sides; jazz was simultaneously
assimilated and marginalized. One side signified the pro¬
visional acceptance of jazz ("Jazz is great fun!" "It's
culturally relevant; great newspaper copy too!"). The other
side signified a refusal or reluctance to grant jazz full

159
admittance into middle-class, American culture ("Jazz is
hardly worthy of serious consideration!"). Both sides are
readily apparent in this passage from Sargeant's Jazz: Hot
and Hybrid, a book which, interestingly enough, Adorno called
"the best, most reliable and most sensible book on the sub¬
ject" :
The attendant weakness of jazz is that it is an art
without positive moral values, an art that evades those
attitudes of restraint and intellectual poise upon which
complex civilizations are built. At best it offers
civilized man a temporary escape into drunken self-hypno¬
tism. ... It is a far cry from the jazz state of mind
to that psychology of human perfectabi1ity, of aspiration,
that lies, for example, behind the symphonies of a Beetho¬
ven or the music dramas of a Wagner.^
Little perspicacity is required to read the economy of
ambivalence warranting jazz writing in exactly the same manner
that Hebdige reads the dress, dance, and music of post-war
British youth: as a symbolic attempt to "accommodate and
expunge the black presence from the host community"--which
in the case presently under examination means white America
(Sub, 44-45). Indeed, if this double-coded, racialist subtext
is barely latent in Sargeant's statement, it is woefully
manifest in three selections by Gilbert Seldes. In 1923-
'24, he wrote:
[I]f jazz weren't itself good the subject would be more
suitable for a sociologist than for an admirer of the gay
arts. Fortunately . . . [jazz has] qualities which cannot
be despised; and the cry that jazz is the enthusiastic
disorganization of music is as extravagant as the prophesy
that if we do not stop "jazzing" we will go down, as a
nation, into ruin.
• • •
I say the negro is not our salvation because with
all my feeling for what he instinctively offers, for
his desirable indifference to our set of conventions of
emotional decency, I am on the side of civilization.

160
To any one who inherits several thousand centuries of
civilization, none of the things the negro offers can
matter unless they are apprehended by the mind as well
as by the body and the spirit.
• • •
Nowhere is the failure of the negro to exploit his
gifts more obvious than in the use he has made of the jazz
orchestra; for although nearly every negro jazz band is
better than nearly every white band, no negro band has
yet come up to the level of the best white ones, and
the leader of the best of all, by a little joke, is
called Whiteman.^
Interestingly and, I think, most tragically, when Dodge cites
this passage in his 1939 survey of jazz critics, he chides
Seldes, not for racist presuppositions, but for what he sees
as an inexcusable critical lapse--an admiration for the Paul
Whiteman Orchestra. Dodge declares that Seldes's concluding
remark, "admittedly slight in witty intent, will ever strike
back at its author as a more humorous error in art judgment!"
(Jazzmen, 312-13). In Dodge's eyes, Seldes commits an aesthe¬
tic, not an ethical, faux pas. Dodge agrees with Seldes, at
least to a point. He, too, accepts the amorality of black
people and states that "the Negro may have been indifferent
to our emotional decency," but he adds an addendum, "the
vital part of our centuries of musical experience" has gone
into "Negro jazz." Although Dodge and Seldes's use of the
pronoun "our" scarcely needs a gloss, we would do well to
digress briefly and recall the following passage from George
Washington Cable's The Grandissimes (1879), a novel set in
New Orleans at the time of the Louisiana Purchase. Agricola
Fusilier, a Creole patriarch, speaks:
"H-my young friend, when we say, 'we people,' we always
mean we white people. The non-mention of color always
implies pure white; and whatever is not pure white is

161
to all intents and purposes pure black. When I say the
'whole community,' I mean the whole white portion; when
I speak of the 'undivided public sentiment,' I mean the
sentiment of the white population. What else could I
mean?" (p. 59)
Indeed, this is the narrative position assumed by most jazz
criticism. Unlike Seldes, though, Dodge refuses to accept
the formula amoral people yield uncivilized music. Instead,
he opts for another solution. Jazz is valuable to the extent
that it exhibits "our [Western] harmony and musical form";
it is interesting to the extent that it is "indifferent to
our emotional decency." "Popular music," writes Adorno,
must simultaneously meet two demands. One is for stimuli
that provoke the listener's attention. The other is
for the material to fall within the category of what
the musically untrained listener would call 'natural'
music: that is, the sum total of all the conventions
and material formulas in music to which he is accustomed
and which he regards as the inherent simple language of
music itself, no matter how late the development might
be which produced this natural language. ("On Popular
Music," 24)
Taking this argument one more step, we reach an astounding
conclusion, one that reverses the conventional way jazz is
perceived. According to Dodge and Seldes, Negro jazz is worthy
of attention--it will be allowed to pass for music--precisely
to the extent that it recuperates white musical experience
(or in Adorno's reading, standardized modes of production).
Taken to its logical conclusion, this argument reads jazz as
a quaint/threatening counterfeit of "real music," part of a
feedback loop. White people create Music, black people--like
children--imitate it (play around with it), and, then, white
people consume this refracted representation of themselves.

162
Mark how this process is employed to represent the develop¬
ment of the cakewalk, a 19th-century dance:
There is a theory that the plantation cakewalk originated
when colored servants imitated others doing the minuet.
Whether or not that's true, the cakewalk gravitated right
back to white folks by way of minstrel shows. Even
high society behind their cloistered doors "kicked up
high" for fun without the incentive of a simple cake
for a prize.^ (emphasis mine)
"The negro," wrote George Jean Nathan in 1919, "with his
unusual sense of rhythm, is no more accurately to be called
musical than a metronome is to be called a Swiss music-box.
Thus, the Negro becomes the archetypical mimic, a Yahoo capable
of aping the motions of civilization (one will recall that
the Houyhnhnms, in Book IV of Gulliver's Travels, contend
that Yahoos do not "speak" so much as imitate "speech"); his
music becomes a simulacrum of Music.
"Music," Kerman reminds us, "may come from below or be
imposed from above, musicology always comes from above" (CM,
159). Broadly speaking, writing about jazz functioned within
two aesthetic economies that, while distinct, even competitive,
were founded on the image of jazz as a simulacrum. One group,
as we have just seen, pointed to the dependence of jazz on
European harmony and form, and while it readily admitted and
frequently emphasized the indispensableness of African contri¬
butions to the music, it measured the worth of jazz against
musical standards established by "several thousand centuries
of civilization." Jazz was imputed value as it replicated
particular representations of classical music (notice also
that "classical music," like jazz, is never outside a system

163
of representations). Thus, a wide variety of writers, many
of them composers, with widely divergent opinions on the
subject of "musical standards" or "classical music," employed
jazz--a arbitrary sign posing as a motivated sign--as a way
to make their own representations of Music seem highly con¬
strained or motivated. For instance, if a composer, say
Darius Milhaud, represented jazz as "an influence of good,"
then his approbation not only supported jazz, through a kind
of self-reflexive feedback loop, it bolstered his own composi¬
tion, Création du Monde, and created the effect that his
pronouncements about music were ontologically stable.^ in a
similar fashion, if a writer represented jazz as antagonistic
to established musical ideals, he did so not only to disparage
jazz but as a means of bolstering his mus ica1-ideologica1
agenda (i.e., his representation of Music).
Another group, however, represented the musical and
cultural value of jazz as inversely proportional to its
adherence to established musical standards (here again, "stand¬
ards" is an intentionally unilateral designation). It empha¬
sized the dependence of jazz on African and Caribbean rhythms,
and while it readily acknowledged that jazz and classical
music shared European conceptions of melody and harmony, it
frequently called attention to the harmonic-melodic tendencies
that distinguished jazz from classical music (e.g., the blues
scale or microtones). It assumed that "Negroes assimilated
only those harmonic-melodic tendencies that permitted the
integration of their African traditions," or it assumed that

164
the European musical elements employed by jazz either did
not adversely affect the music (civilize or domesticate it)
or that they were successfully perverted by the music (EJ,
39). This group represented jazz as a parody of "civiliza¬
tion," and it imputed value to jazz to the extent that it
replicated or reinforced privileged, cultural representations
(stereotypes) of the Negro. My example of a writer from
this group is Carl Van Vechten.
Van Vechten, "the undisputed impresario of the Harlem
Renaissance," an aesthete who practiced a kind of cultural one-
upmanship by making "approving critical judgments about the
very new and the very off-beat," in typical bohemian fashion,
delighted in challenging what James Weldon Johnson called "the
Nordic superiority complex."** As one might expect, this Des
Esseintes from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, did everything in his
power to invert Victorian values and protect what he perceived
as exotica from the encroachments of the vulgar. Although
his aesthetic judgments were wildly inconsistent, capricious,
subject to the fluctuations of an over-developed palate—for
example, he championed the Aeolian Hall premier of Gershwin's
Rhapsody in Blue and at roughly the same time asserted that
whites had no business singing spirituals--his lapses from
conventional standards of felicity could not have been more
calculated or more consistent.
His infamous novel, Nigger Heaven, took its title from
an old term for the topmost gallery of the theater, a term Van

165
Vechten employed as a metaphor for Harlem. In it he has his
protagonist, a "New Negro," Byron Kasson, exclaim:
We sit in our places in the gallery of this New York
theatre and watch the white world sitting down below in
the good seats in the orchestra. Occasionally they
turn their faces up towards us, their hard, cruel faces,
to laugh, or sneer, but they never beckon. It never
seems to occur to them that Nigger Heaven is crowded...
that we sit above them, that we can drop things down on
them and crush them, that we can swoop down from this
Nigger Heaven and take their seats.^
The image could not be any more striking. It is as memorable
and disturbing as any passage from Melville's Confidence
Man. With one hand, Van Vechten points to the seal-brown
face of his character. With the other, he points to his own
face, a face as white as that of any of his Dutch forebears.
And with utmost confidence, this Janus-faced fop quips, "What
did I do to be so black and blue?" Like the novel as a whole,
this image of a counterfeit black man talking about the pre¬
judices of white men underscores its own duplicity. It simul¬
taneously critiques and exemplifies the exploitation of blacks
by whites with an ambiguity that will remain unmatched until
Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones, bohemians cut from the
same bolt as Van Vechten, record "Brown Sugar."1® But more
than that, in exaggerating the radical separation of what is
claimed (or imagined) and what is seen--intent and effect--
this passage functions to loosen "fixed" convictions, test
conventions, and invert the ideology (the aesthetic and moral
economy) that backed statements such as those by Seldes and
Dodge. In order to conclude this discussion of writing which
represented jazz as a symbolic inversion of "civilization,
ft

166
consider one, final citation from Nigger Heaven. The narrator
describes Mary Love, a light-skinned Negro who could have
easily "passed for white":
She [Mary] admired all Negro characteristics and
desired earnestly to possess them. Somehow, so many of
them, through no fault of her own, eluded her. . . .
How many times she had watched her friends listening
listlessly or with forced or affected attention to alien
music, which said little to the Negro soul, by Schubert
or Schumann, immediately thereafter losing themselves
in a burst of jazz or the glory of an evangelical Spiri¬
tual, recognizing, no doubt, in some dim, biological
way, the beat of the African rhythm.
Savages! Savages at heart! And she had lost or for¬
feited her birthright, this primitive birthright which
was so valuable and important an asset, a birthright
that all the civilized races were struggling to get
back to--this fact explained the art of a Picasso or a
Stravinsky. To be sure, she, too felt this African
beat--it completely aroused her emotionally--but she
was conscious of feeling it. This love of drums, of
exciting rhythms, this naive delight in glowing colour
--the colour that exists only in cloudless, tropical
climes--this warm, sexual emotion, all these were hers
only through a mental understanding, (pp. 89-90, emphasis
mine)
Mary "lost or forfeited her birthright" not when she lost
"natural rhythm," when she no longer found joy in loud colors
or when her steamy sexuality froze in the more temperate
climes of Harlem--for she had lost none of these stereotypical
Negroid characteristics. She lost her primitiveness when
she found or developed self-consciousness.
To Van Vechten, consciousness is a nonbeneficial mutation
or adaptation, and Mary, at least at this point in the novel,
is a counterfeit. She is a fake Caucasian (a Negro who can
pass for white); she is a fake Negro (a primitive who has
lost her birthright), and it becomes one her author's major
tasks to define and restore genuineness to her. But who

167
could be more self-conscious, more of a fake, than Van
Vechten?--in his fiction, a narrator signifying and yet depre¬
cating self-consciousness; in life, a dandy plotting every
social move, obsessed with aesthetic sensation--tiny details
of ref inement--and yet affecting nonchalance?!! And this is
my point. Van Vechten and Nigger Heaven call attention to—
they parade--their own inauthenticity. They are counterfeits
that admit that they are counterfeits. (And, thus, are they
counterfeits?) If readers allow them to pass, then they
have accomplished precisely what they set out to do. They
have destabilized the dominated majority's definition of
genuine and counterfeit.
Without stretching the point too far we can say that Van
Vechten's texts (seven novels and five books of music criti¬
cism), as well as those by other authors who linked jazz with
primitivism, could be read as nascent "comparative musicology"
or, as it has been called since Jaap Kunst introduced the
term in 1950, ethnomusicology. By the same token, books and
articles written by well-meaning amateur critics who connected
jazz with "civilization" could be read as nascent jazz musi¬
cology. From this latter source grew Schuller's study.
In summarizing his comments on Charles Seeger, whom he
calls "the guiding spirit of modern American ethnomusicology,"
Kerman singles out "middle-class antagonism towards conven¬
tional middle-class culture" as "the typical factor in the
ideological makeup of ethnomusicology" (CM, 11, 159). Alan
P. Merriam, who, in a famous phrase, defined ethnomusicology

168
as "the study of music in culture," accused post-war
ethnomusicology as being motivated by what he dubbed the "White
Knight Concept" and the "Dutiful Preserver Concept" (CM, 13,
159). Indeed, if Seeger and others, for instance, Alan Lomax,
were progenitors of the "Dutiful Preserver Concept," often
identifying with the conditions of "poor whites," then Van
Vechten and others, for instance, John Hammond, were classic
"White Knights," who admired the Negro's mythic ability to
transcend poverty and oppression through music. Of Hammond,
Count Basie said:
He's been a hell of a man. And he has never asked for
a nickel from me or any of those other people he's done
so much for. And there have been quite a few of them.
All he wanted to see was the results of what was supposed
to be happening.12
Seeger seemed motivated by opposing urges. His life evidenced
great sympathy for the disenfranchised (e.g., at one point,
"he took his family in a homemade automobile house-trailer
to rural North Carolina, so that he could play free sonata
recitals in churches and Grange halls") and a desire to "look
at things from below up," and he espoused predictable, left¬
ist/liberal political affiliations (a flirtation with communism
in the 1930s, and, then, administrative posts in "Roosevelt's
programmes to combat the Depression") (CM, 156-59). Van
Vechten and Hammond, on the other hand, also seemed motivated
by what would appear to be mutually exclusive desires: an
egalitarian desire to popularize jazz (share it with the
middle class) and the hipster's desire to keep jazz untainted
by the masses (protect jazz from the middle class and the

169
effects of conventionalization). As one might expect, in
both cases attempts to mediate irreconcilable values, to
live out a workable response to conflicting motivations,
served to produce enormous amounts of energy. These men
accomplished much. The stories of their lives read like
melodramas, scaled-down, hyped-up versions of the conflicts
that charged the musics they loved.
Seeger, Lomax, Van Vechten, and Hammond, to borrow a
phrase from Kerman, pictured "the Americas as an ethnomusi-
cologist's dream laboratory for the study of musical accultur-
ization" (CM, 159). Undoubtedly, this is what interested
them most. But their work, the texts they produced in response
to their interests, even when their authors did not adequately
appreciate (or even denied) the fact, functioned as a critique
of musicology. They employed the American vernacular tradi¬
tion to unsettle Music (question its authenticity or proper¬
ness). Seeger, the theoretician of this quartet, wrote "Trac-
tatus Esthetico-Semioticus" ("a comprehensive synoptic theory
of human communication in which music plays one part among
many"--CM, 157) and spoke of what he called "the 1inguocentric
predicament" or "the musicological juncture": in Kerman's
words, "the incommensurability of verbal and musical communi¬
cation" (CM, 158). Lomax compiled The Folksongs of America,
did extensive field work in ethnomusicology, and wrote the
definitive biography of Jelly Roll Morton. Hammond produced
numerous records and concerts. In the liner notes to From
a recording of the December 23, 1938
Spirituals to Swing,

170
concert that brought black American music to Carnegie Hall,
he quoted Van Vechten and in one word unwittingly wrote a
definitive epithet of the life message of this man:
It is doubtful where [sic] the concert could have started
less auspiciously. The plan had been to have me make some
opening remarks, and then play an excerpt from the record¬
ings of the Turner expedition in Africa, showing a kind
of ethnic relationship between African tribal music and
American jazz and folk music (something I would never
venture today). I was so nervous that my voice couldn't
be heard, and I remember Carl Van Vechten yelling "louder"
from his front row perch, whereupon I gave a signal to
the sound man to increase the amplification. He misread
the cue and instead put on the record of wild African
chanting, while I was still talking to the audience.
Everybody broke up, of course, but from then on it was
a continuous ball, beginning with the three boogie-woogie
pianists and ending some three and a half hours later
with the first concert presentation of Count Basie's
big band.13
A few things should now be evident. One, the most ele¬
mental sort of recuperation--appropriation or co-optation--
takes place at the level of the metaphor, at the level of
words, not things. The images which bring jazz into language
signify the appropriation of music by ideologically motivated
systems
of di
scou
rse.
Two,
at
least
two
groups sought to
define
themse
Ives
and
posses
s
jazz in
one
, easy moti
on, by
filling
jazz
(or
the s
ignifi
er
Negro)
with meaning--
i.e., by
linking
or as
soci
at i ng
it wi
th
prefer
red
signifiers-
-and
reading
back
this
mean
i ng on
to
their
own
systems of
represen-
tat ion.
In t
his
self
perpet
uating sy
stem
i, identity
was manu-
factured by the r
epres
entati
on
and subseq
uent possession of
the sign jazz. Three, although we may read the discourse of
jazz as a coded dialogue between blacks and whites, Victorians
and Modernists, civilization and the Other, we should be

171
wary of comprehending jazz as a musical echo of racism or
modernism, if by racism or modernism we imagine signifieds
that are not themselves signifiers. Four, jazz, to repeat a
claim I have already stressed, functions as a sign. For all
its "actuality” anterior to sense, it enters discourse (in
Lacanian terms moves from the Imaginary to the Symbolic Realm)
as a projection or objectification of warring systems of
representation. Five, jazz marks a place, a topos, where the
question of authenticity (legitimacy and literacy) is broached
the notion of counterfeit problematized.
Looking again at Schuller's text, we can now see that wha
"was allowed to pass for scholarship and serious analysis"
actually determined what would later count as genuine. Genu¬
ineness was not some foreknown quality possessed by texts.
It was a byproduct, or better yet, a spoil of war in the battl
that determined the meaning of the term jazz.
The war was waged in this manner. Someone made a state¬
ment of definition about jazz by pairing it with, or referring
it back to, a cultural code already established as genuine
(i.e., part of a linguistic chain or matrix). For example,
Virgil Thomson wrote:
Jazz, in brief, is a compound of a) the fox-trot rhythm,
a four-four measure (alia breve) with a double accent,
and b) a syncopated melody over this rhythm. . . . The
combination is jazz. Try it on your piano. Apply the
recipe to any tune you know.1^
If this statement "was allowed to pass for scholarship and
serious analysis," that is, if it was repeated, became conven¬
tionalized, then a particular representation of jazz was
r
t
e

172
authenticated, and the cultural code warranting the statement
was strengthened. Subsequent statements, if they were to
count as genuine, would have to refer back to this statement
or the system that lent it credence in the first place.
Traditionally, convent i onal ization--the "process by which
innovative, unconventional codes gradually become adopted by
the majority"--has been understood as an aesthetic equivalent
of the second law of thermodynamics: energy tends towards a
state of equilibrium. The dissemination of jazz is frequently
put forward up as a historical example of this process.
Fiske uses it in Introduction to Communication Studies, and
as does Hebdige.^-5 This process, these descriptions declare,
like its counterpart in physics, is in itself neither negative
nor positive, good nor bad; it just is. A good description,
they seem to at least tacitly argue, merely indicates; it
does not seek to establish a norm. If we perceive convention¬
alization as a "lowering of quality," writes Fiske, "we should
be aware that it [such a judgment] is made from within a
particular value-system, one that values elaborated, narrowcast
codes and the expression of individual differences." All
the same, though, descriptions of conventionalization typic¬
ally, if not always, employ a rhetoric of degeneration; they
represent conventionalization as a downward movement (and
they expect that readers will decode "downward" Platonically,
as a deviation from The Good). The rhetoric of such descrip¬
tions, I suspect, seeks ultimately to establish the legitimacy

173
of what Basil Bernstein called elaborated codes, the rights
of narrowcast audiences.Hebdige writes of jazz:
As the music fed into mainstream popular culture during
the 20s and 30s, it tended to become bowdlerized, drained
of surplus eroticism, and any hint of anger or recrimi¬
nation blown along the "hot" lines was delicately refined
into inoffensive night club sound. White swing represents
the climax of this process: innocuous, generally
unobtrusive, possessing a broad appeal, it was a laundered
product which contained none of the subversive connota¬
tions of its original black sources. These suppressed
meanings were, however, triumphantly reaffirmed in be¬
bop, and by the mid-50s a new, younger white audience
began to see itself reflected darkly in the dangerous,
uneven surfaces of contemporary avant-garde, despite
the fact that the musicians responsible for the New
York sound deliberately sought to restrict white identi¬
fication by producing a jazz which was difficult to
listen to and even more difficult to imitate. (p. 47)
Hot jazz turns to swing, bop turns to cool, eroticism turns
to lassitude, black bleaches to white, the dirty becomes
laundered, and the uneven gets smoothed: this model—ultimately
a jazz version of a model based on a 19th-century view of
entropy as heat death--adequately accounts for the degradation
of a code imagined as original. It explains the translation
of narrowcast codes into the broadcast codes necessary for
communicating with a wide audience. But it cannot explain
how original, so-called pure codes arise.
The discourse of jazz suggests another, nonlinear or
nonteleological, way to read the process of conventionali¬
zation. Although I shall not fully elaborate this model,
readers should be able to organize writing about jazz, as
well as jazz music, by the following pattern--a kind of elab¬
orate spiral--of innovation and popularization.

174
Step One. As we have seen, people generate statements
about a phenomenon (one demarcated by the culture) by
referring back to cultural codes previously established
as genuine. Since all such statements constitute bids
for legitimacy, they must be couched in terms at once
acceptable to the hoi polloi and "passable" by culturally
sanctioned institutions.
Step Two. Groups of people with, let us say, vested
interests pick up on, buy into, pass certain statements
around as genuine imitations, which means they accept them
as ideologically sufficient, but linguistically deficient
(i.e., composed of restricted codes and, therefore,
subject to misreading).
Step Three. The counterfeitness of the statements
merely passing for legitimate becomes apparent. Because
they rely on previously established codes, these state¬
ments are regarded as obviously metaphorical, working
by means of analogy.
Step Four. Representations begin to bid for legitimacy
by soliciting institutional credibility. Elaborated codes
are devised to fill out the restricted codes which brought
the phenomenon into representation. Because they are
codes perceived as motivated, specific to the phenomenon
represented, they tend to squelch nonapproved or aberrant
readings; they feel less arbitrary than the restricted
codes.

175
Step Five. The statements which are transformed into
institutionally ratified, narrowcast codes are deemed
genuine by the culture (the bid for legitimacy is
completed). The elaborated language spoken by institu¬
tional spokesmen is read back as genuine, as an original
or pure code.
Step Six. To maintain its hegemony, the institution
validating a particular representation will have to
popularize itself (validate its system of representation)
by encouraging the transformation of its narrowcast
codes into broadcast codes. This process of convention¬
alization, communicating with a wider, more heterogeneous
audience, however, will allow aberrant decodings. In
fact, they are "necessary to fit the message into the
varieties of convention or cultural experience of the
mass audience" (Fiske, 87).
Step One Revisited. The process begins again. The
aberrant decodings which accompany conventionalization
will refer back to cultural codes previously established
as genuine. These perverse readings of past codes consti¬
tute new bids for legitimacy; any aberrant reading which
the institution sanctioning the pure code cannot suppress
will have to be accepted (or, at least, accommodated)
as genuine.
Without going into extensive detail we shall see that this
model accounts for innovation in jazz, and not only that. It
accounts for jazz as a musical innovation. To take a conveni-

176
ent but arbitrary starting point for what will be a short
history of jazz music, it suggests that the conventionalization
(cultural assimilation) of black music came about as a direct
result of the realization that the products of the musical
labor of black American ex-slaves had exchange value, a reali¬
zation that was, to a great extent, and speaking only of
conditions at the level of production, an effect of the estab¬
lishment of the music publishing industry, the rise of an
American, vernacular, musical theater, and the invention of
radio and the phonograph. At this time, which I am conveni¬
ently compressing for the sake of illustration, many types
of Afro-American musics (all aberrantly reading--referring
back to--African and European musics) began to compete for a
share of the market. Jazz, blues, and spirituals won that
struggle. Aided by written representations such as those we
have already examined, these musics were able to differentiate
themselves from other competing musical forms and situate
themselves as the legitimate music of the American Negro.
Immediately, though, jazz, or hot jazz as it came to be
called, had to immediately conventionalize, its codes. To
maintain its viability in the marketplace and merit middle-
class respectability (actually, two sides of the same coin),
it had to restrict its musical language and appeal to a broad¬
cast audience. In this bid for cultural acceptance, jazz
was "cooled" down. Even its name was conventionalized.
Lyons writes:
Linguistically the word swing went through a curious
evolution from a verb form to a noun. The music did not

177
simply swing--it was swing. The transformation occurred
during the mid-1930's, when "hot jazz," as it was first
called, spread overseas. The music was played frequently
on the radio in England. However, the BBC believed the
phrase "hot jazz" to have sexual connotations not in
keeping with its image. Announcers were instructed to
use the phrase "swing music" instead, alluding perhaps
to Duke Ellington's song title of 1932 "It Don't Mean a
Thing, If It Ain't Got That Swing." Thus the music was
labeled almost a full decade after it had begun stylistic¬
ally.17
As one might expect, devotees of hot jazz, claimed that swing
(especially the "sweet" variety) was not real jazz (it was a
counterfeit), or they damned it as a particularly degraded form
of the real item. Nevertheless, it attained enormous popu¬
larity, for, finally, it represented not so much a cooling
down of hot jazz (which continued to be recorded) as a catch¬
all term denoting a plethora of musics vying for a toe hold
in the burgeoning music market. Swing, above all, signified
the dissemination of jazz.
To supply an index of its mass acceptance, one might note
that, in 1940, the Glenn Miller Orchestra grossed $630,000
(roughly the equivalent of $5,016,000 in 1987) and played in
the following contexts:
1. Commercial radio programs, 52 solid weeks.
2. Hotel engagements, 26 weeks.
3. Theaters, 10 weeks.
4. An average of two record dates a month, with four
to six sides cut on each date, for Victor's Bluebird
label.
5. Sixteen weeks of one-nighters throughout the nation.
Commenting on these figures, supplied by Miller himself,
Downbeat added that they did not include "additional incomes
from the publication of original songs, folios, books, methods
'and various other side-profits that roll in to those who

178
play in the top-flight big bands in America today.'"18 or,
to take another example that predates (and, to a great extent,
precipitated) Miller's success, Benny Goodman--following
what drummer Gene Krupa described as his leader's "first
great triumph at the Palomar [Theater] in Los Angeles and
the Congress in Chicago"—returned to New York to play the
Paramount Theater as well as his regular job at the Pennsyl¬
vania Hotel. The clarinetist remarked, "[W]e had a pretty
good idea that the public for real jazz was a big one, and
growing all the time. . . . But I don't think that any of us
realized how strong a hold it had on the youngsters until a
certain day early in March, 1937." Of that day, his first
at the Paramount, Goodman recalled:
By three o'clock in the afternoon, eleven thousand, five
hundred people had paid their way into the theater, and
the total for the first day's attendance was twenty-one
thousand. Another thing about that first day which caused
talk around the theater was this: The total for the day's
sale at the candy counter was nine hundred dollars—
which is some kind of a record, too.
So then, as Hebdige and others observe, swing was conven¬
tionalized hot jazz, a broadcast music (palatable even for
children), but as such it was especially subject to, it even
depended on, aberrant decodings in order to fit into the wide
variety of cultural experiences represented by a mass audience.
In other words, for jazz to succeed (which at this time meant
sell) it had to broaden its base (e.g., it had to be able to
accommodate musics as diverse as that produced by, say, Paul
Whiteman and Jimmie Lunceford) and restrict its language (e.g.,

179
limit improvisation, emphasize standard song form, regulate
tempos for dancing, and avoid dissonances).
Bebop--modern jazz--was an unintended or accidental effect
of the dissemination of swing: a perverse, aberrant, or insti¬
tutionally unsanctioned reading made possible by the slackness
of the broadcast codes of swing.20 Like the modernist music
of Schoenberg or Stravinsky, it decisively cut itself off
from the bourgeoisie, and if we take the word of Thelonious
Monk, it was to be an unco-optable, immanently authentic
jazz. He said, "We're going to create something that they
can't steal because they can't play it."21 Dick Hyman, a
contemporary musician still playing hot jazz, explains the
bop revolution in the following terms:
Until be-bop . . . jazz still played by the rules of
songs. It was improvisations on themes people knew,
and people could pick up on them, even if they had never
thought songs could be done this way. In the newer
music, you don't quite know what's going on until you
learn the new language—it's a different repertory, a
different length of solos and a different goal in perform¬
ance. . . . Not to be too blunt, but the music takes
itself too seriously now.22
In the struggle for what we could call the relegitimation
of jazz, bop, perhaps more than anything else, represented a
bid for intellectual respectability. Its main competition--
the traditional jazz of the New Orleans Revival — represented
a bid for historical authenticity, in the narrowest sense of
the word. Whereas bop sought to pass itself off as the single,
authentic style of jazz, by renewing the musical language of
jazz and by changing the social perception of jazz from enter¬
tainment ("a barroom atmosphere music") to art, trad jazz

180
hoped to remotivate the restricted musical language of hot
jazz (by, in effect, resurrecting some of its hoariest play¬
ers, like trumpeter Willie G. "Bunk" Johnson) (JT, 139, 152).
Both sides generated plenty of highly polemical rhetoric.
Panassié, author of The Real Jazz, championed le jazz hot,
and a group of younger critics—Leonard Feather, Martin Wil¬
liams, and Ross Russell--gambled and won careers betting on
the legitimacy of bebop. Most importantly, though, at the
very time jazz was seeking intellectual respectability,
emphasizing technical facility like it had never done before,
and incorporating classical devices of harmony and melody, the
discourse of jazz began to rigorously employ the language of
musicology; it, too, began to bid for intellectual respecta¬
bility. "The first book to look closely at the materials
and grammar of jazz," Sargeant's Jazz; Hot and Hybrid, was
published in 1946, the very same year Charlie Parker recorded
his first session for Ross Russell's Dial Records (E£, viii).
To complete this brief history of jazz, one need only note
that Monk was both wrong and right. He was wrong because the
cycle of conventionalization and legitimation continued. Cool
jazz and hard bop conventionalized bebop, and the so-called
free playing of Ornette Coleman, Sun Ra, and Cecil Taylor
and the modal improvisations of Miles Davis and John Coltrane
—perverse readings of the materials of bop--relegitimated
jazz. Then jazz bifurcated. Miles Davis conventionalized
modal jazz by placing it in an electric context and assigning
it a rock beat. The result received the appellation jazz

181
fusion. The jazz avant garde, although Ornette Coleman and
others began to employ electronics, resisted conventionaliza¬
tion; it remained vehemently modern and, therefore, maintained
legitimacy. At the present date, although mediations are
constantly attempted, it seems likely that this rift (like
similar ones in painting, architecture, film, drama, and
literature) will remain unrepaired, that the avant garde and
popular sectors of jazz will continue to renew themselves
through independent cycles of conventionalization and
legitimation.
But Monk was also right. "Bebop is," as novelist Xam
Wilson Cartiér puts it, "the threat of black music turnin
back outsider-black, leavin white wallflowers all over the
place."23 it was not readily imitated, and because it was
difficult to listen to, few people wanted to "steal" it. It
marked the end of the availability of jazz for mass ownership
or mass consumption. Jazz had won a Pyrrhic victory. In
becoming a modern music it had successfully thwarted conven¬
tionalization, raised its aesthetic value, and effectively
ended its popularity. Jazz composers--Ceci1 Taylor, Ornette
Coleman, John Coltrane, Albert Ayler, Eric Dolphy, Anthony
Braxton, and others--cultivating musical ground broken by
bebop, faced a dilemma similar to the one which confronted
Boulez, Cage, Babbitt, and Stockhausen: whether to cease
being modern (i.e., popularize one's art), seek patronage
from the wealthy (as did Monk and Parker from the Baroness
Pannonica de Koenigswarter) or the State (e.g.,
a university

182
position), or, through incessant recording and performing,
develop a narrowcast audience large enough to support one's
efforts.24 of course, no consensus was reached; all three
solutions were applied (sometimes by the same musician). Jazz
became, and still is, a fragmented music, riven with contra¬
dictions, at once disdainful of the masses (but ever anxious
to increase and maintain its hard-earned legitimacy) and
bitter over its lost popularity. It remains a creation and
casualty of modernism, as well as one of its most accurate
metaphors.
To summarize, we find that what would later qualify as
genuine or legitimate jazz hinged on misreadings made possible
when an already legitimated form of jazz was conventionalized.
Plus, we observe that, in its emphasis on creative misreading,
this interpretation of the history of jazz--accurate or not
—provides a model for invention; it suggests that artistic
renewal arises with, not before, popularization, co-opta¬
tion, and conventionalization. Unlike nonfiction writing
about jazz, which sought to stabilize its discourse by modeling
itself after musicology, and thereby shut down alternative
representations, jazz music seemed less interested in, or
less capable of, achieving such hegemony. Although success¬
fully legitimated forms of jazz certainly suppressed aberrant
or innovative interpretations (bop is the classic example of
this), jazz seems particularly acceptant or susceptible to
misreadings of its basic materials. Pianist Cecil Taylor
claims, "Jazz is the only art form in which you can see four

183
different generations working together, and see how they're
growing."2^ Clearly, this model needs to be generalized and
applied to critical writing.
Returning to Sculler's text, we find ourselves in a
quandary. Should we accept his writing--a musicological
study of early jazz--as an example of the genuine? Obviously,
he says we should, and we could certainly find others to
agree with him. For instance, Nat Hentoff writes:
As for jazz music criticism as such, the situation
appears to me much improved since I first began reading
such impressionistic, Old Testament-like oracles of
jazz as Hugues Panassié when I was a boy. In the past
decade particularly, a nucleus of technically trained
critics has finally been developing a durable body of
analytical jazz criticism. "I am tired," a Swarthmore
professor and jazz collector said recently, ''of jazz
being treated as metaphor rather than music." The senti¬
mental, semi-mystical, vehemently contentious approach
to jazz criticism is outdated. . . .
There is also, however, a growing number of listeners
who want particularly to know how the music is actually
made. The criticism of such musician-writers as Gunther
Schuller in America, André Hodeir in France, and Max
Harrison in England, among others, has begun to fill
this need.2*>
Given our observations about the process by which a system of
representation comes to count as genuine, should we accept the
testimony of Hentoff? Why not dismiss him as Schuller's
accomplice or dupe? Dare we suspect that Schuller's text might
be a counterfeit--an imitation of "genuine musicological
research," merely passing for "scholarship and serious analy¬
sis"? How do we know that Schuller is not deceiving us,
perhaps even deceiving himself? Perhaps, without believing
in musicology, he is merely playing with it, simulating it,
in order to seduce readers. Could he be an amateur passing

184
for a professional? Is he so overwhelmed with love for jazz,
that his desire compels him to pose as, affect all the signs
of, a serious scholar?
Strictly speaking, there is no generally accepted name
for the study of jazz. "Ethnomusicology," Kerman notes, "is
popularly understood to mean the study of non-Western music"
(CM, 13). Musicology--which "was originally understood (as
Musikwissenschaft still is) to cover thinking about, research
into, and knowledge of all possible aspects of music"--
in academic practice, and in broad general usage . . .
has come to have a much more constricted meaning. It
has come to mean the study of the history of Western
music in the high-art tradition. . . . Furthermore, in
the popular mind—and in the minds of many academics--
musicology is restricted not only in the subject matter
it covers but also in its approach to that subject matter.
(I say "restricted" rather than "constricted" here, for
this approach is not the result of any paring down of
an earlier concept.) Musicology is perceived as dealing
essentially with the factual, the documentary, the verifi¬
able, the analyzable, the positivistic. (CM, 11-12)
Schuller's text, then, can only imitate the motions of "genuine
rausicological research." It can cast out or conceal its
metaphorical basis, disguise discourse which is generally
descriptive or impressionistic, and, thereby, force the merely
rhetorical to submit to the authority of science. And it can
employ the discourse of science--the dialectic of positivism
(liberal human ism)--to define the field of jazz as a rigorously
structured system. But it cannot be musicology, precisely
because jazz has not been institutionalized as Music; it is
not part of the high-art tradition of Western music.
When Schuller states that his "book is directed particu¬
larly to the 'classically' trained musician or composer, who

185
may never have concerned himself with jazz and who cannot
respond to the in-group jargon and glossy enthusiasm of most
writing on jazz," he necessarily accepts a definition of
musicology that labels his own text a counterfeit. If Early
Jazz, or any other utterance about jazz, is "allowed to pass
for scholarship and serious analysis," it must play the part
of discourse that is playing the part of musicology. It
must mark itself as a counterfeit of a counterfeit in order
to be allowed to pass as genuine. Hence, Schuller faces a
mandate which cannot be carried out (except through a trick,
by faking). His text must ultimately exclude classical music,
for it must demonstrate how jazz differs from classical music.
But at the same time, for his text to be taken seriously, it
must employ a discourse system which would exclude his object
of study, one which was devised for the express purpose of
representing classical music.
Schuller has made a deal with jazz. If it will permit
musicology to adopt it, colonize it, make love to it, dress
it up, etc. (choose or invent a metaphor), then the nagging
question of its legitimacy and literacy can be amended.
Jazz will gain the analytical language of science and, thereby
order its credentials and increase its desirability. Feather
states it well when he wrotes:
Many have tried to explain jazz in words; all have failed
But the more persuasive writers and lecturers, impressing
their audiences with the subject's validity as material
for serious discussion, have drawn into the orbit of jazz
appreciation a number of potential converts, willing to
listen with a broader mind, a more receptive ear. (p. 19)

186
By feigning musicological discourse--the representation of
music warranted as truth in this episteme--jazzology, a term
I label following the example of Cortázar, aims to seduce.
It hopes to lure receptive ears. Like all writing about
jazz, like all writing, it produces desire. As Stephen Long-
street remarks, in a passage Kennington and Read use as the
epigraph to The Literature of Jazz,
There were a raft of books published about jazz history,
a lot of them bad, some of them very good as to facts and
dates and names; a few were readable, the rest mostly for
the fanatics and so packed with names, dates and written
either in professors' English or reporters' prose that
you had to love the stuff a lot to wade through it.
But it all helped, it all made the subject serious because
people are impressed by the printed word about anything.27
In a similar vein, Hobsbawm observes that "relatively few
[jazz] fans write poetry to or about the beloved," but "when
they do, it tends to rely excessively on the magic of names
which vibrate only for other lovers."28 Most interesting,
proper names, like musical sounds, lack any apparent semantic
content. As Eco explains; "The semantic universe of proper
names is simply a linguistically poor universe in which there
are many cases of homonymy" (T£, 86-87). Strung throughout
a text, proper names form a kind of secondary structure.
They pose a test, situate the reader vis a vis jazz (or any
other object of desire). If he knows the precise reference
code to establish who a person is (e.g., can conjure an image;
"Oh yeah, Bird and Diz recorded 'Ko Ko' for Savoy on November
26, 1945."), then he passes the test; if the proper name is
unknown, the "correct" or normative code unproducable (e.g.,
"Who's that? Some guy you slept with?"), then the name

187
connotes but does not denote. Therefore, depending on one's
position relative to a particular discourse, the proper name
can reinforce cultural ties or effectively designate a barred
entrance to a culture or subculture; navigating the proper
names in a text becomes analogous to listening to music (navi¬
gating musical signs or codes).
In the next chapter, I shall look at the means by which
jazzology sought to attain legitimacy, establish a name for
itself: which is to say, I shall examine the effect of the
conjunction of musicology and jazz. For now, though, I
conclude this section by remarking the image which initiated
it. We notice that through the machinations of a complex
economy, a surprising but inevitable logic from which even
Schuller's text could not escape, the body of jazz literature
is treated as a counterfeit, or, better, it is conceived as
a hermaphrodite: an amalgam of amateur criticism which has
passed as (i.e., carries the marks of) both "general descrip¬
tive or impressionistic" writing and "scholarship and serious
analysis."
Hermaphroditus, one may recall, was the son of Hermes and
Aphrodite. One day, while bathing in a fountain, the local
nymph, Salmacis, saw him and, immediately, fell in love. He
rejected her. At her prayer, however, when she embraced
him, the gods united them in a single body.
Although we may question the subsumption of the name
Salmacis by the name Hermaphroditus, we could consider the
nymph as a precipitant in the metamorphosis of Hermaphroditus,

188
for the offspring of Hermes and Aphrodite is always already
an indeterminable. In his or her name, Hermaphrodi tus bears
an image of duality; differance is played out (created and
exhausted) in its space.
By an interesting twist, Hermaphroditus' father--Hermes
or Mercury—is associated with the amalgam (an alloy of mercury
with another metal), and as the inventor of the lyre (which
he fashioned from a tortoise shell and exchanged with Apollo
for the caduceus, a symbol of the medical profession), Hermes
is also associated with music. He is the messenger of the
gods, the trickster, the patron of prose and rhetoric, thieves
and lying, and philosophy and "hermetic" knowledge (he is
identified with Theuth, the god of writing, and Thoth, the
Egyptian god of wisdom, cf. Piss, 84ff). His union with
Aphrodite (by definition, the goddess of amateurs, and by
means of a pun, the goddess of things Afro-), produced an
archetypical counterfeit (a word which derives from the French
contrefaire, to imitate). Hermaphroditus could pass for
either male or female, both male and female, and neither
male nor female. He should be the god of jazz.
I suspect that I have done violence to Schuller's inten¬
tions. I have certainly taken his metaphor places where he
would not have it go. By means of a trick, I have twisted it,
prompted it to behave improperly, jazzed it up. Salmacis is,
after all, a literary theorist.

189
Rapsody
Listen to the beginning of "Folk Forms No. 1," a compo¬
sition The Charles Mingus Jazz Workshop recorded for Nat
Hentoff's Candid record label on October 20, 1960, and one
will hear the leader reeling off phrases in rapid-fire bursts,
sounding not a little bit harried, giving the following intro-
duct ion:
Good evening ladies and gentlemen. We'd like to remind
you that we don't applaud here at the Showplace, or
wherever we work. So restrain your applause, and if
you must applaud wait 'til the end of the set. And it
won't even matter then. The reason is that we are inter¬
rupted by your noise. In fact, don't even take any
drinks or no cash registers ringing, et cetera. Like
to introduce the musicians in the Jazz Workshop: Dannie
Richmond, drums; Eric Dolphy, alto saxophone, clarinet,
bassoon, oboe, flute, Did I miss anything?; Ted Curson,
trumpet.
Like to open this set with a composition that's based
on a folksong form. Has no title yet, so it'll probably
appear on a record someplace titled something like . .
. ah . . . What could replace opus? Like Opus . . .
Oh, New Series One--Folk Series.29
Do not be deceived, though. The composition introduced, like
Charles Mingus Presents Charles Mingus, the recording on which
"Folk Forms No. 1" and three other tunes appeared, was not
recorded "live." In the liner notes, Hentoff writes that
this album, recorded right after Dolphy and Curson had decided
to leave the band, was not even made at the Showplace. He
explains:
Location recordings are hazardous, particularly in terms
of sound, and so we tried a studio that both Mingus and
I feel is perhaps the warmest for small jazz combos in
New York--Tommy Nola's Penthouse in the Steinway building.
Mingus also decided to set a mood that might resemble a
night in the club. That's why his announcements are on

190
the record, and that's why he wanted the lights turned
out during the recording.
Thus, if we trust a record producer's written explanation
over an artist's recorded assertion (rendered above as a
transcription), and, perhaps most of all, if the reader trusts
this now absent writer, then Mingus (whose ashes were poured
into the Ganges in 1979), on one of his very best recordings,
played to "ladies and gentlemen" who never appeared, much
less applauded, at a place where no money was ever rung up
on any cash register.
Mingus Presents Mingus, pressed and distributed on vinyl
discs shaped like large, black coins, manifests every charac¬
teristic that postmodern literary theorists assign to records
--writing in the broad sense--but normally (as I shall continue
to do) discuss only in terms of "records"—writing in the
narrow sense—inscribed on rectangular sheets of white paper.
Indeed, this particular recording qualifies as exemplary
precisely because it so evidently makes apparent the normal
functioning of all records, which is to say, by extension,
"every species of sign and communication" ("SEC," 314). I
shall label it--Mingus' record and the normal functioning of
wr i t i ng--rapsody.
Rapsody, as one might expect, is a variant spelling of
"rhapsody," a word Samuel Johnson defined as "any number of
parts joined together, without necessary dependence or natural
connection." Therefore, it speaks, albeit in an interesting
manner, of what are by now two of the most frequently visited

191
commonplaces of semiotics, the arbitrariness and the iter-
ability of the sign.
Hamlet, for example (111.iv. 46-49), back home in Denmark
after studying in Germany, speaks to his mother of those who
of "sweet religion" make "a rhapsody of words." He, thereby,
recalls Luther's criticism of Catholicism as empty ritual or
vain repetition. Precocious (and conservative) semiotician
that he is, Hamlet calls attention to--he actually accuses his
mother of--promulgating that linguistic practice which turns
ultimate, metaphysical reality into empty letters, chains of
signifiers without transcendental signifieds, strung together
like rosary beads to make mere syntax.
Rhapsody combines rhaptein ("to weave or stitch together")
with oide ("song").30 Thus, it literally means "the stringing
together of poems" (NED) and to "rhapsodize" "basically means
in Greek 'to stitch songs together'" (O&L, 13); we would
also do well to remember that the English word text comes
from textus, fabric, the plural of texere, to weave.
Rhapsody, as Rogers observes, has three main semantic
layers. Originally, as one might expect, it referred to an
epic poem or part of one "suitable for recitation at one
time" (NED). Later it came to signify an omnium gatherum, a
miscellany or literary medley "pieced together without close
or integral connection" (Rogers, "Shaftesbury," 247). This
is the sense implied in Johnson's definition of the term and
in his definition of "rhapsodist": "one who writes without
regular dependance of one part upon another." Here, though,

192
with a little imagination one may also sense a diversion in
the flow of semantic currency and detect the third meaning
of rhapsody as an "effusive outpouring of sentiment" or "uncon¬
trolled fervour." Holman, synthesizing or, better, fusing
all three meanings of the word, states that rhapsody is marked
by emotional intensity and "free, irregular form, suggesting
improvisation."
In his study of Shaftesbury's The Moralists, A Philo¬
sophical Rhapsody, Rogers notes that shifting attitudes towards
rhapsody provide a register of aesthetic norms throughout
literary history, and he credits Shaftesbury with remotivating
the term, even with precipitating "the admiring tone which
the word picked up in the wake of Romanticism." Of course,
in order to argue this point Rogers establishes the negative
connotations that Augustans attributed to the term (and which
persist in modern usage in the pejorative overtones accorded
the epithet rhapsodic). In the subtext of Johnson's definition
and in Steele, Pope, and Swift's disparaging employment of
the term, he recognizes "'the basic principle of classicism
in design,' defined by Sir John Summerson as 'that the design
shall be an indivisible unity, so that nothing can be altered
or subtracted without destroying the whole, every part being
dependent on every other part'" (p. 248). Rhapsody, Rogers
declares, is "the direct antithesis of 'a frame,' defined as
a fabric made up of 'various parts or members' which support
one another." Even though this is highly debatable, a tempting
subject for discussion, we shall not pursue this contention

193
because in his study of Swift's "On Poetry: A Rhapsody,"
Rogers makes a more important discovery, one which he mentions
only in passing--perhaps because it threatens to upset the
very notion of rhapsody itself, to disrupt the economy which
conveniently differentiates rhapsody (always linked with
orality) from its other (always associated with writing).
By means of a pun noticed by Swift, rhapsody suggests a
"rap," that is, a knock on the head (from rhepo, to slap or
smite with the palm of the hand) and, most important, a "rapp,"
that is, "a counterfeit coin, worth about half a farthing,
which passed current for a halfpenny in Ireland in the 18th
century, owing to the scarcity of genuine money" (OED).
Rapsody is, thus, a trope highly appropriate for conceptual¬
izing jazz. It signifies the rapp of writing, the placing
into question of concepts such legitimacy and literacy, the
confusion of the genuine and the counterfeit, and the interro¬
gation of order.
Towards the end of Young Man with a Horn, Dorothy Baker,
with a dead-pan face that could match Buster Keaton's, has
one of her characters, Amy North, the high-society, girl friend
of the trumpet-playing protagonist, say, "[T]here's nothing
in the world so beautiful and so astonishing as the spectacle
of a really disordered mind."31- One of the funniest passages
in the book (but no match for the sentence where the narrator,
assessing Amy's crumbling relationship with Rick, muses, "If
she did stick it out and become a psychiatrist, it was almost
certain that they'd never go shopping again"--p. 197), it,

194
nevertheless, typifies a modern reinvestment in, perhaps the
ultimate popularization of, the aesthetics of rhapsody. In
what we, following Perloff, might call a cool or disillusioned
version of the Romantic myth of the individual, modernism
associated rhapsody with jazz. Rhapsody in Blue is, of course,
the most convenient and, arguably, the best example of this
pairing, for regardless of its actual ties to "real" jazz of
whatever stripe, Gershwin's title announced to the world the
congruence of two aesthetics. Plenty of other examples,
though, could be produced. For instance, Satie said of jazz,
"It shouts its sorrows."32 or to move ahead in time over
half-a-century, Michael Harper, in Dear John, Dear Coltrane,
included a poem entitled "Rhapsody: Ours." Or dipping back
to the Beat Generation, Ginsberg ("Holy the groaning saxo¬
phone!") stated of Howl and other poems written at about the
same time, "A lot of these forms developed out of an extreme
rhapsodic wail I once heard in a madhouse," and Kerouac, in
On the Road, wrote (as always, in the exclamatory mode): "It
was remarkable how Dean could go mad and then suddenly continue
with his soul . . . calmly and sanely as though nothing hap¬
pened.
Indeed, it would be easy to continue in this mode myself,
to weave one example after another or show how one author--
Kerouac would suit my designs perfectly--stitched "songs"
together. But this approach would avoid what needs to be
done here: write out (of) the trick of rhapsody, by writing
with a text that has employed what we shall call rapsody

195
(always indeterminable) as a generative trope, a model for
writing. Therefore, in order to accomplish my goal, in
the next section, I employ parts of three novels by Ishmael
Reed to investigate the possibility of rapsodic writing.
My analysis takes as its point of departure a pair of ref¬
erences to several contemporary jazz musicians found in
the Reed's first novel, The Free-Lance Pallbearers. It
also, but much later in the essay, examines Barthes's comment
that the readerly narrative is comparable to a musical
score. A text doubled over, the following section should
be taken as an example of one way to do rapsodic writing.
It weaves together two argumentative lines, which can be
read either together or separately. The comments in
brackets, one might notice, serve as a kind of "semi-
independent" embellishment of a melody line, or as an improv¬
isation on a standard. Or, if one prefers, I constantly
cue up the stylus of one text in order to interrupt brazenly
a rather mechanical performance.
Rapsody in Read:
Reed's "The Free-Lance Pallbearers" and Barthes's "S/Z"
When Bukka Doopeyduk, protagonist of Ishmael Reed's
first novel, The Free-Lance Pallbearers, becomes a star in
the "big not-to-be-believed out-of-sight, sometimes referred
to as O-BOP-SHE-BANG or KLANG-A-LANG-A-DING-DONG" world of
Harry Sam (i.e., in the U.S.A.), a jazz critic from the

196
Deformed Demokrat--one J. Lapp Swine--wri tes the following
headline:
AFTER BEING STUMPED BY CECIL TAYLOR AND ARCHIE SHEPP
IT DID THIS CRIPPLED MIND SOME GOOD TO SEE OL BONES34
Later, several months after playing "to standing-room-only
crowds in the Hamptons, Provincetown, Woodstock, and Fre¬
mont, Ohio," Bukka receives HARRY SAM'S ultimate accolade
--an invitation that makes him turn "somersaults over its
contents" (FLP, 83). It reads:
YOU ARE INVITED TO A BAD TRIP
AT THE HARRY SAM MOTEL. MUSIC BY CHET BAKER
FUN, STROBOSCOPIC LIGHTS, HOOPLA HOOPS AND
FRANK PRANKS (SMILE)
a driver will call for you at 12:00 A.M.
August 6th, 1945 (FLP, 83)
Swine's headline and Sam's invitation name three actu¬
al, historical jazz musicians: a pair of black, East coast
musicians and a white, West coast trumpet player.3^ Taken
together, they constitute a coded reference to the opposition
free jazz versus cool jazz, and if read as ironic, meta¬
comments on the novel and the political milieu the novel
portrays, they reveal Reed's aesthetic. He satirizes Baker
(any entertainer who performs at the Harry Sam Motel, that
is, at the author's version of the White House, is part of
the novel's satiric target) and identifies his artistic
aims with two of the leading exponents of what was variously
called "avant-garde jazz," "the new thing," or "free jazz,"
and which in 1967, the year The Free-Lance Pallbearers was
published, included such other notables as Ornette Coleman,
36
Sun Ra, Albert Ayler, and Bill Dixon.

197
[1. Con abbandono. But what if Swine's headline and
Sam's invitation merely present readers with a case of
homophony?^7 After all, there are plenty of names in FLP
which match up with names one can actually find in the
phone book of any large city. The reader may even have
friends or acquaintances who share these names. Plus, on
the book's copyright page there is an anonymous statement
that declares: "All of the characters in this book are
fictitious and any resemblance to . . ." etc. Perhaps,
the indisputable fact that three names within the space of
two pages coincide with three actual names listed on the
rolls of the musician's union is too good to be true: a
remarkable fluke, a fortuitous accident, a magical--
homorhythmic or isometric—moment where one set of textual
voices and rhythms perfectly synchronize with the voices and
rhythms of another set. Textuality, thou art so dadgum
exciting! Supreme of the Corporeal World! Thy Being is
boundless, unsearchable, impenetrable.
Consider the parenthesis above and the parentheses
below--numbered, titled, and set off in brackets for your
convenience--as rhapsodic raving, a recurring emotive moment
sending shutters of rapture--that is, rupture--throughout
this analysis. Sweet felicity! They can be read with the
other, non-bracketed line of text; they can be ignored;
they can be read instead of the non-bracketed text.]
Admittedly, two rather oblique references to specific
musicians in a novel does not establish a moral or an

198
aesthetic norm, and an ironic reading of those references
does not necessarily warrant broad theoretical speculation.
More evidence is needed if we are to connect The Free-Lance
Pallbearers with free jazz. That evidence is readily
available.
[2. Con amabilita. To entertain the notion that three
names--Cecil Taylor, Archie Shepp, and Chet Baker--could not
allude to three jazz musicians might seem frivolous, a pedan¬
tic, hermeneutical game. But it is far from that, for it
touches upon a much larger question which affects our read¬
ing, not only of FLP, but of absolutely any text. Namely,
if words refer, by what means do readers determine--stop and
start--reference? It is a serious question: the rapsody of
reading.]
As early as 1952, Reed (born in Chattanooga, Tennessee,
1938) wrote a jazz column for the Empire State Weekly
(Shrovetide, 5), and throughout his career he has alluded
to jazz and jazz musicians, as a casual glance through his
poetry, his fiction, or his collection of essays, Shrovetide
in Old New Orleans, will reveal. He has also written arti¬
cles specifically about jazz: for example, "Bird Lives"
(1973), a review of Ross Russell's biography of Charlie
"Yardbird" Parker, Music: Black, White and Blue (1972), a
review of Ortiz Walton's work on "Classical American Music"
(i.e., jazz), and "The Old Music" (1975), a treatment of

199
New Orleans music, that draws parallels between early jazz
and VooDoo rites.
In addition to manifesting a general knowledge of jazz,
when Reed lived in New York, he was well aquainted with the
major innovators of free jazz. He writes:
Walking down St. Mark's Place in New York's East Village
I was often able to observe key members of several
generations of the American "avant-garde," before break¬
fast, or chat with Archie Shepp, Ornette Coleman, Sun
Ra, Bill Dixon, Albert Ayler, Cecil Taylor, and members
of a splendid generation of young painters. (Shrove¬
tide, 111)
Indeed, it is important to emphasize that Reed associated
with a large number of artists--musicians, painters, actors,
dancers, film-makers, and writers--while in New York (before
moving to the San Francisco Bay area), but it is also
important to note the particluar group of musicians he
singles out for specific mention and support. Little more
than five months before the publication of FLP, Reed wrote
an article for Arts Magazine, entitled "The Black Artist:
Calling a Spade a Spade," in which he comments on the Black
Arts movement in New York.38 Here, he discusses the work
of LeRoi Jones (later Imamu Amiri Baraka), Joe Overstreet,
and Chester Wilson, but fully one-third of this piece is
devoted to the observations about the work of Archie Shepp,
Sun Ra, and Albert Ayler. He compliments Shepp's staging
of a "Jazz allegory Junebug Graduates Tonight" for its
hilarious "debunking of Marxist clichés." He recommends
"Arkestra" leader, Sun Ra, for his "interstellar bopping,"
and "his not-to-be-believed theater: costume changes,

200
monologues, poetry, madness and spell-weaving." And he
singles out Ayler--a tenorman whose brief career ended in
a mysterious death by drowning in 1970--for praise most redo
lent of FLP1s style. He writes:
Then there's Albert Ayler whose band sounds like a
psychedelic Salvation Army troupe. But they ain't
begging for nickels or brandishing no tin cups baby,
'cause them cats is hard. Got blood in their eyes as
they 'spit up craziness,' honk eschatologically and
do the hymnal violin sawing of American broadside
music. Their music signals the smoke of eastern cities
the last days of the American empire with freakish
fourth of July sounds and scatological street madness.
("Black Artist," 49)
There should now be no doubt that Reed intimately knows
and admires jazz and specifically the type of jazz associ¬
ated with Cecil Taylor and Archie Shepp. Couple this with
his observation that one of the "glaring problems" facing
"recent black poetry," and by extension black writing in
general, "is that there isn't as much variety among the
critical approaches as there is in the writing the critics
are examing" (Shrovetide, 140), and we practically have a
challenge to approach his work through a more "experimental"
approach.
[3. Con anima. For instance, let us assume that the
three proper names in question, like the names on the front
covers of recordings currently in print, really do refer.
Then what? FLP, as a satire--a referential text supposedly
self-conscious and critical of its own referential status
--collapses. Here are several reasons. First, we are in
the midst of a classic double bind, similar to the one

201
where the Cretan says, "All Cretans are liars." If we
assume the fictiveness of the text, take the disclaimer
printed on the copyright page seriously, then there is no
satire because the text does not refer. But if we assume
that FLP does refer, then it begins with the out-and-out
truth that it lies. Someone, told us that all its characters
are fictitious, but this is clearly not the case. The
book, as promised, cannot be trusted. Its satire is unreli¬
able, undercut by its own (dis)honesty.]
Therefore, in the following pages I shall employ a frame
such as that provided by commonly accepted ways of organiz¬
ing free jazz to write about Reed's approach to writing.
Throughout this analysis I use FLP as my tutor text, for
although Mumbo Jumbo has more explicit references to jazz,
it is set in the 1920s. Several cautions, however, are in
order. First one from Reed--he asks:
how could somebody look at the black poetry of the
last twenty years . . . and say that black poetry is
. . . based upon "black speech and music" when an
examination would show that the majority of language
material is American or English and that the poets
and novelists have been influenced by not only music
but graphics, painting, film sculpture--al1 disciplines
and all art forms--and write about all subjects?
They [the critics] say music because they are social¬
ist realists and music is the most popular art form
of the masses. You can be influenced by music while
you're asleep but reading is hard work. Of course
listening to Cecil Taylor, Bill Dixon, and others is
hard work, too, but when these critics talk about
"music" they don't mean those musicians. (Shrovetide,
140-41)
This statement constitutes both a caution to, and a valida¬
tion of, this type of investigation. On the one hand, it

202
validates because it further substantiates what we have
already witnessed. Cecil Taylor, Bill Dixon, and others
are, to Reed, musicians wholly set apart from the mass of
musicians championed by "socialist realists." On the other
hand, this statement also cautions. It reminds us that
any work of art results from multiple determinations. For
example, it would be just as risky to aver that Cecil Tay¬
lor's Unit Structures (1967) caused Reed to create FLP
(1967) as it would be to say that Reed caused Taylor's
music. Causal factors or influences are simply not the
issue here (even though it seems obvious that the relation¬
ship between music and fiction is reciprocal, trends in
music influencing trends in fiction and vice versa). We
cannot speak of FLP as the literary equivalent of free
jazz, or of free jazz as the musical equivalent of Reed's
fiction or poetry.
[4. Con ardore. Suppose that we bracket off the state¬
ment on the copyright page, assume that someone, a kindly
editor perhaps, put it there to protect the ever-contentious
Reed. Then, certainly, the names in the book could refer
to other names outside FLP. If these names were not ambig¬
uous (but how could they not be?), "Cecil Taylor" would be
a coded reference to a specific pianist (who never, ever
changes) named Cecil Taylor, and "Bukka Doopeyduk" would,
of course, refer to Bukka Doopeyduk, someone with whom I
have not made an acquaintance. In this version of FLP--
actually a inconceivable, textual universe--words would

203
have one and only one referent. There would be a word for
every thing (at every moment, in every conceivable presen¬
tation), a thing for every word; no slippage of signification
would be allowed, no generalization would be possible and,
obviously, there would be no writing, much less satire.]
We can, however, imagine the possibility of a poetic
shared by FLP and free jazz as a way to talk about Reed's
fiction. And because no heirarchical or hegemonic rela¬
tionship between the making of music and the writing of
literature can be demonstrated, we may assume that the
discourse of Reed and free jazz may be used to mutually
illuminate one another; if texts written about free jazz
can be employed to illuminate Reed's texts, then Reed's
texts can also be used to talk about (or bring into language)
free jazz. Therefore, in the first half of this study I
shall look at the form of free jazz (what it is said to
be) and employ a list of its commonly accepted character¬
istics to structure my observations about Reed. In the
second half, I shall examine the sociopolitical implications
of the free jazz-Reed aesthetic (i.e., what both may be
said to signify). Along the way I shall employ Reed's
texts as a way to potentially theorize the scene of jazz
music.
[5. Con brio. On the other hand, the possibility of
ambiguity or multiple signification (one signifier serving
multiple signifieds) would also keep FLP from functioning

204
as a satirical text. For instance if "Chet Baker" can
refer to any number of Chet Bakers now living, dead, or
soon to be born, then the text cannot possibly have any
semblance of a stable, satirical target.]
It may rightly be said that free jazz had its gestation
in the early work (mid 1950s) of Cecil Taylor and Sun Ra,
but it was the white plastic saxophone of Ornette Coleman
that gave it birth. Pynchon certainly fictionalizes this
event in when he describes McClintic Sphere's debut at
"the V-Note":
He blew a hand-carved ivory alto saxophone with a
4 1/2 reed and the sound was like nothing any of them
had heard before. The usual divisions prevailed:
collegians did not dig, and left after an average of
1 1/2 sets. Personnel from other groups, either with
a night off or taking a long break from somewhere
crosstown or uptown, listened hard, trying to dig.
"I am still thinking," they would say if you asked.
People at the bar all looked as if they did dig in
the sense of understand, approve of, empathize with:
but this was probably only because people who prefer
to stand at the bar have, universally, an inscrutable
look.
The group on the stand had
drums, McClintic and a boy he
who blew a natural horn in F. . .
together favored sixths and minor
this happened it was like a knife
war: the sound was consonant but
no piano: it was bass,
had found in the Ozarks
. . . Horn and alto
fourths and when
fight or tug of
as if cross-purposes
were in the air. The solos of McClintic Sphere were
something else. There were people around, mostly
those who wrote for Downbeat magazine or the liners
of LP records, who seemed to feel he played disregarding
chord changes completely. They talked a great deal
about soul and the anti-intellectual and the rising
rhythms of African nationalism. It was a new concep¬
tion, they said, and some of them said: Bird Lives. 9
Indeed, the term free jazz took its name from Ornette
Coleman's landmark album of 1960. Free Jazz, a thirty-six

205
minute continuous and simultaneous improvisation by two quar¬
tets, has been called "perhaps the boldest album in the
history of jazz" (101, 391). Martin Williams describes
its uniqueness in the album's liner notes:
[ N ] ot only is the improvisation almost total, it is
frequently collective, involving all eight men inventing
at once. And there were no preconceptions as to themes,
chord patterns or chorus lengths. The guide for each
soloist was a brief ensemble part which introduces him
and which gave him an area of musical pitch. Otherwise
he had only feelings and imagination--his own and those
of his accompanists--to guide him.40
Paradoxically, the only fixed requirement of free jazz was
free playing. Coleman said, "There is no single right way
to play jazz."41 Reed, for all intents and purposes, could
be seconding him when he has the protagonist of Yellow
Back Radio Broke-Down declare:
No one says a novel has to be one thing. It can be
anything it wants to be, a vaudeville show, the six
o'clock news, the mumblings of wild men saddled by
demons. (p. 36)
It is hardly shocking, therefore, that both Reed and
Coleman have been accused of being, in Reed's words, "crazy
dada niggers" (Yellowback, 35), who create "ant i-art"--"anti-
novels" and "anti-jazz."
[6. Con calore. Is Reed referring to the Chet Baker
born Chesney H. Baker on December 23, 1929, in Yale, Okla¬
homa, or to my next-door neighbor when I used to live in
Atlanta? Is he referring to the Chet Baker that Charlie
Parker actually admired and chose as his trumpet player,
the Chet Baker who played in Gerry Mulligan's piano-less
quartet in 1952, or the Chet Baker who entered Rikers Island

206
Prison to serve
late 1950s? Or
at all, but to a
Then, which text
be taken as espe
time for possession of narcotics in the
is he, perhaps, not referring to a person
received representation of a person,
s should the reader ignore and which should
cially important?]
For example, when FLP was first published, it was vari¬
ously called, "another piece of self-indulgence," "impossibly
bizarre and wholly directionless," "unsettling and decidedly
exhausting," and "diarrhea of the typewriter."^ someone
in a prescient bit of criticism even wrote, "Ishmael Reed
makes poor music--perhaps just pract icing--putting down
screeches and grunts," with the result being "a very self-
indulgent piece of prose that reads as if the author didn't
care whether anybody could like or understand it."43
[7. Con carita. I might add, calling Reed on the tele¬
phone and asking him what he meant by his Chet Baker refer¬
ence would not stand the reader in any better shape. This
would have to be repeated for every word in the book, and
it would assume (1) that the functioning of FLP is dependent
on Reed's intentions and (2) that his intentions are locat-
able, retrievable, and transmittable, an assumption now
under quest ion.]
Compare the response to Reed's work with the following
excerpt from a Down Beat review of an album Coleman recorded
prior to Free Jazz;

207
I have listened long and hard to Coleman's music. . .
have tried desperately to find something valuable in
it, something that could be construed valuable. I
have been unsuccessful. . . . Coleman's music, to me,
has only two shades: a maudlin, pleasing lyricism and
a wild ferocity bordering on bedlam. . . . "Beauty" from
the Atlantic recording This Is Our Music descends into
an orgy of squawks from Coleman, squeals from (trum¬
peter) Cherry, and above-the-bridge plinks from
(bassist) Haden. The resulting chaos is an insult to
the listening intelligence. It sounds like some hor¬
rible joke, and the question here is not whether it
is jazz, but whether it is music, (quoted in 101,
374)
The similarity of these dismissals indicates a host of biases
(everything from preconceived ideas about what writing and
music are, and should be, to rejections that are grounded
in ethnocentrism), but it emphatically demonstrates a criti¬
cal inability (or refusal), to grapple with the central
issue of privileged and non-privileged forms. Whether
intentionally or not, free jazz and FLP tease out critical
assumptions that normally remain unexpressed, if not
repressed.
[8. Con dolce maniera. The fact is, if one knew all
the referents Reed had in mind when he wrote FLP, one would
have the mind--be a simulacrum or perfect replica--of Reed;
there would be no need for his book.]
As Cecil Taylor argues, free jazz is not just a nega¬
tive freedom from traditional ideas of harmony and time,
but also the positive freedom t_o structure music in new
ways. He states, "This [music] is not a question of freedom
as opposed to non-freedom, but rather a question of recog¬
nizing different ideas and expressions of order" (101,

208
379-80). The real question, then, is not whether Cole¬
man's "molten, unchained improvisations" are "music," or
whether Reed's HooDoo conjurings are "literature." The
question is, what kind of music, what kind of literature
have these men created, and how can we describe their
accomplishments? Answers to this question yield the fol¬
lowing outline, which details structural characteristics
of the texts of free jazz and Reed.
[9. Con duit. By the same token, if one allows all the
Chet Bakers to which "Chet Baker" might possibly refer, then
determining the target of the FLP' s satire or the sense of
the novel becomes a creative act in itself. Reading ceases
to be a question of correctness; it becomes a function of
possibility. That is—to no longer fight against the homo-
phone--one imagines or coins a Reed.]
First, free jazz reworks and extends the language of
bebop. In his socio-political analysis of Afro-American
music, Blues People, Leroi Jones (Amiri Baraka) reminds his
readers that free jazz uses "the music of the forties [bebop]
. . . as an initial reference." And Ornette Coleman, dis¬
cussing his composition "Bird Food," writes the following
of Charlie Parker, the patron saint of bebop:
Bird would have understood us. He would have approved
our aspiring to something beyond what we inherited.
Oddly enough, the idolization of Bird, people wanting
to play just like him, and not make their own soul-
search, has finally come to be an impediment to progress
in jazz. 4

209
Reed acknowledges certain references as well. We have
already witnessed some of these, but we would not be far
off the mark to perceive Mumbo Jumbo, ostensibly a mad-cap
detective story about a conspiracy to Knock, Dock, Co-opt,
Swing, Bop, and Rock the creative spirit of black people,
as one long homage to intellectual and spiritual forebearers.
One should also note that in the Introduction to Yardbird
Li ves, Reed writes that Charlie Parker's formidable crea¬
tivity and eclecticism inspired his and Al Young's editorial
philosophies.^
[10. Con espressivo. Or to say the same thing in a
different way, take another tack. Given referenti ality, FLP
becomes a hopelessly complex web of signifiers which cease¬
lessly signify. For instance, we must now assume that two
words "Chet Baker" refer to a trumpet player named Chet Baker
(let us imagine a set of texts representing the man at a
given point in his career). But if this is an allowable
assumption, then Chet Baker might, among a host of other
possibilities, signify cool jazz; cool jazz, in turn, might
signify political disengagement; political disengagement
might signify a black aesthetic which values engagement;
this aesthetic might take us to Cecil Taylor . . . and so
on and so forth. The point is, for the text to mean anything
it must signify and keep signifying (other texts or things
--take your pick). When we read phrases like "Chet Baker"
or "HARRY SAM," we are prompted to treat them, to employ
Barthes's term, as codes. The text cues us to link these

210
references to culturally received chains of signification.
Once begun, however, this referential process cannot be
stopped or easily governed. The text can come to mean—
that is, refer to or signify—absolutely anything.
Second, free jazz posits "the liberation of melody from
preset chord changes and fixed tempo" (101 , 374). If bebop
signals the triumph of improvisation based on an eighth note
pulse and the chord sequence of a standard popular song,
then free jazz signals the abandonment of fixed pulse and
chord sequences in favor of improvisation based upon melodic
feeling. In it the "right note" is "not the one possible
within theoretical limits, but rather the one which sounds
right to the individual" (101, 377). Coleman claims, "It
was when I found out I could make mistakes that I knew I was
onto something," and composer George Russell said, free jazz
is first and foremost a music that "poses no rules, no dos
and don'ts, but instead offers a limitless variety of possi¬
bilities."4^
Applied to FLP, this aesthetic of freedom allows for
a reading of the novel that views it [actually hears it]
as an improvisation. Stated concretely, this means that
the novel's first two and one-half pages, a kind of com¬
pressed myth of HARRY SAM, an alternative portrait of Amer¬
ica in the 1960s, constitute a keynote, tonal center, or
melody upon which Reed improvises. The novel's structure
arises from the satisfaction of its own internal logic,
not from criteria imposed from without (as in theme and

211
variation). Gunther Schuller, in an article entitled "The
Future of Form in Jazz," wrote of this notion from a musical
point of view in 1957:
It has become increasingly clear that "form" need not
be a confining mold into which tonal materials are
poured, but rather that the forming process can be
directly related to the musical material employed in
a specific instance. In other words, form evolves
out of the material itself and is not imposed upon
it. We must learn to think of form as a verb rather
than a noun. (quoted in 101, 379)
[11. Con fuoco. Hence, to coin something of a tautol¬
ogy, if referentiality is not started, one cannot read,
but if referentiality is not stopped a text cannot, in
truth, be read; it becomes a mass of over determined codes.
To know, then, exactly where to stop and start the text,
what signifier to link with another, what reading to legit¬
imate, what reading to deem counterfeit, then, is the real
question. It is the question of rhapsody: which seme,
which thread, should be pulled or followed?]
Third, free jazz constantly searches for new song struc¬
tures . The repertory of bebop, with certain notable excep¬
tions, consisted largely of standard popular songs (the stuff
of Tin Pan Alley) or, more properly the chord changes to
those songs. Thus, when Coleman and Taylor first "loosened
up" jazz, there was an accompanying expansion of song struc¬
tures suitable for jazz treatment. The result was that jazz
music began to assimilate African, Indian, classical Euro¬
pean, and other "foreign" influences. By the same token,
the variety exhibited by Reed's oeuvre also indicates a

212
constant search for new, workable (which is often to say,
subvertable) structures of discourse.
[12. Con garbo. Mumbo Jumbo foregrounds this issue.
In a previous novel, Yellow-Back Radio Broke Down, Reed
presented an alternate reading of the cleaning-up of old New
Orleans: the foolish Wallflower Order's fumigation of the
Place Congo in the 1890s. In Mumbo Jumbo, published in 1971,
he creates another alternate history; this one set in New
York in the 1920s.]
For example, take this following passage from FLP. It
describes the frieze which adorns the hood of Nancy [Card¬
inal] Spellman's Rolls-Royce. It presents Reed's version
of the Christian, or as he calls it, the Nazarene apocalypse.
It showed HARRY SAM the dictator and former Polish used-
car salesman sitting on the great commode. In his lap
sat a businessman, a Nazarene apprentice and a black
slum child. These figures represented the Just.
Standing on each side of the dictator were four washroom
attendants. In their hands they had seven brushes,
seven combs, seven towels, and seven bars of soap, a
lock of Roy Rogers' hair and a Hershey bar. Above
the figures float Lawrence Welk champagne bubbles.
Below this scene tombstones have been rolled aside
and the nazarene faithful are seen rising in a mist
with their hands reaching out to the figure sitting on
the commode. (pp. 45-46)
This parody of a scene from the Book of Revelation, like all
parody, like a parasite, feasts off a found or received
form.
In this
case, to
use a ph
rase from Mumbo Jumbo,
it
opposes
"2,000
years of
probing
classifying attempting
to
make an
'orderly' world"
(p. 175
). We shall return to
this
notion

213
[13. Con grandezza. Vance Bourjaily summarizes the
Mumbo Jumbo;
The book presents jazz as triggering recurrent outbreaks
of liberation of the human spirit, coming to us through
history from Africa and then from Haiti to New Orleans,
always opposed and dreaded by the establishment. It
reaches, in the establishment view, a virulence so
dangerous to stability in America in the decade between
1920 and '30 that it is necessary to manipulate the
country into a financial depression in order to suppress
all that joy. Traditional servants in fighting jazz
(or "jes' grew," as Mr. Reed called it), the Knights
Templar, fail their masters; the Atonists are then
willing to support the repressive efforts of a crazy
house painter who turns up in Germany. On the side
of liberation and magic are voodoo men like Papa LaBas.
. . . Mr. Reed hopes that the era of Vietnam and
civil rights activism was a rebirth, after long sup¬
pression, of "1920-1930. That 1 decade which doesn't
seem so much a part of American history as the hidden
After Hours of America struggling to jam."47]
Fourth, free jazz extended the emotional palette of
music to its logical extreme. It recognized music's poten¬
tial for expressing the entire gamut of human (and, some¬
times, seemingly nonhuman) emotions. Thus, its musicians,
according to Baraka,
rely to a great extent on the closeness of vocal refer¬
ence that has always been characteristic of Negro
music. Players . . . literally scream and rant in
imitation of the human voice, sounding many times
like unfettered primitive shouters. (227)
The free jazz aesthetic, then, is (to the extent that it
still functions) not exclusively committed to the production
of "beautiful" music. It frequently sounds like a person
crying, talking, or laughing, and it frequently sounds
ugly, angry, or hostile. Cecil Taylor says:
Anybody's music is made up of a lot of things that are
not musical. . . . Hostility's a genuine emotion. Why
shouldn't jazz have hostility in it? That should be

214
the one thing that would make everybody in the United
States dig it. Most people in the United States shield
their hostility with smiles. Jazz musicians don't
bother.4 8
His attitude echoes Reed's, who in the Introduction of
Shrovetide in Old New Orleans, a collection of essays,
writes:
I lose fans and friends too because I'm blunt. A
heathen, basically, I have cultivated as many enemies
as friends. . . . So, unlike many black writers who
write autobiographies of the spirit, the body, or the
mind, I don't love everybody . . . these people who
go around loving everybody say I write out of hurt.
I do. Sometimes, maybe. I'm a heathen. A one-man
heathen horde. When it hurts I say so and when it
feels good I say so, too. (pp. 3-4)
Some of FLP is written out of hurt, like the image of SAM
eating children (a satire on the U.S. destroying its youth
in Vietnam), some is written out of anger, like Nancy Spell¬
man censoring non-Nazarene world views (Cardinal Spellman's
damning "Vodou"), and some is written out of a sense of
playfulness ("dem terrible, man-eating Latin roots"), or
as Reed puts it in Mumbo Jumbo: "The dazzling parodying
punning mischievous pre-Joycean style-play of your Cake¬
walking your Calinda your Minstrelsy give-and-take of the
ultra-absurd" (p. 174).
[14. Con gravita. Mumbo Jumbo, then, could be described
as an attempt to represent "jes' grew," a term which we,
amending Bourjaily's definition, might call, not jazz, but
the spirit which animates jazz, the yeast that made the Jazz
Age rise (Mumbo Jumbo, 23). Reed states as much at the
He writes,
beginning of the novel.
"So Jes Grew is seeking

215
its words. Its text. For what good is a liturgy without
a text?" (Mumbo Jumbo, 9).]
Fifth, free jazz attends to the creation of "sound
structures." Recognizing that words such as "difficult,"
"dense," or "intense" are, at best, relative terms, it is,
nevertheless, safe to say that free jazz is difficult,
dense, and intense. Some call it the "squeak, squawk, and
squeal school of jazz." Others say, "It sounds like an
orchestra warming up."49 And even sympathetic critics are
apt to write descriptions like the one which labeled John
Coltrane's Ascension, "the most powerful human sound ever
recorded," or The Great Concert of Cecil Taylor "90 minutes
of unrelieved intensity" (101 , 380 , 358 ).
(15. Con grazioso. A couple of pages earlier, though,
he had declared:
You see, it's not 1 of those germs that break bleed suck
gnaw or devour. It's nothing we can bring into focus
or categorize; once we call it 1 thing it forms into
something else. (p. 7)
Mumbo Jumbo is, therefore, something of a rapsody.]
This inclination to density finds its expression in FLP
with Reed's tendency to overwhelm with verbal pyrotech¬
nics. Throughout the novel, verbiage is heaped upon verbi¬
age, and the result gives the impression that Reed effort¬
lessly luxuriated in his ability to spin out words--to rap
or to jive. Yet, paradoxically, perhaps because satiric
targets give focus, the novel also produces the impression

216
that Reed was in control, even when in the midst of what
feels like fever pitched improvisation.
[16. Con gusto. Through this thesis I intend to make
two broad points about Reed's fiction which I shall only
sketch out here. One, it has all the features of rhap¬
sody. Two, it demonstrates writing with the trope of rap-
sody. Rhapsody signifies writing which supposes and conse¬
quently maintains the opposition genuine/counterfeit as
well as the closely associated opposition ora 1 ity/1iteracy.
Its homophone, rapsody, signifies writing which problematizes
or calls into question the oppositions assumed by rhapsody.
Rapsodic writing, then, represents one way to employ jazz
as a model for writing.]
Sixth, free jazz "refunctions" the old music of New
Orleans, that is, it remotivates an old form--the music of
Louis Armstrong and Jelly Roll Morton--"'produced' in answer
to certain social needs," and makes that old form serve new
social needs.^ More specifically, by deemphasizing solos
and by emphasizing collective improvisation, free jazz marks
the development of a music which has consciously investigated
its own past, but, at the same time, one which consciously
addresses the issues of its present (especially those issues
associated with the term "civil rights").
The term "refunction," which is a translation of
Brecht's term "umfunktionierung," accurately describes
Reed's stated intention to treat "tradition as a contemporary

217
function" (Shrovetide, 64). Viewed from a specifically
literary perspective, FLP refunctions the satiric tradi¬
tion, that begins with Archilochus and runs through Rabelais
and Sterne, for use in an urban, technological society.
(Reed explains that FLP began as a political satire on
Newark but quickly expanded). Generically it revises Can-
dide. Yellow Back Radio revamps the western. And as I
have already mentioned, Mumbo Jumbo reworks the detective
story. Viewed from a more idiomatic perspective, though,
FLP and Yellow Back Radio and Mumbo Jumbo refunction the
discoursive materials of voodoo to produce fiction (and
poetry). That is, by employing the language of Vodou or
Vodoun (a word with Dahomean and Togo origins meaning "the
unknown"), Reed remobilizes a system of signification which
literally gives him a voice (Shrovetide, 9).
[17. Con lancio. To prove that Reed's fiction shares
the characteristics of rhapsody one would, of course, have
to produce the characteristics of rhapsody and then show how
these are present in FLP, Mumbo Jumbo, or Yellow Back Radio.
I do not plan to do this, for the simple reason that such
a demonstration would tend to be as mechanical, as facile,
and as boring as showing that Reed's fiction manifests all
the features of free jazz.]
Incidentally, to bring this point full circle, it could
also be claimed that both Reed and jazz appropriate and
transvalue exactly the same source materials. Jazz also

218
refunctions voodoo. As Reed and others have stated, Vodoun
"is based upon the belief that the African 'gods,' or loas,
are present in the Americas and often use men and women as
their mediums." In the United States, however, Vodoun
became known as "HooDoo," "a word which appeared in about
the 1890s, when Marie Laveau, the First HooDoo Queen, held
power in New Orleans" (Shrovetide, 10).
In New Orleans, one of the forms it [HooDoo] took was
what we call "Jazz.". . . The HooDoo shrines and the
jazz shrines are in the same neighborhood, suggesting
a possible connection. The "HooDoo" guide book says
that "jazz" is based upon VooDoo ritual music. I'm
thinking of all of the Musicians called "Papa" [Louis
Armstrong was nicknamed "Pops"]. It was the one ritual
in which the "papa" or the "King" told people when to
stop playing. (Shrovetide, 10, 28)
In another passage, Reed writes, "The instruments in the old
music substitute for the spirits who possess the human hosts
in a ceremony" (Shrovetide, 65). This suggests one reason
why Albert Ayler and Sun Ra employed album and song titles
like the following: Spirits Rejoice, "Ghosts," Witches and
Devi Is, and Angels and Demons at Play. It seems that neo-
HooDoo jazz and the neo-HooDoo literature of Reed paradox¬
ically learned the lesson of moving forward in time by
going backwards in time.
[18. Con alcuna licenza. Nevertheless, since I am
not sure that you trust me, I have listed some character¬
istics of rhapsody. They are taken from two articles: Pat
Rogers' aforementioned "Shaftesbury and the Aesthetics of
Rhapsody" and Frederick Erickson's "Rhetoric, Anecdote,
and Rhapsody: Coherence Strategies in a Conversation Among

219
Black American Adolescents," an article which, by the way,
is dedicated "to the memory of Alan P. Merriam."5^- Rhapsody,
then, has these features:
1. Contains passages of emotive, highly wrought, utter¬
ance.
2. If oral, then an interactional construction produced
through a close engagement between performer and
audience, often through a dialogue of call and
response. If written, then an overtly dialogical
effect of polynarration. A tendency towards one
of two extremes:
a. Slickness: studied insincerity and manipulation
which dazzles by brilliance and wit.
b. Soul: apparently unstudied, heart-on-the-sleeve
sincerity in self-disclosure or pathetic
evocation, which moves the reader to empathy,
pity, or moral outrage. (Erickson, 87)
3. Narrational or performance units often consist of epi¬
sodes built in "a crescendo of pacing, volume, and
emotional force toward a culminating climax," after
which a new episode begins at a lower level of
intensity.
4. Sentence structure tends towards a staccato pattern.
5. Direct invocation and apostrophe is common.
6. Frequent repetitions: "parallelism and listing devices
abound."
7. Neologisms employed.

220
8. Argumentation by anecdotes.
9. Organization by topoi (commonplace topics which func¬
tion as resources for solidarity between author and
audience) stitched together.
a. Semantic connect ion--metaphorical hinge points--of
similarity and contrast from one anecdote to the
next.
b. Connections of semantic and rhetorical function
across sets of utterances. (p. 97)
10. The underlying point of prosographic narration is not
stated explicitly and does not seem to have been a
full-fledged proposition. Absence of framing devices.]
Seventh, free jazz emphasizes group improvisation.
My last point stated that free jazz refunctions the music
of old New Orleans, but only in passing did it mention
collective improvisation—the means by which this is accomp¬
lished. This point should not be passed over lightly,
though, for as Baraka notes, it is this stylistic innovation
that "restored improvisation to its traditional role of
invaluable significance" (p. 225). In his liner notes to
Change of the Century, Coleman puts it thus:
Pe
rhaps the
mo
st
important
new element
in our music
is ou
r concept
ion
of
free group improvisat
ion. The
idea
of group
imp
rov
isation,
in itself, is
not at all
new;
it played
a
big
role in
New Orleans'
early bands.
The b
ig bands
of
the
swing pe
riod changed
all that.
Today
, still,
the
individual
is either swa
llowed up in
a gro
up situat
i on
, or else he
is out front
soloing,
with
none of the
other horns
doing anythin
g but calmly
awa i t
ing their
tu
rn
for their
solos. Even
in some of
the t
rios and
qua
rtets, which
permit quite
a bit of
group
improvis
at i
on,
the fina
1 effect is one that is

221
imposed beforehand by the arranger. One knows pretty
much what to expect.
When our group plays, before we start out to play,
we do not have any idea what the end result will be.
Each player is free to contribute what he feels in the
music at any given moment.^2
[19. Con malinconia. Suffice it to say, I could now
(but will not) go on to show how these characteristics of
rhapsody function in Reed's fiction. The purpose of such
an exercise would be to valorize rhapsody, invert the oppo¬
sition that conventionally structures it. This is exactly
what Rogers and Erickson do in their respective essays.
Erickson concludes with the following paragraphs:
In conclusion, then, we have shown that the conversa
tion of the black teenagers in the discussion presented
which at times appeared disconnected, illogical, and
difficult to follow to the white American group leader
. . . in fact evidences a most rigorous logic and a
systematic coherence of the particular, whose internal
system is organized not by literate style linear sequen
tiality but by audience/speaker interaction. In addi¬
tion, consistent aesthetic criteria in persuasion are
apparent in patterned verbal reactions of the audience
to successive main speakers.
One can see the present analysis as doing for ver¬
nacular black American discourse structure what Labov
(1971) did for vernacular black English grammar.
This analysis demonstrates that in this discourse
style we are confronted not with a substandard variant
of American middle class discourse but with a fully
developed, internally coherent, and (in in-group commun
ication) entirely effective rhetorical system. (pp.
151-52)]
Admittedly, this all important innovation cannot find
its purest expression in the context of a solo performance
by a musician or novelist, unless, for instance, one admits
the collaboration of author, editor, publisher, and printer
as a "group improvisation.
But a knowledge of the primacy

222
of group improvisation in free jazz should make one doubly
aware: first, of the essentially oral quality of Reed's
fiction (it seems designed to be read aloud, performed),
and second, of the novel's frequent use of double-voiced
discourse (which often approximates a call-and-response
type effect). Both qualities are observable in this selec¬
tion from FLP:
At the foot of this anfracuous path which leads to the
summit of Sam's Island lies the incredible Black Bay.
Couched in the embankment are four statues of RUTHERFORD
BIRCHARD HAYES. White papers, busted microphones and
other wastes leak from the lips of this bearded bedrock
and end up in the bay fouling it so that no swimmer has
waters alive. Beneath the surface
is a subterranean side show
fish, clutchy and extrasensory
you me, dem plants is hongry.
wrap dey stems around!!) (pp.
ever emerged from its
of this dreadful pool
replete with freakish
plants. (And believe
Eat anything dey kin
2-3)
There are two easily identifiable narrative voices here, and
it should be noted that they play off each other. The voice
that speaks a word like "anfractuous" (one of those words
with "terrible Latin roots") sets us up for an antiphonal
voice that says words like "hongry." Or, to choose another
example, Bukka has at least three voices that are constantly
in a state of dialogic tension: (1) the voice of the ingenue
(the "square" who is always "the last one on the block to
know"), (2) the voice of a "hip" Bukka, able, when he wills,
to do "the whole crying-the-blues repertory" (p. 26), and
(3) the voice of the narrator--Reed's persona or the voice
of a mature, post-apocalyptic Bukka. The point is, one may
regard FLP as a collective improvisation after all--one in

223
which Reed generates different voices to sometimes clash and
sometimes harmonize with one another.
[20. Con malizia. Take my word for it. I could do
this for Reed! I could play the open-minded liberal, demon¬
strate how at first glance his texts appear fragmented, the
incoherent ravings of a black man mad at the whole death-
dealing-white-world, but upon closer analysis reveal them¬
selves (in all splendor) as fully developed, internally
coherent, and entirely effective as a rhetorical system.
I could show how his rhapsodies are as subject to analysis
as any composition improvised by Cecil Taylor and Archie
Shepp.]
Heretofore, I have discussed the major structural
elements of free jazz and attendant expressions of those
elements in Reed's work. We now turn to the sociopolitical
implications of the free jazz aesthetic. In outline form,
the music signifies the following: (1) a rejection of the
"cool" aesthetic, (2) a rejection of Western ideas and
values (specifically the "American way of life"), (3) a
restoration of Afro-American art to "its valid separation
from, and anarchic disregard of, Western popular forms,"
and (4) a return to ancient and pre-Christian rituals
(Baraka, 225). Naturally, these points, like the others I
have made, overlap. Plus, they can be illustrated by re¬
course to any Afro-American art of the '60s. But the partic¬
ular way these trends received their expression, that is,

224
the way they are encoded, in free jazz and Reed's fiction
merits consideration.
[21. Con moto. Fact is, any time a critic coins a
thesis in the form "X is like Y" (A Reed is like a rhapsody),
you can rest assured that evidence, whether convincing or
not, will be produced. Trust me, I will always say I have
found exactly what I claim I was looking for.]
Frank Kofsky writes of the change that occurred in jazz
when the '40s became the '50s (when bop became cool) and,
thus, describes the background from which free jazz would
vividly emerge in 1959. His portrait of cool jazz goes a
long way towards accounting for Reed's antipathy for Chet
Baker.
The jazz style that began to emerge as bebop went under
was entirely in keeping with the character of the early
Cold War period. Even the name of the style itself--
cool--reflected the change. ... As a style, cool was
anything but that [i.e., engaged]; it was the quin¬
tessence of individual dis-engagement. If you want
to hear the difference, compare a solo by the father
of bebop trumpet, Dizzy Gillespie, to one from the
cool period by the then-idolized but now almost for¬
gotten trumpeter Chet Baker.^3
Consequently, when Reed satirizes Baker (in 1967), one of
his targets is most likely socio-political dis-engagement,
the notion that one can extricate oneself from ideology.
Cool jazz--which was ultimately a redaction of the basic
materials of bop, a more or less conscious attempt to legit¬
imate, "whiten," or "bleach out" an essentially black musical
form—was, above all, a music of detachment. It, not bebop,

225
correlates most readily with attitudes expressed in writings
of the "Beat Generation."
Both [cool jazz and beat writing] celebrated the virtues
of passivity and withdrawal--we should today call it
dropping out--over those of active engagement. To
display emotion within either the cool or beat milieus
was at once to brand oneself as hopelessly square.
(Kofsky, 32)
Therefore, to coin an analogy, cool was to the beats as free
jazz was to Reed.
[22. Con rapine. In S/Z Barthes observes, "The area
of the (readerly) text is comparable at every point to a
(classical) musical score," and a little later he declares
that "the readerly text is a tonal text (for which habit
creates a reading process just as conditioned as our hearing
. . .)" (S/Z, 28, 30).
The unity of the readerly text, he maintains, "is basic¬
ally dependent on two sequential codes: the revelation of
truth and the coordination of the actions represented." For
Barthes the hermeneutic (revelatory) code corresponds to
melody: to "what sings, what flows smoothly, what moves by
accidentals, arabesques, and controlled ritardandos through
an intelligible progression" (p. 29). Like a melody, the
hermeneutic enigma, which urges the reader to keep reading
(decoding), is predicated on "suspended disclosure" or
"delayed resolution," and like a fugue, the classic or
readerly narrative contains "a subject, subject to an expo¬
sition, a development (embodied in the retards, ambiguities,
and diversions by which the discourse prolongs the mystery),

226
a stretto (a tightened section where scraps of answers
rapidly come and go), and a conclusion." The proairetic
(action) code corresponds to harmony. It sustains the
narrative by bringing "everything together" in "the cadence
of familiar gestures."]
But Reed not only satirizes the stance of cool, he
satirizes the whole Western-Christian-technological world
view represented by HARRY SAM; he wants to "humble Judeo-
Christian culture" (Shrovetide, 133) by creating disruptivist •
fiction. He writes, "I think that the Western novel is
tied to Western epistemology, the way people in the West
look at the world."
[23. Con slancio. Barthes declares: "to unlearn the
readerly would be the same as to unlearn the tonal" (p.
30). We might add, apropos of S/Z, interrupting the herme¬
neutic and proairetic codes is the discourse equivalent of
interrupting (undoing) tonality. If Balzac's Sarrasine is
analogous to classical music, say, Mozart's The Magic Flute,
then Barthes's S/Z is analogous to atonal music, say, Bou¬
lez's Pli selon pli. By interrupting the two codes which
syntagmatica1ly unfold according to a "logico-temporal
order" and emphasizing the semic, cultural, and symbolic
codes--the paradigmatic codes which "establish permutable,
reversible connections, outside the constraint of time"—
Barthes produces, out of Sarrasine, a modern, which is to
say, a nonvectorized, tabular text.
He writes:

227
The five codes mentioned, frequently heard simultane¬
ously, in fact endow the text with a kind of plural
quality (the text is actually polyphonic), but of the
five codes, only three establish permutable, reversible
connections, outside the constraint of time (the semic,
cultural, and symbolic codes); the other two impose
their terms according to an irreversible order (the
hermeneutic and proairetic codes). The classic text,
therefore, is actually tabular (and not linear), but
its tabularity is vectorized, it follows a logico-
temporal order. It is a multivalent but incompletely
reversible system. What blocks its reversibility is
just what limits the plural nature of the classic
text. These blocks have names: on the one hand, truth;
on the other, empiricism: against--or between--them,
the modern text comes into being. (p. 30)
If Barthes is correct, then the modern narrative, and Reed's
fiction is as good an example of this as any, could be
conceptualized as a classic narrative coming apart--
unravelling—at the semes. A rapsody: between truth and
empiricism, it works the signifiers of the classic text to
show (1) how they are stitched together (by reading) and
(2) how they, to create a pun by using Black English Vernac¬
ular, always mean more than they semes.]
Accordingly, Reed opts to create a 1iterature--neoHoo-
Doo fiction and poetry—incommensurate with Western ideology.
In addition to this, he interprets free jazz as anti-clas¬
sical, oppositional music congruent with his own program.
[24. Con strepito. Hawkes writes: "This art--an art
of signifiers, not signifieds, can be said to be truly
modern, whether its modernity manifests itself in jouissance
or jazz (and leaving aside the question of a philological
or semantic connection between the two terms)" (Structuralism
and Semiotics, 121).]

228
Reed is not alone in this reading of jazz. Baraka,
discussing jazz musicians' utilization of European classical
music, declares:
Taylor and Coleman know the music of Anton Webern and
are responsible to it intellectually, as they would
be to any stimulating art form. But they are not
responsible to it emotionally, as an extra-musical
catalytic form. The emotional significance of most
Negro music has been its separation from the emotional
and philosophical attitudes of classical music.
(Baraka, 229-30)
This desire for (or reading of) separation is grounded upon
a belief that certain musical structures are inherently bound
up in Western ideology. Rejecting Webern is, therefore,
tantamount to a symbolic rejection of, the ideology which
produced and institutionalized him (and, by implication, the
entire Western, musical tradition).
[25. Con tenerezza. To be a little more specific, the
rapsodic text, like the rapp, the indeterminable coin,
actually owes its existence to the scarcity of signifiers;
it makes something of shared signification, the fact that
there are fewer words than things. Jonathan Swift, as we
have seen, did this in the title of his poem, "On Poetry:
A Rhapsody." Indeed, satire, Reed's fiction not withstand¬
ing, has always done this, capitalized on ambiguity. From
Archilochus to the present day, satirists have assumed--
even emphasized--the arbitrariness of the sign; they have
relied on words functioning as codes: codes "not in the
sense of a list, a paradigm that must be reconstituted,"
but as "a perspective of quotations, a mirage of structures"

229
which venture "out of the text" (S/Z, 20). They have banked
on the possibility of remotivating words, making them turn
or trope in directions their users never intended.]
Free
signal
s an
place
and
cultur
e.
descri
bed
it," then
steal
beca
with HARRY
production
says,
"You
ultima
tely
12) .
The
makes,
and
SAM at
the
bution
and
jazz's "anarchistic disregard of Western forms"
increased awareness of the workings of the market
a willful refusal to be assimilated into mainstream
If bebop, as pianist Thelonious Monk says, can be
as music "they can't steal because they can't play
free jazz could be described as music they wouldn't
use they wouldn't listen to it.54 Bebop waged war
SAM by attempting to seize the means of musical
, but as Archie Shepp acutely observes—when he
own the music and we make it"—this tactic was
misguided and politically ineffectual (Kofsky,
only solution is to "own" the music, or art, one
to do that one must not only wage war with HARRY
level of production, but on the levels of distri-
consumption as well.
[26. Con tutta forza. Still, I am somewhat uncomfort¬
able with this formulation. Given all the evidence I have
been able to gather, Reed, like Lucian, Rabelais, Sterne,
Swift, Wyndham Lewis, and all those other crazy satirists,
has a point he hopes to convey. He is not just rapping,
drifting on some logic of the signifier. In Mumbo Jumbo,
as Bourjaily notes, he wants to say something about the
Civil Rights Era, and he does so by interpolating images

230
from that period into the seams of a loosely structured
detective story set in the Jazz Age, which satirizes white
America's attempts to co-opt black American joie de vivre.
Along the way, we get hilarious portraits of Carl Van Vechten
(Hinckle Von Vampton), jazz magazines, black nationalists,
and so on. But here--as in FLP when he writes "Cecil Tay¬
lor," "Archie Shepp," or "Chet Baker"--Reed expects that
his words will be decoded "properly," not that some smart¬
ass critic will come along and mess around with his words.]
On the level of production and consumption, free jazz
and Reed battle SAM (Western ideology) by talking in code.
Both set up situations (eg., a concert or novel) where
there is the possibility of scandalizing a "square" audience
--either through assaultive techniques or through laughing
behind the backs of the naive—and getting through to--
that is, communicating or communing with--a "hip" audi¬
ence. Of course, this is common fare for satire and jazz.
[27. Con vaghezza. Wait a minute, though! If Reed has
a point, so do I! It is the same point I made earlier
regarding Mingus Presents Mingus. It goes like this: rhap¬
sody turns on the possibility of rapsody. For Reed's texts
to function in the way he intended, they have to be able to
function in ways he did not intend. Finally, the fact that
Reed cannot control readings, delimit his semes, makes
reading possible.]

231
On the level of distribution and consumption, free jazz
and Reed battle SAM by establishing networks for the dissem¬
ination of products with limited commercial appeal. These
networks parallel, and hence, bypass the censorious
capitalist circuit (Noise, 138-40). Lyons states that the
precursors of these quasi-union groupings "were the brother¬
hoods and 'secret societies' of early New Orleans, which
yielded the first era of musical collectivism" (101, 384).
The two major examples of such cooperatives in jazz are
the Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians
(AACM), founded in Chicago in 1965, and the Jazz Compo¬
sers' Orchestra Association (JCOA), first organized in New
York in 1959 as the Jazz Composers' Guild (charter members
were Bill Dixon, Cecil Taylor, Sun Ra, Paul Bley, Carla
Bley, George Russell and Archie Shepp), and later reorgan¬
ized, by Carla Bley and Michael Mantler, as the JCOA (1966).
Carla Bley describes her organization as a "Wildlife Preserve
protecting . . . possibly extinct music."55 a similar
claim could be made for Yardbird Publishing company, a
corporation founded by Reed in 1972, "to serve as an outlet
for Afro-American writers and the growing number of Asian
and Chicano poets" (Shrovetide, 113).
[28. Con velocitá. Or stated differently, for Mumbo
Jumbo to function as a text, it has to be able to function
in the absence of both author and audience, addressor and
addressees. Writing, whether on vinyl, paper, or any other
medium, supposes absence. "A written sign,
Derrida explains

232
in "Signature Event Context," "is proffered in the absence
of the addressee" ("SEC," 315). But he adds, this absence
is not an extension of "the field and powers of a locutionary
or gestural communication," a presence merely distanced or
delayed, since in order for the structure of writing to be
constituted "this distance, division, delay, différance must
be capable of being brought to a certain absolute degree of
absence" ("SEC," 311, 315). In other words, Mumbo Jumbo
has to remain "legible despite the absolute disappearance
of every determined addressee in general for it to function
as writing, that is, for it to be legible. It must be
repeatable--iterable--in the absolute absence of the addres¬
see or of the empirically determinable set of addressees.]
Thus, this literature and this music was and is wildly
syncretistic, representing a blending (but not, necessarily
a reconciliation) of multifarious elements. Both resist
prescriptions that would dictate their movements. Reed makes
this position explicit when he states his opposition to "the
Axis," which he describes as
that tacit alignment between "black nationalists,"
"black revolutionaries," "white radicals," and "white
liberals" which views the Afro-American writer as a
kind of recruiter for their rather dubious political
programs. (Shrovetide, 72)
Finally, then, Reed and free jazz collect and chronicle
"cultural icons that were stolen, spirited, and transplanted
from Africa to the Carib and the U.S."56 Both return to
ancient, pre-Christian sources, ultimately African in origin
--but which found unique expression in the culture of old

233
New Orleans--in order to refunction them--niake them American.
And both create unique Afro-American art, with the emphasis
on the American part of that phrase. Cecil Taylor says:
What any musician must do, and this is why most white
musicians fail in jazz, they never come to grips with
themselves and their own musical traditions. They
always get involved in competing. What they should
do is recognize the function that they have in a jazz
group and to function out of it with the whole history
of America which is theirs. That's what America is.
All these people. And to know what to do with all
these things, blend them and make them go on, that's
what creating the new music is about. (Goldberg,
222-23)
[29. Con wrapping. Reed states the case well when he
writes, "This is the country where something is successful
in direct proportion to how it's put over; how it's gamed."]
Notes
^-Ernest Newman, "Summing Up Music's Case Against Jazz,"
New York Times Magazine, March 6, 1927, in Jazzmen, p. 324;
Jess Stacy, in AM, p. 156; Willie G. "Bunk" Johnson, in
Jazzmen, p. v; E. J. Hobsbawm, "The Jazz Comeback," The
New York Review of Books, 12 Feb. 1987, p. 12; Adorno, "On
Popular Music," p. 29.
2Weber, see pp. 82-88, "Musical Notation as a Precon¬
dition of the Development of Harmonic-Homophonic Music,"
and pp. 104-24, "Technical, Economic, and Social Interrela¬
tions between Modern Music and Its Instruments."
^Sargeant, in Jazzmen, p. 339. This passage from Jazz:
Hot and Hybrid was deleted in the 1964 edition of this
work. Adorno, "Perennial Fashion--Jazz," p. 121.
4Gilbert Seldes, "Toujours Jazz," Dial, August 1923,
pp. 151-58, cited in Y_B, pp. 93-94 ; Gilbert Seldes, Seven
Lively Arts (New York: Harper, 1924), p. 97, 99, cited in
Jazzmen, p. 312.
^Middleton Harris, ed. , The Black Book (New York: Random
House, 1974), p. 30.

234
^George Jean Nathan, Comedians All (New York: Knopf,
1919), p. 133, cited in Jazzmen, p. 306.
7John Alan Haughton, "Darius Milhaud," Musical America,
January 13, 1923, in Jazzmen, p. 310. Schuller notes: "I
am certain that this particular recording of 'Aunt Hagar's
Children' [one made in 1921 by the Original Memphis Five]
was one of several jazz records Darius Milhaud took back with
him to Paris in 1922. It was as a result of his encounter
with jazz during his visit to America (to be guest conductor
of the Philadelphia Orchestra) that Milhaud composed his
famous jazz-influenced masterpiece, La Création du Monde"
(EJ, 186). In the 1950s, pianist Dave Brubeck studied compo¬
sition with Milhaud, and thus the composer's influence fed
back into American jazz.
^Nathan Irvin Huggins, Harlem Renaissance, p. 94, in
YB, 96.
^Carl Van Vechten, Nigger Heaven (New York: Alfred A.
Knopf, 1926), pp. 89-90.
^Robert Christgau, "The Rolling Stones," The Rolling
Stone Illustrated History of Rock & Roll, ed. Jim Miller
(New York: Random House, 1976), jñ 199.
H-Linda Nochlin, Realism (New York: Penguin, 1976), in
Sub, 149. Hebdige notes Nochlin's characterization of the
fin-de-siecle dandy "as being obsessed with the small details
rather than with large sartorial gestures."
-^count Basie, as told to Albert Murray, Good Morning
Blues (New York: Random House, 1987), p. 296.
l^John Hammond, "Random Notes on the Spirituals to Swing
Recordings," From Spirituals to Swing, Vanguard Records,
VCD2-47/48, n.d. James Reese Europe and his Clef Club
Orchestra, an all black, ragtime band, had performed at
Carnegie Hall as early as May 2, 1912. Harris, p. 48.
l^Virgil Thomson, "Jazz," American Mercury, August 1924,
p. 465, in Y_B, p. 94.
l^Fiske, p. 87. Subsequently cited by author's name
in the text.
l^Basil Bernstein, in Fiske, pp. 74-78. My study is
obviously implicated by this statement, since, for it to
receive the sanctions of an academic institution or the
approbation of scholars, it must validate—legitimate--the
elaborated codes of my discipline.
l^Lyons, p. 94. Subsequently cited as 101.

235
18Chris Albertson, liner notes to Major Glenn Miller
& The Army Air Force Band, 1943-44, RCA Bluebird, 6360-2-RB,
1987.
l^Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff, eds., Hear Me Talkin'
to Ya, 1955 reprint (New York: Dover, 1966), pp. 315-16.
20To envision bebop as a willful misreading of swing,
one need only recall the case of Lester Young, an icon of
aberrance: the way he held his tenor saxophone, the ease with
which he navigated the transition to bop, and the enormous
influence he exerted on the young Charlie Parker.
2^Shapiro and Hentoff, p. 341.
22Whitney Balliett, "Jazz: From Joplin to Goodman, and
Slightly Beyond." The New Yorker, August 25, 1986, pp.
74-77.
28Xam Wilson Cartiér, Be-Bop, Re-Bop (New York: Ballan-
tine Books, 1987), p. 25.
2^De Koenigswarter, who took her title from her marriage
to Baron Jules de Koenigswarter, a hero of the French Resis¬
tance, is the daughter of Nathaniel Charles Rothschild, the
British banker. According to a Time cover story on Monk,
she "abandoned the aseptic, punctual world of her family for
the formless life of New York's night people. In 1955 she
acquired undeserved notoriety when Charlie Parker died in
her apartment. . . . From then on though, Nica cut a wide
swath in the jazz world." n.a., "Music: Jazz," Time, Feb.
28, 1964, pp. 84-88.
28Cecil Taylor, quoted in Joe Goldberg, Jazz Masters
of the Fifties (New York: Col1ier-MacMi1lan, 1968), p7 223.
28Hentoff, The Jazz Life, p. 250.
27Kennington and Read, p. iii.
28Hobsbawm, p. 12.
28Charles Mingus, "Folk Forms No. 1," Charles Mingus
Presents Charles Mingus, Candid, 9005, n.d.
30The extended definition of rhapsody developed in this
section is drawn from the following sources: Rogers,
"Shaftesbury and the Aesthetics of Rhapsody," pp. 244-57;
Pat Rogers, ed., notes to "On Poetry: A Rhapsody," in Jona-
than Swift: The Complete Poems (New Haven: Yale Univ. Press,
1983) , pp. 869-78; O&L, 13; cT Hugh Holman, "Rhapsody," A^
Handbook to Literature, 4th ed. (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merri11
Company, Inc., 1980), 379-80; the New English Dictionary,

236
the HCDM, and the OED. I note specific citations parenthe¬
tically in the text.
^Dorothy Baker, Young Man with a Horn (New York:
Houghton Mifflin, 1938), p. 187.
32Roger Shattuck, The Banquet Years (New York: Vintage,
1955) , p. 155.
•^Michael Harper, Dear John, Dear Coltrane (Urbana:
Univ. of Illinois Pressj 1985) , p^ 48; Allen Ginsberg,
"Howl," in A Casebook on the Beat, ed. Thomas Parkinson
(New York: Crowell, 1961), p^ 8"; Jack Kerouac, On The Road
(New York: New American Library, 1955), p. 190.
34lshmael Reed, The Free-Lance Pallbearers (New York:
Avon Books, 1967), pp^ T~, 82) . Subsequently cited as FLP.
Throughout this essay I also refer to the other texts by
Reed parenthetically in the body of this essay: Mumbo Jumbo
(New York: Avon Books, 1972); A Secretary to the Spirits
(New York: NOK Publishers, 1978); Shrovetide in Old New
Orleans (New York: Doubleday, 1977T"; Yellow Back Radio
Broke-Down (Doubleday and Co., 1969).
3^Chet Baker died while this chapter was in revision.
36101, 373-74. Although free jazz is sometimes called
"avant-garde jazz" or "the new thing," I exclusively employ
the term "free jazz" because it readily distinguishes this
music from the work of musicians who could rightly be con¬
sidered avant-garde but not "free," eg., Miles Davis, Sonny
Rollins, most Charles Mingus and Herbie Hancock, Eric Dolphy,
or John Coltrane (excepting his late work and, especially
his free jazz opus Ascension). Also, as a point of
information, it should be mentioned that Cecil Taylor,
Ornette Coleman, Sun Ra, and Bill Dixon are considered as
constituting the "first wave" of New Thing players; Archie
Shepp, Albert Ayler, Pharoah Sanders, and others form the
"second wave."
3?In musical terminology, homophony refers to "music
in which one voice leads melodically, being supported by an
accompaniment in chordal or a slightly more elaborate style.
Also music in which all the voices move in the same rhythm"
(HCDM) .
Ishmae
1 Reed, "The
Black
Arti
st:
Calling a Spade a
Spade
," Arts
Magazine, 41
(May)
, 48-
49.
3^Thomas
Pynchon, V.
(New
York:
Ba
ntam, 19 61), pp.
48-49
•
40Martin
Williams, 1
iner n
otes
to
Ornette Coleman, Free
Jazz,
A11 a n t i
c, SD-1364,
1960.

237
4J-Ornette Coleman, Change of the Century, Atlantic, AT-
1327, n.d.
4^The first citation is from Andrew Fetler, "Three First
Novels: Contrasts," Boston Globe, 25 January, n.p.; the next
two are from "1985," Times Literary Supplement, 9 January,
p. 31; the last quotation is from "The Free-Lance Pall¬
bearers, " Kirdus Reviews (15 September), 1163.
4^Duane Mayer, "Serious Novel or Nonsense?" Oklahoman,
5 November, no pagination, and John Greenya, "A Novel of
Satire But It's Overdone," Washington Star, 5 November, no
pagination.
44The seven points of my outline represent a reworking
of Jones (Baraka), pp. 224-27; and 101, pp. 373-74. In
this paragraph I quote Baraka, p. 225; JT, p. 235; and
Coleman's liner notes to Change of the Century. Baraka
subsequently cited parenthetically in the text.
4^Ishmael Reed and Al Young, eds., Yardbird Lives (New
York: Grove Press, 1978), p. 20.
4^Coleman, in JT, 240; Francis Davis, "George Russell:
The Intellect of the Heart," Jazz Times (December, 1984),
p. 13.
47Bourjaily, p. 45.
4®Taylor, in Goldberg, pp. 213, 217.
49Pamela Jarrett, Free Jazz Revisited (New York: Dill
Publishing, 1987), p. 4. This text is a rapp of the first
order.
5®Margaret A. Rose, Parody (London: Croom Helm, 1979),
pp.4-5.
^Rogers, "Shaftesbury," pp. 249-50; Frederick Erickson,
"Rhetoric, Anecdote, and Rhapsody: Coherence Strategies in
a Conversation Among Black American Adolescents," Coherence
in Spoken and Written Discourse, ed. Deborah Tanneñ (Norwood,
N.J.: Ablex Publishing Corporation, 1984), pp. 87-90.
Erickson subsequently cited parenthetically in the text.
^^coleman, Change of the Century.
Frank Kofsky, p. 31. Kofsky subsequently cited
parenthetically in the text.
54Nat Shapiro and Nat Hentoff, p. 341.

238
5^Bret primack, "Carla Bley," Contemporary Keyboard
(February, 1979), p. 11.
-^Don Palmer, liner notes of Conjure: Music for the
Texts of Ishmael Reed, American Clavé, 1006, 1984.

CHAPTER 5
CHARIVARI: CONJUGAL RIFFS
The word jazz in its progress toward respectability has meant
first sex, then dancing, then music.
--F. Scott Fitzgerald
"Now, Mingus, here's how to save yourself from depending
on what rich punks think and critics say about jazz, true
jazz, your work. By my reckoning a good jazz musician has
got to turn to pimpdom in order to be free and keep his
soul straight. Jelly Roll Morton had seven girls I know
of and that's the way he bought the time to write and study
and incidentally got diamonds in his teeth and probably
his asshole. He was saying, 'White man, you hate and fight
and kill for riches, I get it from fucking. Who's better?'"
--Fats Navarro to Charles Mingus
Militant memories: For months, years after his passing Double
would appear through my sleep to bump a lesser dream, still
bopping with the armed resistance of his dedication to
"jazz" --which he said was "two, say three broad crooked
jumps off to the side of the mainstream straight and narrow,
out to where sound becomes sight, as it should be!"
—Xam Wilson Cartiér
I was a dandy, oh, yes, I was; it had its political signifi¬
cance too--foppery is always a calling card of the opposition
--but not only that: it also had something to do with the
myth, the myth of youth, that myth of myths.
--Josef Skvorecky
True creativity lies with the foreigners, and culture is on
the side of those who live on the margins of culture without
living with it . . . the metics.
—0. Revault d'AHones^
Chasse Beaux
We
should not be
sur
written
language--one
exa
nary rea
lm (the realm
of
prised that the entry of
mple of its passage from
undifferentiated images)
jazz into
the Imagi-
to the
239

240
Symbolic Order (which functions according to the structur¬
alist principle of difference)--marked a site where the
work of amateurs (love's labors) "was allowed to pass for
scholarship and serious analysis." "Lacan states that the
phenomenon of love operates precisely at the junction of
the Imaginary and the Symbolic," and Ulmer, following Lacan's
lead, notes "that in ordinary criticism the critic (uncon¬
sciously) . . . relates to the object of study as to a
love-object.This being the case (and working off Lacan's
much discussed theory of the mirror stage of child develop¬
ment), it follows that amateur criticism identified with
jazz and brought it into the vocabulary of this culture by
projecting or transferring its own image-system onto its
object of fascination. What amateur criticism loved in
jazz was in fact its own image; what this culture saw
reflected in amateur representations of jazz was ultimately
itself. This is why amateur criticism "was allowed to
pass for scholarship and serious analysis." It actively
participated in reinforcing (perhaps even in determining)
what Althusser called the ideological formations by which
a culture recognizes itself.3 By accurately mirroring back
cultural perceptions of jazz, amateur criticism (unconsci¬
ously) focused in on (or, rather, gave voice to) the very
set of images this culture used to define itself. Contrary
to what Schuller maintains, then, the relative success--the
acceptabi1ity--of "well-meaning amateur criticism" was attri¬
butable not to the "humble, socially 'unacceptable' origin

241
of jazz" or "to the widely held notion that a music impro¬
vised by self-taught, often musically illiterate musicians
did not warrant genuine musicolog ica1 research," but to
the fact that amateur critics accepted, usually without
question, a system of discourse which functioned according
to the structuralist principle of difference: more partic¬
ularly, a system which, finally, assumed that the meanings
of words such as "amateur," "humble," "unacceptable," "self-
taught," and "illiterate" were self evident and essentially
unchanging. "Success," Barthes says, "requires a complicity
of institutions" (GV, 130). Amateur criticism--like musi¬
cology and ethnomusicology--grounded its discourse on the
very binary oppositions which enabled the dominant ideology
to maintain its hegemony. Its complicity in upholding
key, naturalized metaphors--the result of a shared system
of discourse not a conspiratorial act of some semi-conscious,
collective wi 11--insured that its descriptions of jazz
would be countenanced by "genuine musicology"; however,
its inability or, in some cases, its unwillingness to mask
love and speak the language of science insured that its
descriptions would not be equated with "genuine musicology."
As we saw in the last chapter, the machinations of love
implicate Early Jazz just as surely as they entangle and
empower the efforts of critics that Schuller labels amateur.
Yet, introducing love into Schuller's discourse—identifying
how his desire to share "the excitement and beauty of this
[jazz] music" (EJ, ix) leads him to pass off his discourse

242
as an example of "genuine musicological research"--probably
arouses resistance (or, as the case may be, delight) in
many readers, for it unsettles or subverts the conventions
of traditional scholarly--that is, musicological--discourse.
It introduces "into the Symbolic Order of meaning and law
the pre-social or extra-social energies of the Imaginary"
("Discourse of the Imaginary," p. 67).
Jazz is always conceptualized by this trope of illicit
conjunction. It is always understood as the place, the junc-
ture--this next clause can almost be sung to the tune of
"Basin Street Blues"--where the imaginary and the symbolic
meet ("way down in New Orleans, the land of dreams").
Recalling Barthes declaration "that the scholar's choice
is finally between two styles--the plain (ecrivance--'c1ar-
ity, suppression of images, respect for the laws of rea¬
soning'), or the rhetorical, that is, writing (ecri ture) .
. . 'the play of the signifier'"--we reach an obvious con¬
clusion regarding Schuller's text: one I have coyly fore¬
stalled. Like Hermaphroditus rebuffing Salmacis, Early
Jazz resists all my attempts to embrace it, portray it as
a labor of love, "the play of the signifier," because Schul¬
ler opts to write in, to feign, a plain style; his work
succeeds by employing what Barthes calls "the regular dis¬
course of research," "the scientific code, which protects
4
but which also deludes."
A similar claim could be made for theoretical analyses
which "look closely at the materials and grammar of jazz":

243
studies by Winthrop Sargeant, André Hodeir (Jazz; Its Evo¬
lution and Essence, not The Worlds of Jazz), Martin Williams,
and Max Harrison (EJ, viii). Harrison, the author of the
jazz entry in The New Grove, decries listeners who are "much
affected by inessentials such as the personality or reputa¬
tion of a performer," declares, "Most habitual jazz listen¬
ers are quite primitive in their responses, which are too
rudimentary to bring them a satisfaction of equal intensity
to that of auditors more consciously and acutely involved
in musical experience and better informed," and states
that jazz is a "music that would be worthless if it bore
much relation to its popular image." Sargeant writes that
the aims of his study "are scientific," an attempt "to
analyze jazz as a distinct musical idiom, to trace its
origins and influences, to take apart its anatomy and to
describe those features that distinguish it from other
varieties of music."5 And Gary Giddins describes Williams,
the director of the jazz program of the Smithsonian Insti¬
tution and with Nat Hentoff the founder the Jazz Review
(1958-1961), as
a born pedagogue who seemed obsessed with locating
masterpieces, pinpointing their significance, and
demonstrating precisely what made them tick. He wrote
in an unadorned style, authoritative and concise,
with a minimum of local color and personal asides;
yet his every sentence resonated with earnestness.5
Noting that this encomium could apply equally to Brooks,
Warren, Ransom, and Tate, that Sargeant's goals and Harri¬
son's critical posture virtually duplicate those of the
New Critics, or that jazzology's success in analyzing short

244
(approximately three-minute long) compositions recorded on
78 r.p.m. phonograph records finds a perfect analogy in
the New Critics affinity for the lyric poem hardly rates
as a significant critical insight, but it does go a long
way in suggesting the type of discourse about jazz still
valued by musical institutions (academia and the jazz com¬
munity) .
Stated bluntly, nowhere is formalism more firmly
entrenched than in the field of music studies, and, perhaps,
nowhere in music studies is formalism less contested than
in the field of jazz studies. This contention is born out
by even the most cursory glance through the literature of
jazz. Or taking a representative sample, consider Larry
Gushee's analysis of Duke Ellington's "Ko-Ko"--one of twenty-
eight such "explications" found in the liner notes to Duke
Ellington 1940--chosen because of its brevity and because
I think it demonstrates the powerful effect formalism can
achieve even with a description written for a general audi¬
ence. It begins with a schematic "over-all plan" of the
piece. The capital letters indicate Introduction, the
main harmonic points of division (including variations),
and the Tag; the numbers indicate measures.
Ko-Ko
18 A12 B24 A ' 12 a''12 b'8 a',,12 T [ 18 +4]
It's odd that two quite distinct major landmarks in
jazz--this along with Charlie Parker's reworking of
Cherokee--should have the same title. Here the emo¬
tional vein exploited is that of primitivism and savag¬
ery, and it does not surprise to learn (via Barry
Ulanov) that Ko-Ko is an excerpt from a projected

245
opera on an African theme, Boola. The work is mostly
minor blues, but that says nothing about the symmetry
of form ... or the climactic plan. After the first
chorus mixing Tizol [on trombone] with the reeds, the
second is a gangly 24 measures consisting to my ears
of an initial four bars and seemingly endless extensions
for Nanton [on trumpet] and the brass. Matters are
brought to a preliminary peak in A , with the saxes
in G-flat major against the basic E-flat minor and
Duke splattering chords and runs all over the key¬
board. A retreats to convention, and then is followed
with a compressed restatement of the alternating harmo¬
nies of B, and finally the climactic fourth blues
chorus with a concentration of dissonant brass writing
such as had never been heard in any "dance" band.^
This type of analysis dominates the study of jazz, just as
it dominates the study of classical music. Only Leonard
Meyer, Emotion and Meaning in Music (1956), Fred Lerdahl
and Ray Jackendoff, A Generative Theory of Tonal Music
(1983), and, among jazz scholars, David Sudnow, in Ways of
the Hand (1978) and Talk's Body (1979), have managed (or
desired) to emphasize what Meyer calls a "referenti a 1ist"
pos ition--the role of the auditor in the musical exper¬
ience (which includes cases where the auditor is also com¬
poser or musician)--and, thereby, challenge a methodology
(the "absolutist" or "absolute expressionist" view) which
assumes that musical form and meaning inhere in the musical
text.8 Addressing the issue of sign recognition as perform¬
ance, these theorists start "not with composer strategy
but with listener psychology" and cultural conditioning
(CM, 109). For instance, Ways of the Hand gives an account
of Sudnow's initiation into the "mysteries" of jazz improv¬
isation. He states, "My concern is description and not
explanation, a phenomenologically motivated inquiry into

246
the nature of handwork from the standpoint of the performer"
(p. xiii). Talk's Body generalizes the field-specific
descriptions of Ways of the Hand and theorizes the place-,
keyboard-, and improvisatory-knowing hand. It begins with
the thesis: "I submit that improvised music-making and
ordinary talking are deeply alike" (p. 3).
The majority of those who study music subscribe to a
much more circumscribed methodology than that suggested by
Meyer, Lerdahl, Jackendoff, and Sudnow, however. Kerman,
defining what theory, analysis, and criticism mean to the
contemporary student of music, writes:
we might say theory deals with those aspects of music
that might be thought analogous to vocabulary, grammar,
syntax, and rhetoric in the field of language. And
musical analysis as a technical procedure might be
thought analogous to parsing, linguistic reduction,
and explication du texte.
• • •
What I would call serious music criticism--academic
music criticism, if you prefer--does not exist as a
discipline on par with musicology and music theory on
the one hand, or literary and art criticism on the
other.9 Semiotics, hermeneutics, and phenomenology
are being drawn upon only by some of the boldest of
musical studies today. Post-structuralism, deconstruc¬
tion, and serious feminism have yet to make their
debuts in musicology or music theory. (CM, 13, 17)
As this passage intimates, the philosophical presuppositions
of musicology are beginning to be scrutinized and, occasion¬
ally, challenged from within the discipline.
For example, in "Evidence and Explanation," an essay
that became something of a musicolog ica1 credo for many in
the 1960s, Arthur Mendel could declare with impunity, "Apart
from the fascination of establishing facts, and relations
between facts, we [musicologists] are interested in the

247
musical works themselves--as individual structures and as
objects of delight" (CM, 33). But twelve years later, in
1974, one of his students, Leo Treitler, who, according to
Kerman, "has carried the critique of traditional musicology
to a more radical extreme than any other writer in English"
(CM, 134), argued that the observation of musical-historical
facts (the so-called "objective" side of musicology) could
not be separated from the uses (interpretations) to which
those facts are made to serve (the so-called "subjective"
side of musicology).
While writing about early plainchant, his field of
specialization, Treitler contested the practice whereby
scholars, in the "factual" stage of research, established
the text of the oldest repertory in a critical edition.
Chant, he maintained in the essay "Homer and Gregory,"
existed in an oral tradition like that theorized by Parry
and Lord (music writing, "invented in or before the ninth
century," merely recorded "one singer's improvisation or
realization of shared, memorized rules for producing melodies
in such a tradition"). Hence the proscription, gather
"facts" before beginning the scholarly process of textual
criticism (what Treitler tagged the "virgin territory"
argument), is not only impossible, it is based on a faulty
premise: the idea that musical "facts" somehow exist prior
to, or apart from, interpretation, "the idea that cate¬
gories as diverse as the symphony, sonata form, and 'the Ba¬
roque' are absolutes, absolutes whose evolution is in effect

248
pre-ordained and can be traced through successive embodi¬
ments" (CM, 133-34, 130). In the final analysis, therefore,
the very concept of a repertory becomes an effect of liter¬
acy. Or as Gary Tomlinson (who employs the anthropological
theories of Clifford Geertz in his study of Monteverdi),
citing R. G. Collingwood, writes: "There i_s no past, except
for a person involved in the historical mode of experi¬
ence; and for him the past is what he carefully and critic¬
ally thinks it to be" (CM, 172).
Treitler's work is directly applicable to the study of
jazz. First, by applying Parry and Lord's theories of
orality to the study of the Gregorian chant, it suggests
that a similar approach to jazz would call into question
the "widely held notion" that jazz is "a music improvised
by self-taught, often musically illiterate musicians," by
politicizing the issue of musical literacy (the ability to
"read off" a musical score) and seeking to come to terms
with a practice of improvisation in an electronic age: an
age where "self-taught" signifies learning primarily by
imitating solos heard on phonograph records (and other
types of recordings) and secondarily through oral instruc¬
tion given by experienced players (secularized griots).
Next, in its attack on the evolutionary (teleological)
model which has informed, not to mention imbued, musicology
since the early years of the twentieth century, it neces¬
sarily criticizes the deterministic, diachronic histori¬
ography which informs most "objective" accounts of jazz:

249
"an alliance between quasi-scientific musicological
methodology, with its fetish of causal explanation, and
deterministic history, with its fetish of 'inevitable'
development" (CM, 130).
Clearly, what I have labeled jazzology--musicological
methodology applied to the study of jazz--needs to become
more accountable for its own presuppositions, for like
musicology, it comes under exactly the same criticisms
that poststructuralism leveled at positivism and its literary
counterpart, formalism. It conceals or is totally oblivious
of proceeding on the basis of what Hawkes refers to as, "a
whole world of mediating presuppositions of an economic,
social, aesthetic and political order," which intervene
between it and its object of study. H In its stated concern
for the autonomous work of art, it assumes that (recalling
Heidegger's notion of the hand as a philosopheme for
"concept") one can seize or grasp alembicated essences and
"deal with the music itself" (E£, vi). And like New Crit¬
icism, which provided it with a rhetorical model if not a
rationale, it appears totally unaware of (or cavalier about)
its participation in the creation of a network of inclusions
and exclusions--definitions--that created what Martin
Williams called "the jazz tradition," or what literary
theorists would designate as the jazz equivalent of the
canon.
So then, we might ask (even if we suspect the answer),
what could Schuller mean when he states that "the early

250
writings of sympathetic composers . . . failed to capture
the elusive essentials of jazz"? or when he adds, "After
1930, however, there appeared a number of books that . . .
revealed an understanding of the essential nature of jazz"?
To repeat a question asked earlier, how can one create the
effect of "dealing with the specifics of the music"? (EJ,
vii-viii, my emphasis). Speaking directly to this issue,
John Corbett, in his description of musicology as a "determi¬
nant metalanguage," calls attention to the basis of musi¬
cology in "writing." He states:
The seeming transparency of terms such as "tension,"
"resolution," "harmony" and "cacophony" is a result of
their origin as words: that is to say that they are
theoretical terms to begin with which are subsequently
given legitimacy in their enunciation as music, a
process which then erases the writing through which
it was produced. Thus, we have a coded system which
is given a semantic level through a complex system of
denial. Meaning is met alinguistica1ly "pasted on";
music theory fills the position of "semantic referent"
in the musical language; the words of theory speak
through its music.^2
Ultimately, the discourse of jazz, like any other discourse,
can never fully comprehend its object, because that object
ends up being the discourse of jazz itself (which either
takes us back to Lacan or prompts a recollection of GOdel's
theorem). By assigning a history to jazz (i.e., the possi¬
bility of speaking its name, naming jazz jazz, differenti¬
ating it from non-jazz) or by assuming a "hip" group cogni¬
zant, and a "square" group ignorant, of its codes, it pre¬
cludes any possibility of a final word even as it holds
forth such a promise (a condition that both makes it impos¬
sible and sustains it). Less abstractly, the jazz book--

251
like any other book—has a double signification. It simul¬
taneously extends and revokes knowledge; it is doubly com¬
mitted to revelation and obfuscation. First, it holds
forth the promise that jazz is comprehensible: "You, too,
can move from squareness to hipness." Second, it reneges
on its promise; the book marks a barrier; it demarcates:
as long as there are books on jazz, there will be squares
--and hipsters.13
Nevertheless, jazzology continues to exhibit a quasi-
theological concern with getting things right: grounding its
discourse ontologically; disguising its rhetoric. For
example, Martin Williams, in "A Matter of Fundamentals,"
the Introduction to The Jazz Tradition, writes, "The life
of an art, like the life of an individual, resists schematic
interpretations, and the interpreter who proposes one risks
distorting his subject to suit his theories. It should go
without saying that I hope that my view of jazz history
does not involve distortions" (JT, 4, emphasis mine).
Among other symptoms, Williams' attitude suggests an
uneasiness with the conventional perception of music as the
most ephemeral of arts and a corresponding desire (dating
all the way back to Pythagoras) to ground discourse about
music upon a foundation of "natural law" or "hard" science:
i.e., a non-self-reflex ive science perceived as especially
"hard" (the scientific paradigm--of Copernicus, Galileo,
Kepler, Newton--that held sway during the interconnected
development of equal temperament, the canon, modern notation,

252
and the orchestra).14 But more importantly, it suggests
that Wi11iams--like other jazz writers--is uneasy about the
status of jazz (and jazz studies). Hoping to establish the
validity of his object of study, as well as the discourse
system which he employs to represent that object, he refuses
to break with referenti ality (mimesis) and accept a 20th-
century, interpretive-theoretical framework based on internal
coherence. This decision places his discourse in a peculiar
position.
David Lewin states that, "in attempting to formulate
'general sound-universes' of various kinds of music," theore¬
ticians appeal to any of three authorities: divine or natural
law, the intellectual consistency of a system, or the prac¬
tice of great composers.”15 We may notice that the musical
theorists of the first phase of modern ism--Satie, Debussy,
Schoenberg, and Stravinsky (some of whom recruited jazz
for their programs)—typically favored theoretical arguments
based on the internal consistency of systems and eschewed
overt appeals to ontology or natural law (although their
interest in jazz may, in its reliance on connotations such
as childlike or primitive, qualify as a concealed appeal
to nature).15 Schoenberg's break with what Barthes referred
to as "the authority of the fundamental code of the West,
tonality" is exemplary in this respect (IMT, 152). And we
may notice that even when the artistic productions of musical
modernism (like the literary products of Joyce, Pound, and
Woolf) proved scandalous, alienating large portions of the

253
population, its arguments--which called for internal coher¬
ence instead of mimesis), intellectual rigor, and what
mathematicians call elegance--were found to be as tenacious
and compelling as the mathematics of Whitehead and Russell
or the physics of Einstein. In the main, people may have
continued to prefer Beethoven's Ninth Symphony to Schoen¬
berg's Pierrot lunaire, but it was Schoenberg's "science"
(the way his internally consistent theories on dodecaphonic
music seemed to exclude any reliance on transcendence or
past precedence), not Beethoven's "rhetoric" (the way his
appeal to natural law seemed to exclude arbitrariness and
chance), that carried the day. The point is, the art of
modernism may have aroused suspicion; the theories of modern¬
ism felt consistent and were, therefore, disseminated as
truth.
The popularizers and, later, the analysts and theorists
of jazz were not so consistent in their arguments. They
spoke a rhetoric of duality or contradiction. Employing
what we could call a discourse of "traditionalism," they
appealed to the authority of natural law and the practice
of great composers in order to legitimate their positions:
"Jazz is based on established [read European] systems of
harmony"; "Its rhythms are as old as Africa"; "Stravinsky
digs it!" And they also employed an anti-Victorian discourse
of modernism as a wedge to pry their way into the Western
repertory: "Jazz is hot!"; "It's modern"; "It's the only
completely new musical form devised in this century."

254
Thus, from the start, the language of jazz simultaneously
helped define, and was characterized by, a fundamental
ambivalence towards modernism and traditionalism (or clas¬
sicism). Not surprisingly, critics perceived this ambiva¬
lence in the "musical language itself." Jazz became a
conjunction of mutually exclusive attributions (or, if one
prefers, mutually exclusive perceptions), a collage of
connotations or, better, a clamor of contradictions. Con¬
trary to what one might initially assume, however, this
rhetoric of contradiction could hardly retard the acceptance
of jazz. Instead, it actually stimulated interest, for it
brought jazz into the Symbolic Order and participated in
the construction of the modernist/traditionalist opposition.
Jazz, to formulate a thesis I have already intimated, reached
its highest point of popularity precisely when it was most
generally perceived as a music riven with contradictions.
Once its modernist/traditionalist contradictions were recon¬
ciled or, more accurately, once a group gained the power to
define themselves by suppressing one of these terms and
clearly privileging another--for example, when, starting
in the mid-1940s, boppers and figs drew lines and divided
the music into modernist and traditional camps--jazz lost
its mass audience. Modern or progressive jazz--bebop--
like Modern Music (i.e., the music of Schoenberg, Stravinsky,
et al.), alienated large portions of people. Cab Calloway
dubbed it "Chinese music"; Louis Armstrong called it "modern
malice" (101, 165). Trad jazz and its popularized version,

255
Dixieland, on the other hand, quickly became quaint, a
period piece, or historical relic resurrected for display
on 4th of July picnics and political campaigns. Arguably,
though, modernist/traditionalist contradictions continued
to imbue both of these styles of jazz, but, owing to the
success with which each found closure (marked off a defini¬
tion of itself) by suppressing the very term that the other
privileged, these contradictions were rarely detected except
by specialists (a designation I shall leave ambiguous and
hopelessly tautological), who were most often delighted
with compositions they perceived as riddled with contra¬
dictions or obsessed with casting out or exorcising the
putatively absent term.
Nevertheless, there is a problem with my argument, with
the above assessment: one which should be posed, even though
I will not seek to develop any kind of full solution at this
juncture. Namely, I run the risk of adopting exactly the
same scientific attitude towards my object of study--the
discourse of jazz--that I accuse my object of taking in its
analysis of jazz music. Barthes writes: "No doubt the moment
we turn an art into a subject . . . there is nothing left
but to give it predicates; in the case of music, however,
such predication unfailingly takes the most facile and
trivial form, that of the epithet" (IMT, 179). My anal¬
ysis of the discourse of jazz tends to become a recapit¬
ulation or, at best, a parody of what it criticizes: the
kind of reading that manifests an assumed position outside

256
discourse where demystification can proceed according to
fixed laws of sound reasoning. Redolent of any number of
arguments calculated to demystify (or demythify), it is
not so much inaccurate (for instead of Truth, it proffers
an alternative, easily-summonable mythology), as entirely
predictable.
Charles Mingus once wrote a composition with the cau¬
tionary title "If Charlie Parker Were a Gunslinger, There'd
Be a Whole Lot of Dead Copycats." With a little imagination,
my close reading of the machinations of jazzology could be
conceived as the literary equivalent of Mingus' satirical
target (the stolen jazz lick or the solo full of overworked,
stock phrases), a compositional methodology--hyperformalism
--easily shot down by "Gunslinging Barthes" when he suggests
that demystificat ion--laying bare the codes by which "le
myth de la Science" constructs itself--has become (like bebop
became) an occasion for the tour de force, yet another means
of displaying technique, not to mention a new mythology,
itself in need of defamiliarization.1-7
Once more, we see that the scholar who would write about
music (or theorize the discourse which brings a music into
language) is faced with a choice of styles: ecri vanee or
ecri ture. The former, as we have seen and as Barthes
observes in his essay "The Grain of the Voice," describes
"the normal practice of music criticism (or, which is often
the same thing, of conversations 'on' music)" and involves
translating "a work (or its performance) . . . into the

257
poorest of linguistic categories: the adjective" (IMT,
179). The goal of such criticism is "both a mathesis ['the
closure of a homogeneous body of knowledge'] and a mimesis"
(GV, 238 , 237 ). Here, through the aegis of reflection,
the critic seeks to fashion, out of institutionally dictated
predicates, an utterance that readers will count as at
once original (a genesis) and definitive (an apocalypse).
Avoiding sets of predicates (the reference codes of musi¬
cology) that readers would perceive as entirely predictable
(redundant) or completely ineffable (entropic), he or she
seeks an utterance which will be perceived as a mediation
between convention and originality. Donald Barthelme paro¬
dies this type of criticism in his short story "The King
of Jazz," when he has a jazz fan--responding to the query,
"What's that sound coming in from the side there?"--describe
the inimitable, signature sound of Hokie Mokie, "the most
happening thing there is," by improvising the following
series of clarifying questions:
"You mean that sound that sounds like the cutting edge
of life? That sounds like polar bears crossing Arctic
ice pans? That sounds like a herd of musk ox in full
flight? That sounds like male walruses diving to the
bottom of the sea? That sounds like fumaroles smoking
on the slopes of Mt. Katmai? That sounds like the wild
turkey walking through the deep, soft forest? That
sounds like beavers chewing trees in an Appalachian
marsh? That sounds like an oyster fungus growing on
an aspen trunk? That sounds like a mule deer wandering
a montane of the Sierra Nevada? That sounds like
prairie dogs kissing? That sounds like witchgrass
tumbling or a river meandering? That sounds like
manatees munching seaweed at Cape Sable? That sounds
like coatimundis moving in packs across the face of
Arkansas?^”

258
There is, however, another way to write. Attali,
speaking especially of the production of music, calls it
compos ition. He states, "[T]o compose is to take pleasure
in the instruments, the tools of communication, in use¬
time and exchange-time as lived and no longer as stockpiled"
(Noise, 135). Barthes calls it, among other things, ecr i-
ture; it "brings into play a knowledge of signs." He
explains, "Today the text is a semi osis; that is, a mise
en scene of the symbolic [of signifiance], not of content
but of the detours, twists, in short the bliss of the sym¬
bolic ['des jouissances du symbolique']" (GV, 238). In
another passage--employing a distinction between 1isible
and scriptible (perhaps the most famous version of the
ecrivance/ecri ture distinetion)--he contrasts this alter¬
native way of writing ("the generation of the perpetual
signifier ... in the field of the text") with reading
(always founded on "the unnameable signified," i.e., "some
idea of the ineffable"), and most importantly, at least
for our purposes, he associates writing with playing and,
explicitly, with playing music (IMT, 158).
In fact, reading, in the sense of consuming, is far from
playing with the text. 'Playing' must be understood
here in all its polysemy: the text itself plays (like
a door, like a machine with 'play') and the reader plays
twice over, playing the Text as one plays a game,
looking for a practice which re-produces it, but, in
order that that practice not be reduced to a passive,
inner mimesis (the Text is precisely that which resists
such a reduction), also playing the Text in the musical
sense of the term. The history of music (as a practice,
not as an 'art') does indeed parallel that of the
Text fairly closely: there was a period when practicing
amateurs were numerous (at least within the confines

259
of a certain class) and 'playing' and 'listening'
formed a scarcely differentiated activity. (IMT, 162)
Writing as "playing with the text"--or the "scarcely differ¬
entiated activity" of reading as product ion--does not strug¬
gle against adjectival tyranny ("diverting the adjective you
find on the tip of the tongue towards some substantive or
verbal periphrasis"--IMT, 180). It neither promises the
exorcism of music criticism nor liberation "from the fatality
of predication." Rather, in rupturing what Marjorie Perloff
calls "the mimetic pact between artist and audience," it,
in Barthes words, changes "the musical object itself," alters
our "perception or intellection" of the way music "presents
itself to discourse," and, thereby, displaces "the fringe
of contact between music and language" (FM, 117; IMT, 180-
81). This is exactly what happens with Barthelme's parody.
Commentary on music becomes an occasion for play: play in
the sense of a game (a search for a practice which will
re-produce, fake, one's object of study) and, in order
that the text not be reduced to a mimesis, play also "in the
musical sense of the term."
At the conclusion of "The Grain of the Voice" Barthes
admits that his "discussion has been limited to 'classical
music'" (IMT, 189). Nevertheless, his comments there have
tremendous implications for the study of popular music,
for even the most casual cultural observer will recognize
that popular music, of whatever sort, continues to define
a space where practicing amateurs are still numerous and
"playing" and "listening" form scarcely differentiated

260
activities. Insofar as this is the case, popular music
actually provides us with a model for writing in Barthes's
sense of the term, and jazz, because it is one of the oldest
forms of popular music developed in America, provides us
with an excellent test case for trying out this theory.
But there is a hitch, one which eventually makes jazz even
more attractive as an object of study. Compared to rock
and roll or country and western music, jazz is no longer
popular. According to Francis Davis, it is a music that
accounts "for less than 4 percent of all disc and tape
sales," "a music long ago banished to the no man's land
between popular culture and fine art."^-^ Its history, to
oversimplify the matter, represents the story of a music
where the number of practicing amateurs steadily decreased
and where "playing" and "listening" became increasingly
differentiated activities. In short, it is as if jazz, in
a highly compressed, updated version, recapitulated the
two-thousand-year-old history of classical music. The
"player" became the professional performer, "the interpreter
to whom the bourgeois public (though still itself able to
play a little--the whole history of the piano) delegated
its playing"; the "listener" became "the (passive) amateur,"
who consumes music "without being able to play (the gramo¬
phone record takes the place of the piano)" (IMT, 163).
As Barthes notes, "The history of music . . . does indeed
parallel that of the Text fairly closely" (IMT, 162). All
this being said, though, I will state what I have neither

261
the intention nor the means of demonstrating here. Even
after jazz ceased being "popular" music, when it attained
quasi-status as "black classical music," it remained a
musical example of semiosis; it could still be played with,
made into a space where one could begin to desire (GV,
238). More to the point, like the classic realist texts
of literature (which, in becoming a commodity, also separated
the activities of production and consumption), jazz (scored,
recorded, or performed) can still be played (with); it can
be destabilized — its closure disrupted—by the playful
impulses ("bref des jouissances du symbolique") which made
it culturally audible ("a mise en scene of signifiance")
in the first place.
A similar claim can be made regarding jazzology, for
had jazzologists really mimed the motions of the metaphors
they gave to jazz--played out, in their own texts, the images
(the figures) they assigned to the music—then the writing
they would have produced would have disrupted not only the
mimetic and mathetic goals which came to motivate their own
endeavors, but the already sanctified metalanguage of musi¬
cology. Instead, they chose to pattern their discourse after
musicology (although this was, perhaps, no choice, since
they wanted to be heard), suppressed "the stereographic
plurality" of "the weave of signifiers" which produced
their texts ("etymologically, the text is a tissue, a woven
fabric") (IMT, 159), and would not countenance--actually

262
they sought to control--the possibilities suggested by the
encounter between music and language.
This fact may be readily seen by, once again, returning
to Schuller's text. In stating, with complete accuracy,
that books concentrating on "the legendry of jazz" were
"allowed to pass for scholarship and serious analysis," he
not only evokes what I have called the image of the counter¬
feit (an image which, as we have already observed, problem-
atizes Schuller's text as well), for all intents and pur¬
poses, he declares that the early literature of jazz occupied
a curiously indeterminable or marginal cultural position,
between legitimacy and illegitimacy, literacy and illit¬
eracy. It was at once "impressionistic" and "analytical,"
occupying a middle zone between legend and fact, the mythical
and scientific. Indeed, I have advanced a similar argument
--used the same trope--in my characterization of jazzology,
for I hold that the discourse of Schuller and others is
marked and sustained by contradictory rhetorics. I portray
jazzology as operating in an indeterminable zone between
the "proper" (ecrivance--the science of musicology: what
we could imagine as the perfectly iconic or referential)
and the "improper" (ecriture--the strategies of the lover
or ardent fan: what we could imagine as the perfectly arbi¬
trary or fabulous). In a word, I portray jazzology as
noise: the conjunction or "unnatural" union of musicological
methodology and jazz music; an intervention between, or a
folding together of, the proper and improper; a parasite

263
on the body of jazz and the language of musicology. I
refer to this image of indeterminacy, noise, and margin-
ality as chasse beaux, but I could have called it simply
jazz, and the next section I shall call it by the name
charivari.
Merriam and Garner mention chasse beaux in their catalog
of the etymological theories produced to account for the
word jazz ("Jazz," p. 380), but regardless of its feasibility
as the linguistic germ from which jazz grew, as hard evidence
clearing up the mystery of jazz's paternity and explaining
its "socially 'unacceptable'" origins, chasse beaux is
important to us because it names a trope which is always
used in conceptualizing jazz. In one short phrase it desig¬
nates an image (suggests a symbolic code) which conceives
of jazz as that which combines amour, style, and marginality.
Dating back to "New Orleans during the 1830s" when the
term "was a popular French expression denoting a dandy, or
a hip Gallic Don Juan," chasse beaux, according to one
account, became, by means of an macaronic pun, the title
Mr. Jazzbo (the winner of the Cake Walk), and subsequently,
"in vaudeville and on the circus lot," the common noun
"jazzbo" came to mean "the same as 'hokum,' or low comedy
verging on vulgarity," and the phrase "put in jaz," meant
to "add low comedy, go to high speed and accelerate the
comedy spark" ("Jazz," 380). Additionally, Jasbo, a folk
character, always something of a chasse beaux, figures
prominently in a group of tales that locate the origin of

264
the word jazz in "the change or corruption of personal
names" ("Jazz," 373). One such story--the earliest on
record--appeared in the Music Trade Review on June 14,
1919, and goes as follows:
Chicago, Ill., June 9. Roger Graham, Chicago music
publisher, has his own pet theory of the origin of jazz
music and firmly believes it to be the true one. Five
years ago, in Sam Hare's Schiller Cafe on Thirty-first
Street, "Jasbo" Brown and five other alleged musicians,
members of what might have been called, with the aid
of imagination, an orchestra, dispensed "melody" largely
for the benefit of Sam Hare's patrons.
Jasbo doubled with the piccolo and cornet. When he
was sober Jasbo played orthodox music, but wrapped
around three or four glasses of gin Jasbo had a way
of making his piccolo produce strains of the wildest,
most barbaric abandon. Strange to say, though, Mr.
Hare's patrons, if they could help it, never allowed
Jasbo to maintain sobriety while on the job. They
liked the thrilling sensation of the piccolo's lawless
strains, and when Jasbo put a tomato can on the end
of his cornet it seemed as if the music with its
strange, quivering pulsations came from another world.
Patrons offered Jasbo more and more gin. First it
was the query "More, Jasbo?" directed at the darky's
thirst; then the insistence, "More, Jasbo!" directed
at the darky's music, and then just plain "more jazz!"
("Jazz," 374)
Alternate versions of this hilariously implausible account
substitute James (or its abbreviation, Jas.), Jasper, Jack,
Jess, Razz, or Chaz (from Charles) for the name of Jasbo
Brown, but they all retain the basic structural character¬
istics of this tale--namely a movement from the proper
name to the common noun--leading Merriam and Garner to the
rather questionable conclusion that all versions derive
from "a single source, probably the 1919 issue of Music
Trade Review" ("Jazz," 379).
In any case, what we could call the actual, historical
plausibility of chasse beaux or the Jasbo Brown story as the

265
etymological point of origin of the word jazz is, of course,
precisely the issue here, not because it can be proven or
disproven, but because it is so completely beside the point.
The importance of the chasse beaux-Jasbo-jazz nexus turns
on (that is, arouses) the question (actually the question-
ing) of referentiality by prompting the fascinating discovery
that, from playing around with chasse beaux ("I," to lift
a phrase from Derrida's homage to Francis Ponge, "no longer
let you know with any peaceful certainty whether I designate
the name or the thing"), we could generate materials suffi¬
cient to reproduce the discourse of jazz.20 That is to
say, if I had the capacities of, say, Borges's Pierre Menard
and my readers had the patience of Beckett's Vladimir and
Estragón, I would demonstrate how--breaking completely
with any illusion of mimesis or referenti a 1ity--I could
(had we but world enough, and time) produce the entire
corpus of jazzology, word for word, by simply ringing the
changes on chasse beaux, "a repeatable, iterable, imitable
form" ("SEC," 328). For example, just to give a hint of
what could be done, I would probably begin by extrapolat¬
ing a group of terms: show how chasse beaux infers certain
keys, point out that the notion of swinging (the rhythms
of copulation), an emphasis on personal or idiomatic style
(which disrupts the "proper"), or an ambivalence towards
"what Nietzsche called the 'gregarity' of society" (the
dandy's assumption of an extremely marginal position as a
form of ideological combat) are all derivable from chasse

266
beaux (GV, 335). Next, I would improvise on--play with
the signifying possibilities of--these concepts (being
careful to show how play and improvisation are themselves
terms which may be generated from chasse beaux, not trans¬
cendental signifieds) and elaborate a list of predicates
which, forming a grid or matrix, could be employed as an
"overlay" to mark off and organize the field of jazz music.
After completing this project, I would observe, "The jazz
musician, like any musician, cannot inscribe his nominal
signature 'upon the work itself: the musician cannot sign
within the text. He lacks the space to do so, and the
spacing of a language (unless he overcodes his work on the
basis of another semiotic system, one of musical notation,
for example)'" (Signsponge, 54). And then I would state
my main thesis. The signifying chain chasse beaux-Jasbo-
jazz constitutes what textualists call a signature event.
When jazz signs itself, it writes Jasbo, or if one prefers
a musical image, jazz is written in the key of chasse beaux.
Finally, I would discuss (in great depth) how both the
signature and chasse beaux signify that which is never
determinable--the problematic of signification--and how
they mark a folding together of the idiomatic and the
generic, the common and the proper, the name and the thing.

267
Charivari
Towards the end of The Raw and the Cooked, his analysis
almost complete, Lévi-Strauss considers the problem of
noise. He asks two, seemingly unrelated questions: "why
do the Bororo connect the origin of storms and rain (anti¬
fire) with the consequences of incest," and "how are we to
interpret the curious connection . . . between the cooking
of food and the attitude to noise?" (R&C, 286). To under¬
stand the importance of these questions one would have to
virtually recapitulate Lévi-Strauss's entire argument, so
integral are they to his structuralist project. To begin
with, one would need to retrace how he comes to terms with
--that is, why it is necessary for him to finally reject--
"contemporary musical thought," which "either formally or
tacitly, rejects the hypothesis of the existence of some
natural foundation that would objectively justify the stip¬
ulated system of relations among the notes of the scale"
(R&C, 21). That done, one would need to explain how the
image noise figures into his symbolic economy.
Although this could form the basis of a potentially
interesting project, and although in Chapter One I said
that I would discuss this issue, I discover now that I
neither want to initiate a discussion of structuralism's
antipathy to modern music, nor speak directly of the function
of music, silence, or noise in The Raw and the Cooked.
Nevertheless, in order to once again think about the

268
possibility of employing the images which represent music
as a model for writing theory, we would do well to observe
the example of Lévi-Strauss. The Raw and the Cooked is,
after all, ordered by an elaborate and extended musical
analogy; the chapter on noise-making rituals, which I find
particularly useful in organizing a group of images commonly
used to characterize jazz, is entitled "Divertissement on
a Folk Theme."
A divertí ssement in French baroque opera signified
"all those pieces that served merely to entertain without
being essential to the plot" (HCDM). It was a musical
potpourri, if you will, a satura. In his di vertissement
Lévi-Strauss, as he puts it, leaves aside the Brazilian
myths for a moment and makes one or two rapid excursions
into the realm of general mythology and folklore. To get
this intellectual déri ve going, he informs his reader of
an anthropological commonplace. He says, "If one were to
ask an ethnologist ex abrupto in what circumstances unre¬
stricted noise is prescribed by custom, it is very likely
that he would immediately quote two instances: the tradi¬
tional charivari of Europe, and the din with which a con¬
siderable number of so-called primitive (and also civilized)
societies salute, or used to salute, eclipses of the sun
or the moon" (R&C, 286). He then writes a brief catalog
of these noise-making rituals, which begins with the follow¬
ing definition of charivari from the Encyclopédie compiled
by Diderot and d'Alembert:

269
The word . . . means [hubbub] and conveys the derisive
noise made at night with pans, cauldrons, basins,
etc., in front of the houses of people who are marrying
for the second or third time or are marrying someone
of a very different age from themselves.
This unseemly custom was at one time so widespread
that even queens who remarried were not spared. (R&C,
286-87)
To this I would digress and add an etymological and a his¬
torical note. "Shivaree" is an American corruption of
charivari. A corresponding term in German is Katzenmusik
(literally "cat music"), in Italian, scampata (HCDM). On
the other hand, Le Charivari was a satirical newspaper,
founded by Charles Philipon in 1832. The flatness of this
declaration, however, belies its important place in the
history of publishing. According to Richard Terdiman,
whose book, Discourse/Counter-Discourse, offers a detailed
history and theory of oppositional writing in nineteenth-
century France, Le Charivari "sustained uninterrupted daily
publication (even including Sundays) for sixty years," and
it was the first newspaper to reproduce images in its pages,
the first to employ the technology of lithography (a printing
process invented by Aloys Senefelder in 1798).21 it, above
all else, represented the institutionalization of "counter¬
discourse." Terdiman writes of such efforts:
Their object is to represent the world differently.
But their projection of difference goes beyond simply
contradicting the dominant, beyond simply negating
its assertions. The power of a dominant discourse
lies in the codes by which it regulates understanding
of the social world. Counter-discourses seek to detect
and map such naturalized protocols and to project their
subversion. At stake in this discursive struggle are
the paradigms of social representation themselves.
In the crossfire of hegemony and counter-hegemony
by which the meaning and the control of all symbols

270
are contested, certain signs and representations seem
to take on secondary meanings. Such meanings become
detectable in the struggles fought over them. Typically
they lie at some distance from the denotative ones
which these representations normally express. (p.
149-50)
Jazz, I would maintain, has consistently been represented
in this culture as a musical counter-discourse, whose aim
is the unnaturalization (the defamiliarization) of the
products of Tin Pan Alley (tympan alley). As the story
goes, it proceeds like Le Chari vari, which is to say, it
appropriates, caricatures, then feeds back the culture's
privileged representations of itself. One would do well
to remember—perhaps return to--this point while reading
the experimental essay on Martin Scorsese's New York, New
York which follows this introduction to the trope of chari¬
vari. There I argue, although I think not explicitly enough,
that the question of charivari always concerns who--or
what group--will be allowed to function as a parasite:
which, as Michel Serres has noticed, means (1) inhabit
another (i.e., like a demon, possess a sign), (2) make
noise (in French parasite means static), and (3) take without
giving.22 I argue that jazz and New York, New York represent
parasitic or charivaric forms of writing. And following
the lead of Lévi-Strauss and Serres, which, as we shall
see, would allow us to link the parasite with the charivari,
I emphasize that charivaric writing--and here I remain
sufficiently vague--enta i1s the agonistic use of shared
signification to make noise.

271
We return to Lévi-Strauss, for after defining charivari
he begins to speculate. What do the two customary manifes¬
tations of noise have in common and what do people hope to
achieve by them?
An answer comes easily--as it turns out too easily.
In one case, a sociological "monster" figuratively "devours"
an innocent body, in the other, a cosmological monster
devours the sun or moon (R&C, 287). The charivari punishes
a reprehensible union on earth; noise making at the time
of an eclipse seeks to ward off a dangerous conjunction in
the sky. The parasite (noise) seeks to drive out the para¬
site (the unwelcome, hungry guest). Through the ritual
employment of noise, it seeks to interrupt communication
between bodies, terrestrial and celestial. Somebody once
asked Miles Davis, "What would you do if your wife left?
What would happen?" He replied, "I'd play a B-flat major
seventh. And then I'd feel alright."23 The charivari
represents the homeopathic employment of noise.
"But is it not true," Lévi-Strauss writes, "that the
conjunction does not constitute the primary phenomenon?"
He continues:
In the case of both marriages and eclipses, it can,
in the first place, be defined negatively: it represents
the disruption of an order enduring, in regular
sequence, the alternation of the sun and the moon,
day and night, light and darkness, heat and cold; or,
on the sociological level, of men and women who are
in a relation of mutual suitability in regard to civil
status, age, wealth, etc. (R&C, 288)
The fact is, the din at a marriage or an eclipse punishes
"not just a simple conjunction . . . but something much

272
more complex which consists, on the one hand, of the breaking
of the syntagmatic sequence, and on the other, of the intru¬
sion of a foreign element into this same sequence—an element
that appropriates, or tries to appropriate, one term of
the sequence, thus bringing about a distortion." He con¬
cludes with an even more remarkable assertion:
The function of noise is to draw attention to an anomaly
in the unfolding of a syntagmatic sequence. Two terms
of the sequence are in a state of disjunction; and,
correlatively, one of the terms enters into conjunction
with another term, although the latter is outside the
sequence. (R&C, 289)
As one might expect, this statement forms the crux of Lévi-
Strauss's argument. Far from a mere "Divertissement on a
Folk Theme," it, as well as the chapter in which it appears,
is absolutely central to his concerns. To see this, though,
the reader must turn to The Raw and the Cooked.
My interests lie elsewhere, for it seems to me that,
regardless of the final validity of his arguments, Lévi-
Strauss, by playing around with the idea of dinning (at
the conjugation of stars and plain folks), has created a
workable recipe for charivaric writing. Stated differently,
as is well known, Lévi-Strauss appropriated a language-
based model to do anthropological work; it seems pretty
evident, then, that his theories can be employed to do
hermeneutical work. The Raw and the Cooked (or a cursory
glance through a catalog of new, theoretical books) proves
this. But I am intrigued by the possibility that his theory
of the function of noise can be appropriated to do noisy
writing.

273
In the following section, I try to follow Lévi-Strauss's
prescription and do some charivaric writing. I end up
with a piece in two columns--one feeding off another or,
if you will, one raw and one cooked--which, in fact, loops
(the image of the tape worm is inescapable). I consider
it a fairly good start at writing modeled on the charivari
(as I write these words, the section is done, and I consider
the barely suppressed image of the "well-made book" as a
text written backwards). But my efforts should be regarded
as tentative. I am still working on possible ways to do
writing that explicitly "draws attention to an anomaly in
the unfolding of a syntagmatic sequence," and my future
efforts will, obviously, center on theorizing, working
out, this methodology more fully. My study, after all,
attempts to mark off topics for future decompositions.
Should the reader wish to see another, but fully developed,
example of charivaric writing, I suggest he look, not at
The Raw and the Cooked, for it is, perhaps, the antithesis
of noisy writing, but at Serres's The Parasite.
Chasin' the Twain:
Scorsese's "New York, New York"
and Lévi-Strauss1s "The Raw and the Cooked"
Entropy, which is less an Seriously think
identifiable thing than a grouping about the frequency
of concepts, did not receive its with which children res-
formulation until 1885
9
when
pond with "Huh?" to

274
Rudolph Clausius coined the word
adults' attempts at
and stated the first two laws of
communication. My
thermodynamics with the following
kids--I have three
couplet:
boys—do this all of
1) The energy of the universe
the time. Sometimes I
is constant.
think about getting
2) The entropy of the universe
their hearing checked,
tends toward a maximum.
but most of the time I
But this principle--namely, that
realize that their
the amount of energy in a system
"Huh?"s represent a
remains constant, but that the
clear-cut case of decod¬
inability of that energy to do
ers not commanding
work tends toward a maximum--was
facility with a partic¬
noticed early on in apocalyptic
ular system of codes
literature, and it was expressed
such that they can
in what we could call its modern
fill in missed parts
day, scientific form by the French
of messages. Sounds
astronomer Jean-Sylvain Bailly
too complex doesn't
(1736-1793) when he speculated:
it? Eco and others
all bodies in the universe are
cooling off and will eventu¬
ally become too cold to sup¬
port life . . . [further]
all bodies must eventually
reach a final state of equi¬
librium in which all motion
ceases.2 4
say that language is
around fifty percent
redundant. Well, that
may be true for him
and his friends, but
Bailly's theory flew in the
around my house language
face of classical mechanics, for
is about ninety percent
it countered reversibility: New¬
redundant. The kids--
ton's law which permitted

275
"individual particles to retrace
that is, all the
exactly the path they followed in
"Huh?"s—prompt Pam
space, arriving back at their orig-
and me to constantly
inal starting point."25 Newton
repeat things. I often
believed that all nature followed
feel like a walking
a uniform pattern, not necessarily
tape loop. I felt
of ideal relations, but of mathe-
like one when I typed
matically computable deviations
this sentence. You
from an ideal.26 David Porush
see, you're probably
puts his theory thus:
reading along pretty
Since in the Newtonian view
every action has an equal
and opposite reaction, the
amount of energy transferred
from one moment in time
through the actions of a sys¬
tem of energy and matter to
another moment in time remains
constant. This law of the
conservation of matter and
energy implied that the pro¬
cess could be reversed with
no loss of energy, and then
reversed again with the same
results, ad infinitum.
Because no essential change
occurs over time, in the New¬
tonian view, time itself is
reversible.2?
comfortably now, but
when I wrote this sen¬
tence I struggled with
it—probably read it
over a total of eight
or nine times just to
make sure you could
get through it with
relative ease. I ima¬
gined you saying "Huh?"
Newton's universe could be labeled
over and over.
as anti-entropic or, better, bi-
My wife says I
entropic, because energy could
think too much about
turn and return, trope and retrope.
what other people think.
Bailly's universe, though, was
I guess she's right, but
irreversible--entropic. Stated
I've been thinking
in the heat conduction equation
about those situations

276
formulated by Jean Baptiste Joseph
where someone speaks
Fourier (1768-1830), which quanti-
but another person
fied Bailly's theory, this yielded
does not understand,
the following postulation: "wher-
like with my kids, and
ever temperature differences exist,
I've come up with some
they tend to be evened out by the
thoughts. The task is
flow of heat from high temperature
to get a few of them
to low" (Holton, 186-87).
down, mark off a spot,
Sadi Carnot, author of Reflec-
a topic, to which I
tions on the Motive Power of Fire
can later return. At
(1824), applied the principles of
the moment, my ideas
Bailly and Fourier to the steam
are pretty disorganized
engine. He showed that heat can
so you might have to
do work only when it descends from
work a little harder
a higher to a lower temperature.
than usual to get any-
A difference must exist. The
thing out of what I am
amount of heat and the "height of
saying. As best as
its fall" decide how much mechani-
possible, and it's
cal work can be accomplished (GM,
really tough, I'm trying
35). Because of this phenomenon,
to disregard your
Carnot maintained that it was
"Huh?"s.
impossible to drive an engine at
Truman Capote
maximum efficiency. The heat
said that Jack Kerouac
imbalances or concent rations--that
didn't write. He typed.
is, the differences necessary for
I'm not sure that was
producing work--always degrade
true, but it was, none-
themselves such that they reach a
theless, a great

277
particularly simple state called
compliment. Kerouac
an equilibrium where energy is
did try to use his
evenly distributed throughout the
typewriter to do what
system. William Thomson, later
it did best. I suppose
Lord Kelvin, expressed this as "a
I don't write either,
universal tendency in nature to
or at least I'm begin-
the dissipation of mechanical
ning to ask myself:
energy.
"How can I stop 'writ-
In 1854, Hermann von Helmholtz
ing'?" I, as they
observed that Thomson's principle,
say, enter information
if generalized, implied the cooling
on a word processor.
of the entire universe. Or put
Most of the time I
differently, all energy would even-
treat its amber-colored
tually be transformed into heat
screen like a sheet of
(the most degraded form of energy)
white paper, but some-
at a uniform temperature; at that
times I wonder what
time, all natural processes would
this instrument will
cease. "The universe," Helmholtz
do one day. When I
said, "from that time forward would
begin to think such
be condemned to a state of eternal
thoughts, though, I
rest." Heat death, foreseen nearly
often find that I am
a century earlier by Bailly, was
the one saying, "Huh?"
now re-forecast in all its doom
Returning to more
but grounded much more firmly on
familial concerns, we
the science of thermodynamics.
notice that my kids'
Twenty-seven years later, the con-
frequent failure to
cept had become so trivialized,
understand me represents

278
such a cliché, that Flaubert would
a simple case where
make his ingénues, Bouvard and
different levels of
Pécuchet, fret that the world might
proficiency in employing
end not with a bang, but with ...
a shared system of
Well, you know the rest. Flau¬
codes come into contact.
bert writes:
Simply put, they have
This work of nature aston¬
ished them, and gave rise to
lofty considerations about the
origin of the world.
Bouvard inclined to neptun-
ism, Pécuchet on the other
hand was plutonian.
The central fire had broken
the global crust, raised up
land formations, caused cre¬
vasses. It is like an inner
sea, with its ebb and flow,
its storms; a thin film separ¬
ates it from us. There would
be no sleep for anyone who
thought of all that lies
underfoot. However the cen¬
tral fire is diminishing and
the sun is growing weaker,
so that one day the earth
will die of cold. I will
become sterile; all the wood
and all the coal will have
been converted into carbonic
acid, and no life will be able
to survive.
"We are not there yet,"
said Bouvard.
"Let's hope so," replied
Pécuchet.
All the same, the end of
the world, remote as it might
be, made them despondent,
and they walked side by side
silently over the pebbles.^®
not mastered the grammar
and syntax of their
native language, Eng¬
lish. Thus, for them,
the language is unpre¬
dictable and rich in
information. But more
than this, we observe
that the designation
"child" actually hinges
on, is defined by, not
only a culturally
derived standard of
cognitive facility,
but a culturally con-
scribed standard of
inability. Children
are those who, along
This state of things obviously set
with other culturally
the stage for Clausius's already
sanctioned criteria,
mentioned formulation, and it
cannot perceive,

279
allowed for the ready acceptance
complete, or generate
of Sir Arthur Eddington's metaphor
certain patterns or
for entropy: "the arrow of time."
structures deemed con-
In Eddington's view the question
ventional or redundant
of time was simply a question of
by other groups such
the degree of organization of
as parents, whose def-
energy. Campbell explains:
initions of what is
"Earlier is different from later
perceivable, complet-
because early energy is more highly
able, or generatable
organized." That is, if there is
create identity both
more and more randomness along the
for children and them-
path of the arrow, it points toward
selves (often at the
the future. If there is less and
expense of children).
less randomness, it points toward
Children, then, function
the past" (GM, 84). In other
as (negative) indexes
words, the universe is not, nor
or confirmations of
can there be a perpetual motion
what counts as worth
machine. The universe is unidirec-
knowing in a culture.
tional.
What they do not know
The most famous challenge to
defines what needs to
this body of "entropic truth" was
be known (or has to be
Maxwell's demon, a hypothetical
learned). Certainly,
being who made his appearance under
this could be expanded
the heading "Limitation of the
at great length, but I
Second Law of Thermodynamics" near
am more interested
the end of James Clerk Maxwell's
returning to the child's
treatise Theory of Heat (1871),
query than in playing

280
and who possessed science for sev¬
endless choruses on the
eral decades. Porush's account
"The Foucault Blues."
of Maxwell's theoretical experiment
During the year
paraphrases Maxwell's own remarks.
1976-'77, I worked at
He writes:
a school with a long
given an insulated box divided
into two chambers such that
there is a little doorway
between the first and second
chambers, imagine that sitting
atop the box there is a demon.
Now imagine that there is a
gas divided into each chamber
so that there is an equal
average number of warm and
cool molecules (the heat of
a molecule is a function of
how fast it is moving) in
each chamber. The box then
is in a state of maximum
entropy, since the molecules
in each chamber are undiffer¬
entiated and random, and there
is no differential in energy
across the barrier between
the chambers available to do
work. This demon is capable
of distinguishing warmer mole¬
cules from cooler ones. Every
time he sees a cold molecule
heading from the first to
the second or a hot molecule
heading from the second to
the first, he doesn't allow
them to pass. If the demon
is patient enough, all the
faster, hotter molecules will
be in chamber one and all
the more sluggish, cooler
ones in chamber two. This
creates a temperature differ¬
ential across the wall divid¬
ing them, and this differ¬
ential can be used to do work.
After all the available energy
is used, and the system is at
maximum entropy once more, the
demon can repeat the process.
The result is a perpetual-
name: Tampa United Meth¬
odist Center, Model
Cities Preschool for
Retarded Children.
While there, I taught
children whose scores
on the Stanford-Benet
Intelligence Test ranged
from the high 50s to
around 80. Other
teachers worked with
children whose IQ's
could not be measured
by conventional testing
procedures. If a
child's IQ was over
70, he had to manifest
a secondary handicap
in order to be allowed
in the program and, in
turn, my class (which
had the "brightest"

281
motion machine contravening
the Second Law. (SM, 48-49)
Interestingly, the solution to this
paradox did much to open up the
concept or metaphor of entropy by
suggesting that information and
entropy are related--even directly
proportional.
Physicist Leo Szilard stated
it this way in 1929, "Any action
resulting in a decrease in the
entropy of a system must be pre¬
ceded by an operation of acquiring
information, which in turn is
coupled with the production of an
equal or greater amount of
entropy."31 Leon Brillouin sub¬
stantiated Szilard's position and
expanded it when he claimed: "an
intelligent being, whatever its
size, has to cause an increase of
entropy before it can effect a
reduction by a smaller amount
(Ehrenberg, 109, emphasis mine).
The operative word here is "cause";
the implication is that the very
act of seeing--perception--increa¬
ses the entropy in a system. In
kids in the school).
The children, at least
those who could speak,
and there were many,
said, "Huh?" a lot.
Because of that exper¬
ience—almost being
"Huh?"ed into a torpor
--I can imagine a limit
situation where every
conceivable, technical
means of encoding redun¬
dancy would not insure
communication. (This
is the basis of the
banana-in-the-ear joke
as well as Orr's crab-
apple/horse-chestnut
joke in Catch 22.^0
Question: "Why have
you got bananas in
your ears." Answer:
"I'm sorry. I can't
hear you. I've got
bananas in my ears.")
I look at a child and
say, "Throw me the

282
his history of Maxwell's demon,
ball." The child says,
Ehrenberg summarizes Brillouin's
"Huh?" I repeat the
arguments:
phrase and get, "Huh?"
Before an intelligent being
can use its intelligence, it
must perceive its objects,
and that requires physical
means of perception. Visual
perception in particular
requires the illumination of
the object. Seeing is essen¬
tially a nonequilibrium phe¬
nomenon. The cylinder in
which the demon operates is,
optically speaking, a closed
black body and, according to
the principle enunciated by
Gustav Kirchhoff in 1859,
the radiation inside a black
body is homogeneous and non-
directional because for any
wavelength and any temperature
the emissivity of any surface
equals its coefficient of
absorption. Hence, although
an observer inside a black
body is exposed to quanta of
radiation, he can never tell
whether a particular photon
comes from a molecule or is
reflected from a wall. The
observer must use a lamp that
emits light of a wavelength
not well represented in the
black body radiation, and
the eventual absorption of
this light by the observer or
elsewhere increases the
entropy of the system. (p.
109)
Restate it in a differ¬
ent way--the same
response.
Pretty soon, to
ignore all sorts of
alternative solutions
to the problem of "Huh?"
I imagine a world where
every signifier func¬
tions as a homonym.
This place is not just
your typical, ironic
world, mind you, where
every term means one
thing and its opposite
too. It's a world where
everyone shares the
same set of signs but
employs them to com¬
Brillouin demonstrated mathematic¬
pletely different ends.
ally that the increase of entropy
In this world, if I
caused by the process of perception
ask two people, "Stamped
exceeded the decrease of entropy
several brown cups
the demon could effect. For all
soon?" one might frown

283
practical purposes, Maxwell's demon
and bring me a water-
was exorcised.
melon, another might
At this point it might be
smile and start counting
helpful to recount Max Planck's
the freckles on my
classification of all elementary
face. Admittedly,
processes into three categories:
this world doesn't
natural, unnatural, and reversible.
last very long—too
A natural process "proceeds in a
much cognitive disso-
direction toward equilibrium" (the
nance. Next, I imagine
point where entropy reaches a max-
another world where
imum level).
everyone also shares
For example, two bodies initi¬
ally at different temperatures
are connected by a metal wire.
Heat flows from the hot to the
cold body until the tempera¬
tures of both bodies are the
same. As another example, a
vessel containing a gas is
connected through a stopcock
to an evacuated vessel. When
the stopcock is opened, the
gas expands to fill the whole
of the available space
unif ormly.32
one set of signs; but
here one group of people
defines itself by the
way it employs signs,
defines other groups
of people by the way
they use (i.e., abuse)
those same signs.
Unnatural processes represent the
This world--argu-
reverse of natural processes. They
ably less severe than
"move away from equilibrium and
my first one but ulti-
never occur. If A —► Bisa
natural process between states A
mately as mad as any
penned by Swift, is
and B, then B A is an unnatural
the world Martin Scor-
process." Reversible processes
sese creates in his
find their examples in those pro-
revisionist musical,
cesses in nature that we regard

284
as infinitely cyclical (e.g., the
New York, New York
water or nitrogen cycle). They
(1977). After the
actually constitute an "idealized
credits run —art-deco
natural process that passes through
letters over a cut-
a continuous sequence of
out, NYC skyline, all
equilibrium states," and they are
to the music of Ger-
only distinguished from natural
shwin--the movie proper
processes by noting that "a rever-
begins with a blast of
sible process may be exactly
noise: V-J Day, 1945.
reversed by an infinitesimal change
In New York, Tommy
in the external conditions." Thus,
Dorsey's Orchestra is
it is important to note: "every
playing some palatial
process occurring in the world
ballroom--a dance broad
results in an overall increase in
cast over radio station
entropy and a corresponding degra-
WNEW--and Jimmy Doyle
dation in energy." This is the
(Robert De Niro) is
entropy law (Jaep).
roaming the floor look-
But "law" may be too strong
ing for a woman, pref-
a word, for we should remember that
erably a star. He
Clausius stated that "entropy of
finds her in Francine
the universe tends toward a max-
Evans (Liza Minnelli).
imum." We should also remember
Francine rebuffs all
that entropy has no place in the
of Jimmy's advances.
Newtonian universe--"a universe,"
The couple is, of
according to Norbert Wiener, "in
course, as different
which everything happened precisely
as we expect that they
according to law, a compact,
should be: more

285
tightly organized universe in which
different than even Fred
the whole future depends strictly
Astaire and Ginger
upon the whole past."33
Rogers. Jimmy--all
The Second Law of Thermodynam-
bebop nerves and noir
ics, as it is now understood,
dissonance--plays tenor
reflects the methods of statistical
saxophone in the legato
mechanics and specifically the
style of Lester Young,
theories of Ludwig Boltzmann and
Paul Quinichette, Zoot
Willard Gibbs. According to their
Sims, Flip Phillips,
and others views, "physics now no
and Georgie Auld, which
longer claims to deal with what
means the man's got
will always happen, but rather
eyes for bop, and that
with what will happen with an over-
means when swing goes
whelming probability" (Wiener,
out (television comes
18). In taking this tack, which
in; people stay home;
is consistent with the atomic the-
clubs close), he will
ory of matter, entropy denotes "a
weather the changes
statistical property of particles,"
(and, in the process,
where the movement of particles
probably get a "habit").
toward equilibrium represents a
Francine, on the other
movement toward the most probable
hand, is a pop singer
molecular arrangement, that is,
(in no uncertain terms
toward the most mixed or most ran-
a cinematic citation
dom state. Boltzmann expressed
of Judy Garland).
this concept with this basic equa¬
tion:
She, the star-is-born
system assures us of
S = k log W
this, will also weather
t i on:

286
in which S stands for entropy,
k is a universal constant
known as Boltzmann's constant,
and W has to do with the num¬
ber of ways in which the parts
of the system can be arranged.
The entropy S reaches a maxi-
mum when all the parts of
the system are so thoroughly
mixed up and random that there
is no reason to expect it to
favor one particular
arrangement over any of the
colossal number of other pos-
sible arrangements. Since
the system is in constant
motion, new arrangements are
created at every instant in
the invisible microworld,
much as a new arrangement of
a pack of playing cards is
created every time the pack
is shuffled. (GM, 46)
the demise of the big
bands, achieve immense
fame and probably a big,
splashy production
number towards the end
of the movie. On this
count, our expectations
are not frustrated.
Whew! Hold onto
that last paragraph.
If you are even slightly
proficient as a reader,
By supplanting the notion of
you know that I've
physics as inviolable law, by
been working up to it
grounding the Second Law on an
ever since I started
application of "the idea of statis-
this column, and if
tically probable or 'contingent'
you are even slightly
courses of a system," and by repre-
competent as a critic
senting entropy in mathematical
--meaning you can gauge
terms (involving equalities),
my progress against a
Boltzmann demonstrated that the
standard computed by
principle of dissipation of energy
extracting a kind of
may occasionally be violated
textual equivalent of
(Holton, 374). In other words,
a mathematical mean
there is a small chance--infini tes-
from the blue zillion
imally small--that a system will
texts you've read before
not run down, that energy will,
this one--then you

287
for a time, not become unusable.
probably think that it
For instance, if we take a sealed
took me too long to get
bottle "containing" a vacuum and
there. I could claim
place it in the middle of a field,
that I'm miming NY,NY.
break the vacuum so that only one
Watch it. Scorsese
molecule at a time can pass into
claims that his first
the bottle, the law of entropy
cut brought it down to
will be demonstrated as the bottle
four-and-a-half hours.
fills with air. Will the bottle
The final cut is two
ever naturally become a vacuum
hours, forty-five min-
again? The answer, of course,
utes, excludes the
depends on the size of the bottle
film's biggest produc-
(and on chance). If the bottle
tion number, and seems
is small, say, can hold only one
like it lasts forever.
molecule at a time, it is conceiv-
Or I could claim that
able that it would become a vacuum
I am miming film on the
frequently. If two molecules would
most elemental of
fill its space then it would become
levels: the justified
a vacuum less frequently. If the
column on the left is
bottle was a "mason jar," the
my image track; this
chances of it becoming a vacuum
skinny strip of writing
again are incredibly small--small
is an (optical) sound
but statistically not impossible.
track--a rambling
Or to illustrate further,
monologue like Travis
extend the playing card analogy
Bickle's in Taxi Driver
mentioned under the discussion of
("I'm Jazz's lonely
Boltzmann's equation. A theory
fan."). Nevertheless,

288
of entropy based on probability
to compensate, I'll
postulates that a random, mechan-
speed things up.
ical shuffling could produce a
Let's pretend
highly structured system, such as
that the reader has
a perfectly ordered deck of cards,
seen NY,NY, knows it
Subsequent reshufflings, however,
well. Then I may safely
would very likely produce a less
assume that, with a
ordered arrangement, and the more
minimum amount of
ordered the first arrangement,
effort, I can state my
the greater this likelihood would
thesis, and the reader
be. Number, of course, influences
will not say, "Huh?"
probability. A deck with fifty-
Utter the word, though,
two cards has a remote but reason-
and you know what that
able chance of being ordered acci-
spells: one thing,
dentally, but a substance in
w-o-r-k. I have to
nature, a gas, let us say, has
write more; you have
billions of molecules, and the
to read more. In any
countless possible arrangements
event, here is my the-
of them affects the odds. The
sis. Everything which
most probable condition of the
follows is a repetition
gas is to manifest all the possible
of this: NY,NY =
molecular arrangements represented
charivari.
in such proportions as would be
In his study of
produced by "shuffling." As each
American Cinema (1930-
split second corresponds to innu-
1980), Robert Ray argues
merable shufflings, the gas quick-
that, early on, Holly-
ly moves toward maximum disorder,
wood developed what he

289
randomness, and chaotic equilib-
calls a reconciliatory
rium. Again, such shuffling could
pattern: a formal para-
in principle produce a highly
digm based on the con-
ordered, complex structure by acci-
cealment of choice--
dent, but, in Sir Arthur
"the systematic subor-
Eddington's analogy, the chances
dination of every cine-
are about the same that an army
matic element to the
of monkeys hammering on typewrit-
interests of a movie's
ers could reproduce all the books
narrative"--and a the-
in the British Museum (Cooper,
matic paradigm where
112-13).
incompatible values--
Although Eddington's analogy
or competing myths--
is calculated to satirically
reduced to melodrama,
deflate the emphasis statistical
were resolved "simplis-
thermodynamics places on probabil-
tically (by refusing
ity--i.e., lampoon its actual or
to acknowledge that a
"applied" differences fromclassi-
choice is necessary),
cal thermodynamics—it does little
sentimentally (by
or nothing to unsettle Gibbs's
blurring the differences
speculation that entropy implies,
between the two sides),
not the narrowing of alternatives
or by laughing the
down to one inevitable doom, but
whole thing off."41
rather the tendency of "worlds to
If this is the case, and
multiply, that is, for a given
it would certainly
set of conditions to point toward
seem to be, the MGM
an ever larger range of possible
musical represented a
outcomes" (Wiener, 20). In a
stylized, almost

290
passage designed to convey the
liturgical version of
sense and force of Gibbs's argu-
Hollywood's basic mater-
raents, Wiener writes:
ials. Thematically, its
As entropy increases, the uni¬
verse, and all closed systems
in the universe, tend natur¬
ally to deteriorate and lose
their distinctiveness, to
move from the least to the
most probable state, from a
state of organization and
differentiation in which dis¬
tinctions and forms exist,
to a state of chaos and same¬
ness. In Gibbs's universe
order is least probable, chaos
most probable. But while
the universe as a whole, if
indeed there is a whole uni¬
verse, tends to run down,
there are local enclaves whose
direction seems opposed to
that of the universe at large
and in which there is a lim¬
ited and temporary tendency
for organization to increase.
Life finds its home in some
of these enclaves.34
st ripped-down-to-non¬
existent plot relied
on both the audience's
familiarity with, and
adherence to, the funda¬
mental tenets of the
Hollywood myth. Form¬
ally, its celebration
of continuity editing
and the principal of
"centering" (the audi¬
ence, as it were, always
had the best seat in
The concept of entropy, as we
the house) suggested
saw in the discussion regarding
nothing so much as a
Maxwell's demon, is not only cru-
paean to the trans-
cial to an understanding of ther-
parent or invisible
modynamics or statistical mechan-
style (CTHC, 38).
ics, but also to an understanding
Scorsese's film
of information theory. Indeed, a
disrupts the reconcili-
relationship between thermodynamics
atory pattern. Here's
and information, implicit in the
how. First, like any
Boltzmann equation and explicit
number of "corrected"
in Shannon and Weaver's
genre movies, it mimes

291
Mathematical Theory of Coinmunica- --or, rather, like a
t ion (1949), is plainly stated in parasite it inhabits —
Porush's analogy: the form that it cor-
just as in thermodynamic sys¬
tems there is an inevitable
tendency for organization
and usable energy to decrease
in favor of randomness and
unusable energy (entropy),
so in information systems
there is an inevitable ten¬
dency for messages between
parts of the system to be
degraded by disorganization.
(SM, 56-7).
Or as Wiener puts it, in The Human
Use of Human Beings (1954):
Messages are themselves a form
of pattern and organization.
Indeed, it is possible to
treat sets of messages as
having an entropy like sets
of states of the external
world. Just as entropy is a
measure of disorganization,
the information carried by a
set of messages is a measure
of organization. In fact,
it is possible to interpret
the information carried by a
message as essentially the
negative of its entropy, and
the negative logarithm of its
probability [hence, the term
"negentropy"]. That is, the
more probable the message, the
less information it gives.
Clichés, for example, are less
illuminating than great
poems.55
This statement is a sententious,
but not especially entropic,
expression of information theory's
basic tenets, couched in the fairly
rects. In this way, it
corresponds to repre¬
sentations of jazz
that picture this music
as an art form that
works off previously
available forms. NY , NY,
we should observe,
parades its artifici¬
ality; it can be read
straight, as the story
of two people who cannot
get it together, or it
can be read ironically,
as a real movie about
other real movies. To
the naive viewer, it is,
in Scorsese's words,
"a love story set in
the big band era in the
Forties. To the
hip viewer, it looks
like a musical trying
very hard to look like

292
non-technical language that char-
a musical. Filmed
acterizes Wiener's humanistic
completely on sets, it
treatise. Notice this, however.
gives us, not one loca-
Whereas the metaphorical valence
tion shot of New York,
of thermodynamic entropy is largely
New York (in singer
negative, informational entropy is
Jon Hendrick's words,
more ambiguous. "It," Porush
"A town so nice, they
writes, "designates the initial
named it twice"), but
conditions of variabi1ity--the
Hollywood's image of New
amount of uncertainty--which are
York City (which, one
the necessary preconditions out
might add, contributed
of which information arises" (SM,
greatly to New York's
57) .
image of itself, which
On its most basic level,
contributed to Holly-
information theory defines communi-
wood's image of New
cation as "the transmission of
York, which . . . and
messages."36 As such, and as a
so on and so on).^3
project whose aim is the quantifi-
Next, it frus-
cation of communication processes,
trates the convention
it is most of all concerned with
which assumes that
such things as: how to send the
opposing value systems
maximum amount of information along
can be reconciled
a given channel, how to measure
through romantic love.
the capacity of the channels and
Let me explain. As I
media of communication, and how
was saying earlier,
to improve encoding and decoding
Francine successfully
to increase semantic efficiency and
thwarts Jimmy's advances

293
accuracy (Fiske, 6-7). Shannon
pictured this model as a three-
step process:
trans-
signal v
received
receiver
mitter
° /
signal '
noise
Here a source chooses a message to
send, the selected message is
changed by a transmitter into a
signal, and the signal is sent
through the channel to the
receiver. Even though this linear
conception of communication has
been repeatedly discussed, modi¬
fied, and challenged (challenged
most notably by the project known
collectively as semiotics), it
remains the prototype of its kind,
and it retains something of its
pristine simplicity.
Noise, information, entropy,
and redundancy--key terms used to
express relationships in this pro-
cess--shall now be defined,
explained and illustrated as I
at the VJ Day celebra¬
tion. But convention
demands that she run
into him later. She
does so, the next day.
Again, they do not hit
it off, but through a
series of maneuvers
which I shall not
detail, Francine ends
up in a cab with Jimmy,
who is on his way to
an audition at a tiny,
downtown club. He
proceeds to give her
his philosophy of life.
Jimmy: Listen, I
want to ask you
something. You
want to know what
interests me the
most, Francis?
One is music.
Number two is money.
And Number three
is . . . [makes the
sound of kissing
while leaning on
Francis' shoulder].
Francine: I got it.
Uh huh. I got it.
Jimmy: What's the
matter?
Francine: I don't
want it. They're
always in that
order?

294
complete this history of the scien¬
tific concept of entropy.
Noise (Latin nausea > Old
French noise--R&C, 294) is anything
that gets in the way of--impedes
--the encoding, transmission, or
reception of a message. It is
anything that interrupts, blocks,
or, otherwise, jazzes up communi¬
cation ( communication, one may
recall, once had precisely the
same sexual connotations now asso¬
ciated with the word intercourse).
But more than this, noise includes
"any signal received that was not
transmitted by the source, or any¬
thing that makes the intended sig¬
nal harder to decode accurately"
(Fiske, 8). Noise is, therefore,
caught up in a whole system that
assumes that meaning is determined
by tracing a signal back to the
sender's intention ( s). At the
level of mathematical description,
however, there is absolutely no
distinction between noise and
informationâ–  Abraham Moles, author
Jimmy: Sure, they're
always in that
order. Unless, you
happen to come
across someone who
grooves you, and
you want to groove
with--say you--and
if things work
out, and you start
acting a little
more intelligent,
then possibly,
then I will make
number three number
one, number one
number three, and
number two. Now
wait. Wait, I'm
getting confused.
You put it where
ah ...
Francine: You put it
where number three
i s.
Jimmy: Francis, let
me start all over
again. Let me get
this. Number three
would be number one.
Francine: Number two
would be number two.
Jimmy: Exactly. And
when you have that,
you have what you
call a major chord.
Francine: What is a
major chord?
Jimmy: A major chord
is when everything
in your life works
out perfectly,
when you have
everything you
could ever possibly
want. Everything.
You have the woman
you want. You
have the music you
want. And you
have enough money
to live comfort¬
ably. And that's
a major chord.

295
of Information Theory and Aesthetic
The film now cuts to
Perception, restates and ampli-
Jimmy's audition. He
fies this point when he writes,
plays a tune that jumps
"There is no absolute structural
a little too much for
difference between noise and sig-
the terminally square
nal. The only difference that
club owner. Obviously,
can be logically established
he has blown a chance
between them is based exclusively
at a paying gig. But
on the concept of intent on the
then Francine starts
part of the transmitter" (GM, 26).
snapping her fingers.
We would also do well to
and singing, "You
observe what Michel Serres, has
brought a new kind of
been so careful to point out:
love to me." She
namely, the linguistic/metaphorical
prompts Jimmy to play
(and potentially analogical) con-
obbligati over her
nection between parasites (the
melody line. He com-
biological) and noise (communica-
plies, and they land a
tion theory). In French, a para-
job as a boy/girl act.
site is a guest who trades words
This moment of con-
for food, a plant or animal that
junction, however, is
lives on or within another, and
established to be
noise--"the static in a system or
summarily disrupted.
the interference in a channel."37
Francine's agent, Tony
In the language of thermodynamics,
Harwell (Lionel
a parasite is the "thermal exciter"
Stander), immediately
in a system; in information theory,
finds her a job singing
it is that which interrupts, which
with Frankie Harte's

296
transforms one message (or one
big band. (Harte, by
system or order) into another.
the way is played by
"Information is simply a meas-
Georgie Auld, a musician
ure of the probability that a given
who played all the
signal or element will be selected
saxophone parts Jimmy
from among a set of differentiated
plays in the movie.)
elements, a set of alternatives"
She runs out on Jimmy.
(CM, 57). It has nothing to do
He follows her, catches
with content, but is directly "pro-
up with her in the
portional to the amount of variety
middle of a performance
(entropy) in the original set"
at The Meadows, ushers
(57). This means, the more disord-
her outside, and,
ered a system, the more information
against a backdrop of
it will take to describe it or
cut-out trees, tells
linguistically order it. Thus,
her, "I love you. I
"the process of information trans-
mean I dig you." He
mission can be regarded as a pro-
joins the band, soon
cess of reducing uncertainty."^
marries her, and when
"Entropy is simply a measure
Harte leaves the band,
of the number of choices of signal
Jimmy takes over. The
that can be made and of the random-
band succeeds until a
ness of those choices" (Fiske,
pregnant Francine
12). When unpredictability or
returns to New York.
uncertainty reaches a maximum,
Jimmy continues to
entropy is at a maximum. There-
lead the band for a
fore, the amount of information
short while, then also
needed to reduce that maximum
returns to New York.

297
uncertainty will also have to be
They pursue separate
at a maximum. Similarly, if there
careers in music: Jimmy
is no uncertainty remaining after
plays The Harlem Club
a message is sent, then the amount
by night; Francine
of information transmitted is the
records jingles and
same as the amount of uncertainty
demos by day and, even-
that existed initially. Stated
tually, gets a contract
another way, we may aver that "a
with Decca Records.
message conveys no information
Their marriage falls
unless some prior uncertainty
apart. Jimmy leaves
exists in the mind of the receiver
Francine the morning
about what the message will con-
their son is born,
tain. And the greater the uncer-
without even seeing the
tainty, the larger the amount of
child. Francine, of
information conveyed when that
course, goes on to
uncertainty is resolved" (Campbell,
great commercial success
68) .
as a recording artist
"Redundancy is that which is
and film star. But,
predictable or conventional in a
surprisingly, Jimmy also
message" (Fiske, 10). The opposite
succeeds. He opens a
of entropy, it is the result of
club, The Major Chord,
high predictability, and it func-
and has a hit with
tions on both a technical and
"New York, New York,"
social level. Technically speak-
a tune he wrote for
ing, redundancy insures accuracy
Francine.
in decoding; socially, it rein-
Now my point is
forces social ties, insures
this: NY,NY abides by
f

communication
298
communication. For example, the
(writes out) the myths
bundle of redundancies that conven-
of jazz. It wards off
tionally signal the end of a sen-
the unnatural unions
tence--a lower case letter followed
perpetrated by Hollywood
by a period, two spaces, and an
musical. According to
upper case letter (which not only
what we could tag the
marks the beginning of a new sen-
" i rreconci1iatory pat-
tence, but a redundant marking
tern" Jimmy and Fran-
the end of the previous sentence)
cine's relationship
--protects against the mistake of
could never work. From
thinking a sentence is complete
the very beginning, it
when it is not. Or take two other
was an illicit conjunc-
examples: notice that the Aristo-
tion, fated to fail.
telian plot curve, with its Pro-
When they speak, Jimmy
tasis, Epitasis, Catástasis, and
and Francine may share
Peripetia, developed out of ritu-
the same words, and
alistic origins or consider that
when they make music,
a wedding at the end of a comedy
they may share similar
is nearly one-hundred percent pre-
sounds, they may even
dictable.
share a song ("NY,NY"),
Restrictions, then, of both
but this in no way
form and theme, by establishing a
insures communication.
convention, delimit the freedom
Simply put, pop and
of writing to be completely arbi-
bop can always not
trary or random. Thus, redundancy
conjugate. "Huh?" I
acting essentially as a constraint,
hear you say, "isn't
increases predictability. Paired
this merely a case of

299
with the concept of information,
this concept of redundancy suggests
the following paradox: 11 information
is quantified in proportion to
its variety only, but humans rely
upon redundancy in order to per¬
ceive meaningful patterns in their
communication with the world and
each other” (CM, 59).
As a result of redundancy,
information may be available even
substituting one myth
for another, and fur¬
thermore, isn't a myth
that brings the irre¬
concilable together
preferable to one—a
myth posing as anti-
myth—that keeps people
apart?" I would readily
agree were it not for
one fact noticed by my
if part of a message is missed.
reading of NY,NY. The
For example, the blank in psy-
chol gy can easily be filled
in with an o, for the remain¬
ing letters give us sufficient
information, and in effect we
still have the whole message.
If we reflect on the frequency
with which children respond
with "Huh?" to an attempt at
communication, we shall no
doubt be grateful for all
the redundancy English con¬
tains. Probably the child's
query is more often produced
by an inferior ability to
reconstruct missed parts of
the message than by inferior
hearing.39
Information theory emphasizes that
the child's "problem," the problem
of entropy, can be remediated by
technical means, by increasing
redundancy. For instance, the
message could be repeated ("Do
possibility of Jimmy and
Francine actually pro¬
vided the very condi¬
tions that made the
reconci1iatory possible
i n
the first
pla
ce.
The chan
ce
that
you
might (pe
rhaps
always) conju
re
an
ima
ge complet
ely
diff
ent
from the
one
I
i nt
end means,
of
cour
that we may never con¬
nect (or that we might
think we are connecting

300
not, I repeat, do not get up from
until something happens
your desk again."), restated in
--somebody says, "Huh?"
different ways ("You're a pretty
--and makes us realize
special guy; I mean you're all
that we were never
right."), or the potentially
connecting in the first
entropic message could be prepared
place). But it—this
for by a reflexive statement, a
possibility that signi¬
metacomment that tests the channel
fication equals shared
and instructs the decoder to add
significations--also
his own redundancy to the message
defines the very con¬
about to be given ("Now, I'm going
ditions necessary for
to say something important. Listen
our communication.
carefully."). But the child's
Entropy--informat ion
problem can be looked at in another
and noise--makes commun
way.
ication (im)possible.
(continued on p. 273)
(continued on p. 273)
When I lived in Chattanooga,
I occasionally went to
the flea market. One day while browsing around, I hap¬
pened onto a whole table of combination locks. Interested
in purchasing one, I asked the woman sitting behind the
table if she had a list of the combinations, since I saw
none attached to any of the locks
I had examined.
"No," she said.
I asked, "Well, then, how do
you get them open?" She
said, "You try it. Some people get it right off.
If

301
Notes
-*-F. Scott Fitzgerald, "Echoes of the Jazz Age," The
Crack-Up, ed. Edmund Wilson (New York: New Directions, 1931),
p. 16; Mingus, p. 193; Xam Wilson Cartiér, Be-Bop, Re-Bop
(New York: Ballantine, 1987), p. 8; Skvorecky, p. 122; 0.
Revault d'Allones, in Noise, p. 140.
^Gregory L. Ulmer, "The Discourse of the Imaginary,"
Diacritics, 10 (1980), 67, 66. In this review of Barthes's
A Lover's Discourse: Fragments and Roland Barthes by Roland
Barthes, Ulmer writes: "In the Symbolic Order . . . meaning
arises out of the opposition of differentiated elements; the
Imaginary is the realm of images, the Symbolic the realm of
language (understood to function according to structuralist
principles). Thus the passage from the Imaginary to the
symbolic (the entry into language, in Lacan's terms) involves
a shift from signification based on identity to signification
based on difference" (p. 63). Subsequently cited parenthet¬
ically in the text.
^Louis Althusser, "Freud and Lacan," in Lenin and
Philosophy, trans. Ben Brewster (New York: Monthly Review
Press, 1971), pp. 218-19.
^Roland Barthes, "Jeunes chercheurs," Communications,
19 (1972), 2, quoted in "The Discourse of the Imaginary,"
p. 65.
^Max Harrison, A Jazz Retrospect (Boston: Crescendo Pub¬
lishing, 1976), p. 8; and Sargeant, pp. ix-x. A dyed-in-
the-wool formalist, Harrison occasionally succeeds so well
in analysis as to rupture his persona of tough-minded but
"innocent" reader. In one such "ruptured" essay, a reading
of the music of Teddy Charles, he writes:
The growth of taste for music has several almost discon¬
certing aspects. Providing we do not restrict ourselves
to an unduly narrow range of experience, we often find
on returning to a piece that we have not heard for a
long period that our reaction to it has markedly
changed. This does not refer merely to the truism
that fine music takes a while to yield all its secrets,
or even to the half-truth that yesterday's revolu¬
tionary is tomorrow's reactionary. The point is,
rather, that as experience grows the way in which we
apprehend music subtly alters. (p. 43)
This statement, in suggesting that a unified reading of a
musical text may be predicated on a restriction of experi¬
ence, implies that musical form, rather than inhering in a
text, is predicated on apprehension. It finds a critical
analogue in de Man's essay "The Dead-End of Formalist Criti¬
cism," B& I, pp. 229-45, and specifically in his reading of
William Empson's seventh type of ambiguity, for it suggests
that our response to music, like our response to poetry,

302
"does no more than state and repeat" "the deep division of
Being itself." The musical text, far from resolving con¬
flicts experienced by the listener, actually signifies
them (237).
^Gary Giddins, "Fathers and Son: A Jazz Genealogy,"
Village Voice, 2 Aug. 1983, pp. 1, 36-37.
^Larry Gushee, liner notes to Duke Ellington 1940, The
Smithsonian Collection, DPM2-0351, n.d.
^Leonard B. Meyer, Emotion and Meaning in Music (Chi¬
cago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1956) ; Fred Lerdahl and Ray
Jackendoff, A Generative Theory of Tonal Music (Cambridge,
Mass.: MIT Press, 1983) ; David Sudnow, Ways of~ the Hand:
The Organization of Improvised Conduct (New York: Harper
and Row, 1978) , and Talk*s Body: A Meditation between Two
Keyboards (New York: Penguin, 1979). Adorno, in "On Popular
Music," also formulates a listener-based theory built on
sign recognition. He divides the experience of hit song
recognition into five, interwoven components: (1) vague
remembrance, (2) actual identification, (3) subsumption by
label, (4) self-reflection on the act of recognition, and
(5) psychological transfer of recognition-authority to the
object. He argues that the popular song encourages "the
transformation of repetition into recognition and of recogni¬
tion into acceptance" (pp. 32-37).
^Criticism--and its generic, journalistic forms, the
concert and record review and the feature article--undoubt-
edly helped write the definition, and shape the develop¬
ment, of jazz, but no one has offered more than a few random
observations on criticism's purportedly deleterious effects
on music. Someone ought to demonstrate the interdependence
of jazz music and criticism and write a political history
of the critic's dialogue with the makers, distributors and
consumers of jazz music. To carry out such a project, one
would have to pay close attention to the mass of periodicals
associated with the history of jazz music (both Kennington
and Read and The New Grove contain bibliographies), and
one would need to pay close attention to those few critics
who are especially self-conscious about their position as
music critics: eg., Balliett, Gary Giddins, and Philip
Larkin, All What Jazz: A Record Diary 1961-1971 (New York:
Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1970). As an aside, I might add
that I hardly ever agree with Larkin, usually agree with
Balliett, and almost always agree with Giddins. Neverthe¬
less, the rhetoric of all three critics will bear careful
scrutiny.
-^Arthur Mendel, "Evidence and Explanation," in Report
of the Eighth Congress of the International Musicological
Society, New York, 1961 (New York: Barenreiter, 1962) , vol.
2, p. 4. Leo Treitler, "Homer and Gregory: the Transmission

303
of Epic Poetry and Plainchant," Musical Quarterly 60 (July
1974), pp. 33-72. Gary Tomlinson, "The Web of Culture: a
Context for Musicology," 19th-Century Music 7 (Spring 1984),
pp. 350-62.
H-Hawkes, p. 154.
12Corbett, p. 54. Employing post-structuralist "writ¬
ing" to theorize that type of improvisation jazz musicians
call "free," or the musical paradigm Attali labeled "composi
tion," Corbett images improvisation "as a diverse range of
strategies ... a confederation dedicated to the relocation
of 'music' in the body of the performer--but one that is
unified neither at the level of the three bodies (knowledge,
performer, instrument) nor at the juncture of those bodies,
but in the space between improvisors, at the level of what
Attali calls 'tolerance' and what we might call 'paradoxy'"
(p. 71).
l^The bulk of the material written about jazz functions
to introduce neophytes to cultural and field specific
(musical) codes—summarized by designations like "record¬
ings," "personages," "compositional forms," "playing styles,
and "historical periods"--by which jazz music is known in
this episteme. Well-known illustrations of this urge to
initiation are: James Lincoln Collier, The Making of Jazz:
A Comprehensive History; Robert S. Gold, Jazz Talk (New York
Da Capo Press, 1975); Nat Hentoff, The Jazz Life; and Frank
Tirro, Jazz: A History (New York: W. W. Norton, 1977).
However, because they are coded systems, these books also
constitute barriers to comprehensiveness, and this tendency
of discourse to conceal knowledge, one of the generic fea¬
tures of writing, is especially apparent in writing about
jazz. It is most noticeable in jazz autobiographies—such
as Milton "Mezz" Mezzrow and Bernard Wolfe's Really the
Blues or Charles Mingus' Beneath the Underdog. To Bal-
liett, the jazz columnist of The New Yorker, Mingus said,
"My book was written for black people to tell them how to
get through life. I was trying to upset the white man in
it—the right kind or the wrong kind, depending on what
color and persuasion you are" (AM, p. 326).
14"pythagoras (6th cent. B.C.) is said to have discov¬
ered the basic laws of music by listening to the sound of
four smith's hammers, which produced agreeable consonances.
They turned out to weigh 12, 9, 8, and 6 pounds, respec¬
tively." From these measures he derived mathematical rela¬
tionships which produced musical intervals (octave, fifth,
fourth, and whole tone)--"Pythagorean hammers," HCDM. For
a particularly influential reading of the interconnected
development of equal temperament, modern notation and the
orchestra see Max Weber. Also consult Noise and CM.

304
l^David Lewin, "Behind the Beyond," Perspectives of New
Music, 7 (Spring-Summer 1969), pp. 59-69, in CM, p. 68.
^Kerman writes: "In music, modernism falls into two
broad phases. The first phase was accomplished just before
the First World War, with works such as Debussy's Jeux,
Stravinsky's Le Sacre du printemps, and Schoenberg's Pierrot
lunaire. The second was launched directly after the Second
World War, with the compositions of Boulez, Stockhausen,
and Cage" (Chi, 14 ) .
l7Charles Mingus, Better Git It in Your Soul, Columbia
G 30628, n.d. "If Charlie Parker Were a Gunslinger, There'
Be a Whole Lot of Dead Copycats" was the original title of
a composition Mingus later renamed "Gunslinging Bird." The
Barthes citation is from La Tour Eiffel (Lausanne: Delphire,
1964), p. 28.
18Donald Barthelme, "The King of Jazz," Sixty Stories
(New York: E. P. Dutton, 1981), p. 357.
â– ^Francis Davis, In the Moment: Jazz in the 1980s (New
York: Oxford Univ. Preis^ 1986), p. Txl
20Jacques Derrida, Signsponge, trans. Richard Rand (New
York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1984), p. 8. Subsequently cited
by title in the body of my text.
^Richard Terdiman, Discourse/Counter-Discourse: The
Theory and Practice of Symbolic Resistance in Nineteenth-
Century France (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell Univ. Press, 1985) ,
pp. 151-52. Subsequently cited parenthetically in the text.
22Michel Serres, The Parasite, trans. Lawrence R.
Schehr (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1982),
p. Iff.
28Miles Davis, in Rowland, p. 92.
2^Gerald James Holton, Introduction to Concepts and
Theories in Physical Science, 2nd ed. with new material by
Stephen G. Brush (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1973),
p. 285.
25Jeremy Campbell, Grammatical Man (New York: Simon
and Schuster, 1982), p. 11. Subsequently cited as GM.
26Ricbard S. Westfall, "Newton and Order," in The
Concept of Order, ed. Paul G. Kuntz (Seattle: Univ. of
Washington, 1968), p. 30.
2^David Porush, The Soft Machine: Cybernetic Fiction
(New York: Methuen, 1985), pT 47. Subsequently cited as SM.

305
^Stephen g. Brush, "Thermodynamics and History,"
Graduate Journal 7 (1967), 494.
2^Peter L. Cooper, Signs and Symptoms: Thomas Pynchon
and the Contemporary World (Berkeley: Univ. of California,
1983), p^ 112. Subsequently cited parenthetically in the
text.
30Gustave Flaubert, Bouvard and Pécuchet, trans. A.
H. Krailsheimer (New York: Penguin, 1976), pp. 93-94.
3iW. Ehrenberg, "Maxwell's Demon," Scientific American
(November 1967), p. 109. Subsequently cited parenthetically
in the text.
32William F. Jaep, "Entropy," McGraw-Hill Encyclopedia
of Science and Technology, 1982 ed. Subsequently cited
parenthetically in the text as Jaep.
33Norbert Wiener, The Human Use of Human Beings: Cyber¬
netics and Society (New York: Avon Books, 1967), p. 13.
Subsequently cited parenthetically in the text.
34Wiener, in Tony Tanner, City of Words: American
Fiction 1950-1970 (New York: Harper and Row, 1971) , p7 145.
â– ^Tanner, p. 145.
3^Fiske, p. 2.
3^Schehr, in Serres, p. x.
^Melvin h. Marx and William A. Hillix, Systems and
Theories in Psychology (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1973), p. 420.
^Marx and Hillix, p. 421.
40Joseph Heller, Catch-22 (New York: Dell, 1955), p.
23-24.
4iRobert B. Ray, A Certain Tendency of the Hollywood
Cinema, 1930-1980 (Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1985),
p. 67. Subsequently cited as CTHC.
42Martin Scorsese, in Jonathan Kaplan, "Taxi Dancer,"
Film Comment, July-August 1977, p. 41.
43Jon Hendricks, in George Russell and His Orchestra,
"Manhattan," New York, N.Y. and Jazz in the Space Age,
MCA, 2-4017, 1973.

WORKS CITED
Literary Theory and Criticism
Adorno, Theodor W. "On the Fetish-Character in Music and
the Regression of Listening," Esthetic Theory and
Cultural Criticism. Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul,
1984.
"Perennial Fashion." Prisms. Trans. Helene
Iswolsky. Bloomington: Indiana Univ. Press, 1984.
Adorno, Theodor W. with the assistance of George Simpson.
"On Popular Music." Studies in Philosophy and Social
Science, 9 (1941), 17-48.
Allen, Woody. "The Query." Side Effects. New York: Random
House, 1975.
Althusser, Louis. "Freud and Lacan." In Lenin and Philoso¬
phy. Trans. Ben Brewster. New York: Monthly Review
Press, 1971.
Attali, Jacques. Noise: The Political Economy of Music.
Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: Univ. of Minnisota
Press, 1985.
Baker, Houston. Blues, Ideology, and Afro-American Liter¬
ature: A Vernacular Theory. Chicago: Univ. of Chicago
Press, 1984.
Barthes, Roland. The Grain of the Voice: Interviews 1962-
1980. Trans. Linda Coverdale. New York: Hill and
Wang, 1985.
Image-Music-Text. Trans. Stephen Heath. New
York: Hill and Wang, 1977.
S/Z. Trans. Richard Miller. New York: Hill
and Wang, 1974.
Benjamin, Walter. "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical
Reproduction." In Film Theory and Criticism. Ed.
Gerald Mast and Marshall Cohen. Trans. Harry Zohn.
New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1985.
306

307
Bevington, David. Medieval Drama. Boston:
1975.
Brown, Roger. Words and Things. New York:
1958.
Houghton Mifflin
The Free Press,
Boulez, Pierre. Orientations: Collected Writings. Ed.
Jean-Jacques Nattiez. Trans. Martin Cooper. Cambridge
Harvard Univ. Press, 1986.
Bourjaily, Vance. "In and Out of Storyville: Jazz and
Fiction." The New York Times Book Review, 13 Dec.
1987, pp. 1, 44-45.
Cage, John. Silence. Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan Univ.
Press, 1961.
Campbell, Jeremy. Grammatical Man. New York: Simon and
Schuster, 1982.
Cheatham, Robert. "Interview: Jacques Derrida." Art Papers
Jan.-Feb. 1986, pp. 31-34.
Cooper, Peter L. Signs and Symptoms: Thomas Pynchon and
the Contemporary World. Berkeley: Univ. of California,
1983.
Corbett, John. "Writing Around Improvisation." Subjects/
Objects, (1986), 53-98.
Derrida, Jacques. Dissemination. Trans. Barbara Johnson.
Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1981.
"Limited Inc," Glyph 2: Johns Hopkins Textual
Studies. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1977.
Margins of Philosophy. Trans. Alan Bass.
Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1982.
Of Grammatology. Trans. Gayatri Chakravorty
Spivak. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1976.
Signsponge. Trans. Richard Rand. New York:
Columbia Univ. Press, 1984.
De Man, Paul. Blindness and Insight: Essays in the Rhetoric
of Contemporary Criticism. 2nd Ed. Minneapolis:
Univ. of Minnesota Press, 1971.
Eco, Umberto. A Theory of Semiotics. Bloomington: Indiana
Univ. Press, 1976.
Ehrenberg, W. "Maxwell's Demon." Scientific American, Nov.
1967, pp. 103-110.

308
Eisenberg, Evan. The Recording Angel: Explorations in
Phonography. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1987.
Eliot, T. S. "Tradition and the Individual Talent."
Selected Prose of T. S. Eliot. Ed. Frank Kermode.
New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, Farrar, Straus
and Giroux, 1975.
Erickson, Frederick, "Rhetoric, Anecdote, and Rhapsody:
Coherence Strategies in a Conversation Among Black
American Adolescents." In Coherence in Spoken and
Written Discourse. Ed. Deborah Tannen. Norwood,
N.J.: Ablex Publishing Corporation, 1984.
Fiske, John. Introduction to Communication Studies. New
York: Methuen, 1982.
Flinn, Carol. "The 'Problem' of Femininity in Theories of
Film Music." Screen, 27 (1986), 56-72.
Gresham, James Thomas. "John Barth as Menippean Satirist."
Diss. Michigan State Univ. 1972.
Hawkes, Terence. Structuralism and Semiotics. Berkeley:
Univ. of California Press, 1977.
Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London:
Methuen, 1979.
Highet, Gilbert. Anatomy of Satire. Princeton: Princeton
Univ. Press, 1962.
Hitchcock, H. Wiley, ed. The Phonograph and Our Musical
Life: Proceedings of a Centennial Conference, 7-10
December 1977 Brooklyn: Institute for Studies in Amer¬
ican Music, Department of Music, School of Performing
Arts Brooklyn College of the City Univ. of New York,
1980.
Hofstadter, Douglas R. Gfldel, Escher, Bach: An Eternal
Golden Braid. New York: Vintage Books, 1979.
Hollier, Denis. The Politics of Prose: Essay on Sartre.
Trans. Jeffrey Mehlman. Minneapolis: Univ. Of Minne¬
sota, 1986.
Holman, C. Hugh. "Rhapsody." A Handbook to Literature.
4th ed. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merri11 Company, Inc.,
1980.
Holton, Gerald James. Introduction to Concepts and Theories
in Physical Science. 2nd ed. with new material by
Stephen G. Brush. Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley, 1973.

309
Jaep, William F. "Entropy." McGraw-Hill Encyclopedia of
Science and Technology. 1982 ed.
Jameson, Fredric. The Political Unconscious; Narrative as
a Socially Symbolic Act. Ithaca, New York: Cornell
Univ. Press, 1981.
Kaplan, Jonathan. "Taxi Dancer." Film Comment, July-Aug.
1977, pp. 41-43.
Lévi-Strauss, Claude. The Raw and the Cooked: Introduction
to a Science of Mythology: I. Trans. John and Doreen
Weightman. Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1969.
Lindberg, Gary. The Confidence Man in American Literature.
New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1982.
Mallarmé, Stéphane. Selected Poetry and Prose. Trans.
Mary Ann Caws. New York: New Directions, 1982.
Marx, Melvin H. and William A. Hillix. Systems and Theories
in Psychology. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1973.
Moore, MacDonald Smith. Yankee Blues: Musical Culture and
American Identity. Bloomington: Univ. of Indiana Press,
1985.
Nietzsche, Friedrich. "On Truth and Falsity in Their Ultra¬
moral Sense (1873)." The Complete Works of Friedrich
Nietzsche: Early Greek Philosophy. Trans. Maximillian
A. Mugge. Ed. Oscar Levy. Vol. II. New York: The
MacMillan Company, 1924.
O'Meally, Robert G. The Craft of Ralph Ellison. Cambridge:
Harvard Univ. Press, 1980.
Ong, Walter. Orality and Literacy: The Technolog izing of
the Word. New York: Methuen, 1982.
Perlman, Alan M. and Daniel Greenblatt. "Miles Davis Meets
Noam Chomsky: Some Observations on Jazz Improvisation
and Language Structure." In The Sign in Music and
Literature. Ed. Wendy Steiner. Austin: Univ. of
Texas Press, 1981.
Perloff, Marjorie. The Futurist Moment: Avant-Garde, Avant
Guerre, and the Language of Rupture. Chicago: The
Univ. of Chicago Press, 1986.
Porush, David. The Soft Machine: Cybernetic Fiction. New
York: Methuen, 1985.
Ray, Robert B. A Certain Tendency of the Hollywood Cinema,
1930-1980. Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1985.

310
Rogers, Pat, ed. Notes on "On Poetry: A Rhapsody." In
Jonathan Swift: The Complete Poems. New Haven: Yale
Univ. Press, 1983.
"Shaftesbury and the Aesthetics of Rhapsody."
British Journal of Aesthetics, 12 (1972), 244-57.
Rose, Margaret. Parody. London: Croom Helm, 1979.
Said, Edward W. Orientalism. New York: Vintage Books, 1978.
Saussure, Ferdinand de. Course in General Linguistics
(Cours de Linguistique GénéraleT^ Trans. Wade Bask in.
New York: The Philosophical Library Inc., 1959.
Serres, Michel. The Parasite. Trans. Lawrence R. Schehr.
Baltimore: The Hohns Hopkins Univ. Press, 1982.
Shattuck, Roger. The Banquet Years: The Origins of the Avant
Garde in France, 1885 to World War I. New York: Vintage
Books, 1955.
Steiner, Wendy, ed. The Sign in Music and Literature.
Austin: Univ. of Texas, 1981.
Stewart, Susan. Nonsense: Aspects of Intertextuality in
Folklore and Literature. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
Univ. Press, 1978.
Sudnow, David. Talk's Body: A Meditation between Two Key¬
boards . New York: Penguin, 1979.
Ways of the Hand: The Organization of Improvised
Conduct. New York: Harper and Row, 1978.
Terdiman, Richard. Discourse/Counter-Discourse: The Theory
and Practice of Symbolic Resistance in Nineteenth-
Century France. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell Univ. Press,
1985.
Thomas, Tony. Music for the Movies. New York: A. S. Barnes,
1973.
Ulmer, Gregory. Applied Grammatology: Post(e)-Pedagogy from
Jacques Derrida to Joseph Beuys. Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins Univ. Press, 1985.
"The Discourse of the Imaginary." Diacritics,
10 (1980), 61-75.
"The Object of Post-Criticism." In The Anti-
Aesthetic: Essays on Postmodern Culture. Ed. Hal
Foster. Port Townsend, Wash.: Bay Press, 1983.

311
Van Rooy, C. A. Studies in Classical Satire and Related
Literary Theory. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1965.
Weber, Max. The Rational and Social Foundations of Music.
Trans. Don Martindale, Johannes Riedel, and Gertrude
Newwirth. Carbondale: Southern Illinois Univ. Press,
1958.
Westfall, Richard S. "Newton and Order." In The Concept
of Order. Ed. Paul G. Kuntz. Seattle: Univ. of Wash¬
ington, 1968.
White, Hayden. Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in
Nineteenth-Century Europe. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins
Univ. Press, 1973.
Wiener, Norbert. The Human Use of Human Beings: Cybernetics
and Society. New York: Avon Books, 1967.
Musicology and Criticism
Balliett, Whitney. American Musicians. New York: Oxford
Univ. Press, 1986.
"Jazz: From Joplin to Goodman, and Slightly
Beyond." The New Yorker, 25 Aug. 1986, pp. 74-77.
Booth, Mark W. "Ragtime and Jazz," American Popular Music:
A Reference Guide. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press,
1983.
Breskin, David. "Keith Jarrett." Musician, Nov. 1983. Rpt.
Feb. 1987, pp. 60, 54.
Christgau, Robert. "The Rolling Stones." In The Rolling
Stone Illustrated History of Rock & Roll. Ed. Jim
Miller. New York: Random House, 1976.
Collier, James Lincoln. The Making of Jazz: A Comprehensive
History. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1978.
Davis, Francis. "George Russell: The Intellect of the
Heart." Jazz Times, Dec. 1984, pp. 12-14.
In the Moment: Jazz in the 1980s. New York:
Oxford Univ. Press, 1986.
Feather, Leonard. The Book of Jazz: From Then Till Now.
New York: Dell Publishing Company, 1957).

312
Gammond, Peter and Raymond Horricks. The Music Goes Round
and Round: A Cool Look at the Record Industry. New
York: Quartet Books, 1980.
Giddins, Gary. "Fathers and Son: A Jazz Genealogy." Vi 1lage
Voice, 2 Aug. 1983, pp. 1, 36-37.
Rhythm-a-ning: Jazz Tradition and Innovation
in the '80s. New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1985.
Gelatt, Roland. The Fabulous Phonograph. New York: Appleton
Century, 1965.
Gold, Robert S. Jazz Talk. New York: Da Capo, 1982.
Goldberg, Joe. Jazz Masters of the Fifties. New York:
Col1ier-MacMi1lan, 1968.
Gridley, Mark C. Jazz Styles: History and Analysis. Second
Edition. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-Hall, 1985.
Harris, Middleton, ed. The Black Book. New York: Random
House, 1974.
Harrison, Max. A Jazz Retrospect. Boston: Crescendo Pub¬
lishing, 1976.
Hentoff, Nat. The Jazz Life. New York: Dial Press, 1961.
Hobsbawm, E. J. "The Jazz Comeback." The New York Review
of Books, 12 Feb. 1987, pp. 11-14.
Hobson, Wilder. American Jazz Music. New York: Norton,
1939.
Jones, LeRoi. Blues People: Negro Music in White America.
New York: William Morrow and Company, 1963.
Kennington, Donald and Danny L. Read. The Literature of
Jazz: A Critical Guide. 2nd Ed. Chicago: American
Library Association, 1980.
Kerman, Joseph. Contemplating Music: Challenges to Musi¬
cology. Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press, 1985.
Kofsky, Frank. Black Nationalism and the Revolution in
Music. New York: Pathfinder Books, 1970.
Larkin, Philip. All What Jazz: A Record Diary 1961-1971.
New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux, 1970.
Leonard, Neil. Jazz and the White Americans: The Acceptance
of a New Art Form. Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press,
TWT.

313
Lerdahl, Fred and Ray Jackendoff. A Generative Theory of
Tonal Music. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1983.
Lewin, David. "Behind the Beyond." Perspectives of New
Music, 7 (1969), 59-69.
Lyons, Len. The 101 Best Jazz Albums: A History of Jazz on
Records. New York: William Morrow and Company, 1980.
Mendel, Arthur. "Evidence and Explanation." In Report of
the Eighth Congress of the International Musicological
Society, New York, 1961. Vol. 2. New York: Baren-
reiter, 1962.
Merriam, Alan P. and Fradley H. Garner. "Jazz--The Word."
Ethnomusicology, 12 (1968), 373-96.
Meyer, Leonard B. Emotion and Meaning in Music. Chicago:
Univ. of Chicago Press, 1956.
Morton, Brian. "Percussion," Wire, April 1988, p. 12.
Oliver, Paul, Max Harrison, and William Bolcom. The New
Grove: Gospel, Blues and Jazz with Spirituals and
Ragtime. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1986.
Primack, Bret. "Carla Bley." Contemporary Keyboard, Feb.
1979, pp. 9-11.
Ramsey, Frederic, Jr. and Smith, Charles Edward, eds.
Jazzmen. New York: Harcourt Brace, 1939.
Randel, Don Michael. Harvard Concise Dictionary of Music.
Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard Univ. Press,
1978.
Roland, Mark. "Miles Davis Is a Living Legend and You're
Not." Musician, May 1987, pp. 84-96.
Sargeant, Winthrop. Jazz: A History. Originally Jazz:
Hot and Hybrid. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1946.
Schuller, Gunther. Early Jazz. New York: Oxford Univ.
Press, 1968.
Shapiro, Nat and Nat Hentoff, eds. Hear Me Talkin' to Ya.
1955 reprint. New York: Dover, 1966.
Spellman, A.B. Black Music, Four Lives. New York: Pantheon
Books, 1966.
Tirro, Frank. Jazz: A History. New York: W. W. Norton,
1977.

314
Tomlinson, Gary. "The Web of Culture: A Context for Musi¬
cology." 19th-Century Music, 7 (1984), 350-62.
Treitler, Leo. "Homer and Gregory: the Transmission of Epic
Poetry and Plainchant." Musical Quarterly, 60 (1974),
33-72.
Walton, Ortiz. Music: Black, White and Blue. New York:
William Morrow and Company, 1972.
Williams, Martin. The Jazz Tradition. Oxford: Oxford
Univ. Press, 1983.
Recordings Cited
Albertson, Chris. Notes to Major Glen Miller & The Army Air
Force Band, 1943-44. RCA Bluebird, 6360-2-RB, 1987.
Coleman, Ornette. Change of the Century. Atlantic, AT-1327,
n. d.
The Music of Ornette Coleman: Forms & Sounds.
RCA Bluebird, LM/LSC-2982, 1987.
Gushee, Larry. Liner notes to Duke Ellington 1940. The
Smithsonian Collection, DPM2-0351, n.d.
Hammond, John. "Random Notes on the Spirituals to Swing
Recordings." From Spirituals to Swing. Vanguard
Records, VCD2-47/48, n. d.
Hendricks, Jon. "Manhattan." On George Russell and His
Orchestra. New York, N.Y. and Jazz in the Space Age.
MCA, 2-4017, 1973.
Mingus, Charles. "Folk Forms No. 1." Charles Mingus Pre¬
sents Charles Mingus. Candid, 9005, n.d.
"Gunslinging Bird." Better Git It in Your
Soul. Columbia, G 30628, n.d.
Palmer, Don. Notes to Conjure: Music for the Texts of
Ishmael Reed. American Clavé, 1006, 1984.
Williams, Martin. Notes to Ornette Coleman. Free Jazz.
Atlantic, SD-1364, n.d.

315
Literary Works Cited
Baker, Dorothy. Young Man with a Horn. New York: Houghton
Mifflin Company, 1938.
Baldwin, James. "Sonny's Blues." In Going to Meet the
Man. New York: Dial Press, 1965.
Barthelme, Donald. "The King of Jazz." In Sixty Stories.
New York: E. P. Dutton, 1981.
Basie, William "Count" and Albert Murray. Good Morning
Blues: The Autobiography of Count Basie. New York:
Random House, 1987.
Brown, Sterling A. The Collected Poems of Sterling A.
Brown. Ed. Michael S. Harper. New York: Harper and
Row, 1980.
Cable, George Washington. The Grandissimes. New York:
Hill and Wang, 1957.
Cartiér, Xam Wilson. Be-Bop, Re-Bop. New York: Ballantine,
1987 .
Cortázar, Julio. Hopscotch. Trans. Gregory Rabassa.
New York: Pantheon Books, 1966.
"The Pursuer." In Blow-Up and Other Stories
(originally published as End of the Game and Other
Stories). Trans. Paul Blackburn. New York: Collier
Books, 1963.
Ellington, Duke. Music Is My Mistress. Garden City: Double¬
day and Company, 1971.
Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. New York: New American
Library, 1947.
Shadow and Act. New York: Random House, 1965.
Ferlinghetti, Lawrence. A Coney Island of the Mind. New
York: New Directions Publishing Corp., 1958.
Fitzgerald, F. Scott. "Echoes of the Jazz Age." The Crack-
Up. Ed. Edmund Wilson. New York: New Directions, 1931.
Flaubert, Gustave. Bouvard and Pécuchet. Trans. A. H.
Krailsheimer. New York: Penguin, 1976.
Gass, William. A Philosophical Inquiry: On Being Blue.
Boston: David R. Godine, 1976.

316
Harper, Michael S.. Dear John, Dear Coltrane. Urbana:
Univ. of Illinois Press, 1985.
Heller, Joseph. Catch-22. New York: Dell Publishing, 1955.
Himes, Chester. The Real Cool Killers. Chatham, N.J.: The
Chatham Bookseller, 1973.
Hughes, Langston. Ask Your Mama: 12 Moods for Jazz. New
York: Knopf, 1961.
Selected Poems of Langston Hughes. New York:
Vintage Books, 1974.
Hugo, Richard. The Triggering Town: Lectures and Essays on
Poetry and Writing. New York: W. W. Norton, 1979.
James, Henry. Preface to The Aspern Papers. In The Art
of the Novel. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1934.
Joans, Ted. Black Pow-Wow: Jazz Poems. New York: Hill
and Wang, 1969.
Jones, (Everett) LeRoi (Imamu Amiri Baraka) and Neal, Larry,
eds. Black Fire: An Anthology of Afro-American Writing.
New York: Morrow, 1968.
Jones, LeRoi. "Dutchman.” From Dutchman and The Slave.
New York: William Morrow, 1964.
Juvenal. The Sixteen Satires. Trans. Peter Green. New
York: Penguin Classics, 1967.
Kerouac, Jack. On the Road. New York: New American Library,
1955.
MacKey, Nathaniel. Bedouin Hornbook. Baltimore: Johns
Hopkins, 1986.
Mailer, Norman. "The White Negro." In Advertisements for
Myself. New York: Panther, 1968.
Mezzrow, Milton, with Bernard Wolfe. Really the Blues.
New York: Random House, 1946.
Mingus, Charles. Beneath the Underdog. New York: Penguin
Books, 1971.
Ondaatje, Michael. Coming Through Slaughter. New York:
Penguin, 1976.
Parkinson, Thomas, ed. A Casebook on the Beat. New York:
Crowell, 1961.

317
Petronius. The Satyricon. Trans. William Arrowsmith. New
York: New American Library, 1959.
Pynchon, Thomas. "Entropy." In Slow Learner: Early Stories.
Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1984.
V.. New York: Bantam, 1961.
Reed, Ishmael. "The Black Artist: Calling a Spade a Spade."
Arts Magazine, 41 (May), pp. 48-49.
The Free-Lance Pallbearers. New York: Avon
Books, 1967.
Mumbo Jumbo. New York: Avon Books, 1971.
A Secretary to the Spirits. New York: NOK
Publishers’^ 1978.
Shrovetide in Old New Orleans. New York:
Doubleday, 1977.
Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down. Garden City,
New York: Doubleday, 1963.
Reed, Ishmael and Al Young, eds. Yardbird Lives. New York:
Grove Press, 1978.
Sartre, Jean-Paul. Nausea. Trans. Lloyd Alexander. New
York: New Directions, 1964.
Shaik, Fatima. The Mayor of New Orleans: Just Talking
Jazz. Berkeley: Creative Arts Book Company, 1987.
Skvorecky, Josef. The Bass Saxophone: Two Novelas. New
York: Washington Square Press, 1977.
Southern, Terry. Red Dirt Marijuana and Other Tastes.
New York: New American Library, 1967.
Sterne, Laurence. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy,
Gentleman. Ed. James Aiken Work. Indianapolis: The
Bobbs-Merri 11 Co., 1940.
Van Vechten, Carl. Nigger Heaven. New York: A. A. Knopf,
1926.
Welty, Eudora. "Powerhouse." The Collected Stories of
Eudora Welty. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich,
1980.
Wright, Richard. Native Son. New York: Harper and Row,
1940.

318
Zinsser, William. Willie and Dwike: An American Profile.
New York: Harper and Row, 1984.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
When James Michael Jarrett (born 1953) was thirteen years
old and living in Chattanooga, Tennessee, he pictured himself
playing an alto saxophone, and, after securing his parents'
hesitant approval, he signed up for Beginning Band at Dalewood
Junior High School. But day one, lesson one, Mr. William
Henson, the band director, told him to forget the saxophone.
He said, "Learn to play the clarinet. Once you've mastered
that, you can easily move on to the woodwind of your choice."
Four years later, Michael still had his plastic, Bundy
clarinet stuck in his mouth. He hated it. When he played
solos in his mother's Sunday School Class at Highland Park
Baptist Church, ladies politely applauded, but when he marched
with the band at football games, his friends threw ice and
laughed. And he knew why. Clarinets were only for girls
and effeminate boys. He pitied himself; he was the next-to-
the-worst clarinetist at Brainerd Senior High School, "The
Home of the Fighting Rebels."
When he was a senior, he took physics during sixth period,
the hour band met, and packed his clarinet away. A couple of
years later, though, while at Tennessee Temple College, working
on the B.A. in psychology he would receive in 1975, he dis¬
covered jazz: specifically the recordings of Duke Ellington
and Thelonius Monk.
319

320
In the early 1980s he returned to school, this time to
work on an M.A. in English at the University of South Florida.
He completed his degree in 1984 and moved to Gainesville to
pursue a Ph.D. at the University of Florida. While there he
intended to write a dissertation on Menippean satire, but
after some soul searching and a long read through Burton's
The Anatomy of Melancholy, he realized that his knowledge of
critical theory, jazz music, and literature about jazz would
allow him to do original research in an area that interested
him more and depressed him less. He took his Ph.D. in 1988,
and now lives with his wife and three sons in York,
Pennsylvania.

I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as
a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
Gregory/L. Ulmer, Chairman
Professor of English
I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as
a dissertation for the degree
of/p
/£
’octor ots
J
"Philosophy.
/ / '
l/• r f-n. { y. 2
R o
be*t ^
D ’ Am i co^
Associate Professor of Philosophy
I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality,
a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
Andrew M. Gordon
Associate Professor of English
as
I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as
a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
j~\'wv»e cl
Anne Goodwyn S'ones
Associate Professor of English
I certify that I have read this study and that in my
opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly
presentation and is fully adequate, in scape and quality,
a dissertation for the deg;?€e''''pf) Dpc^Apr (of Philosophy.
as
mhx6-
1
!'—
Robert B. Ray {J
Associate Professor of English
This dissertation was submitted to the Graduate Faculty
of the Department of English in the College of Liberal Arts
and Sciences and to the Graduate School and was accepted as
partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of
Doctor of Philosophy.
August, 1988
Dean, Graduate School

UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA




PAGE 1

-$== $6 $ 02'(/ '5,)7,1* 21 $ 5($' )25 /,7(5$5< $1' 7+(25(7,&$/ :5,7,1* %\ -$0(6 0,&+$(/ -$55(77 $ ',66(57$7,21 35(6(17(' 72 7+( *5$'8$7( 6&+22/ 2) 7+( 81,9(56,7< 2) )/25,'$ ,1 3$57,$/ )8/),//0(17 2) 7+( 5(48,5(0(176 )25 7+( '(*5(( 2) '2&725 2) 3+,/2623+< 81,9(56,7< 2) )/25,'$

PAGE 2

&RS\ULJKW E\ -DPHV 0LFKDHO -DUUHWW

PAGE 3

)RU 3DP DQG WKH %R\V

PAGE 4

$&.12:/('*0(176 ,Q WKLV PRVW VHFXODU RI DJHVZKDW ZH FRXOG FDOO WKH $JH RI WKH %RRNf§ZKHUH ERWK WKH DGGUHVVRU DQG WKH DGGUHVVHH DUH GHPRQVWUDEO\ DEVHQW LW LV PRVW ILWWLQJ WKDW SDJHV RI DFNQRZOHGJPHQW WDNH WKH IRUP RI SUD\HUV DV 'HUULGD ZRXOG UHPLQG XV DOZD\V DOUHDG\ DQVZHUHGf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

PAGE 5

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n$PLFRDV IULHQGV QR VPDOO SUDLVH JLYHQ WKH LQVWLWXWLRQDO FRQVWUDLQWV XQGHU ZKLFK VWXGHQWV DQG SURIHVVRUV RSHUDWH $ KRVW RI SHRSOH VRPHWLPHV XQNQRZLQJO\ KDYH FRQWULEXWHG WR P\ ZRUN 6RPH WR ZKRP RZH D VSHFLDO GHEW RI JUDWLWXGH DUH DV IROORZV 5LFKDUG DQG
PAGE 6

7$%/( 2) &217(176 $&.12:/('*0(176 $%%5(9,$7,216 $%675$&7 &$'(1=$ 1RWHV ,9 f f f YL [L &+$37(56 -$==2/2*< $ %,5'n6 (<( 9,(: :DUPLQJ 8S D 5LII 0HDQGHULQJ 7KULYLQJ RQ D 5LII -XVW IRU WKH 5HFRUG 2XW RI WKH 7URSLFV 1RWHV 2%%/,*$72 *277$ :5,7( 72 6,1* 7+( %/8(6 $JUPHQWV 2EEOLJDWR 2EEOLJDWR 3OD\HG ZLWK D %RUURZHG +RUQ (OOLVRQnV ,QYLVLEOH 0DQ DQG 'HUULGDnV 'L VVHPLQDW L RQ 1RWHV 6$785$ ),/( *80%2 $PDOJDP 6DWXUD (LJKW WR WKH %DU 2QGDDWMHnV &RPLQJ WKURXJK 6ODXJKWHU &DJHnV 6L HQFH DQG D *DWKHULQJ RI -D]] )LFWLRQ 1RWHV 5+$362'< &21 $025( &RXQWHUIHLW 5KDSVRG\ YL

PAGE 7

5DSVRG\ LQ 5HDG 5HHGnV 7KH )UHH/DQFH 3DOOEHDUHUV DQG %DUWKHVnV 6= 1RWHV &+$5,9$5, &21-8*$/ :5,7(6 &KDVVH %HDX[ &KDULYDUL &KDVLQn WKH 7ZDLQ 6FRUVHVHnV 1HZ
PAGE 8

$%%5(9,$7,216 $0 %t, %+ &0 &0$/ &7+& &76 'L VV ()/3 )0 *0 *9 *UHJRU\ 8OPHU $SSOLHG *UDPPDWRORJ\ IURP -DFTXHV 'HUULGD WR -RVHSK -RKQV +RSNLQV 8QLY 3UHVV f 3RVWHf3HGDJRJ\ %DOWLPRUH 7KH :KLWQH\ %DOOLHWW $PHULFDQ 0XVLFLDQV 1HZ
PAGE 9

+&'0 ,0 ,07 -D]] -7 0+ 2* 2t/ 2UB 3KRQR 3e 5t& 6(& 60 'RQ 0LFKDHO 5DQGHO +DUYDUG &RQFLVH 'LFWLRQDU\ RI 0XVLF &DPEULGJH 7KH %HONQDS 3UHVV RI +DUYDUG 8QLY 3UHVV f 5DOSK (OOLVRQ ,QYLVLEOH 0DQ 1HZ
PAGE 10

6XE 76 <% 'LFN +HEGLJH 6XEFXOWXUH 7KH 0HDQLQJ RI 6W\OH /RQGRQ 0HWKXHQ f 8PEHUWR (FR $ 7KHRU\ RI 6HPLRWLFV %ORRPLQJWRQ ,QGLDQD 8QLYHUVLW\ 3UHVV f 0DF'RQDOG 6PLWK 0RRUH
PAGE 11

$EVWUDFW RI 'LVVHUWDWLRQ 3UHVHQWHG WR WKH *UDGXDWH 6FKRRO RI WKH 8QLYHUVLW\ RI )ORULGD LQ 3DUWLDO )XOILOOPHQW RI WKH 5HTXLUHPHQWV IRU WKH 'HJUHH RI 'RFWRU RI 3KLORVRSK\ '5,)7,1* 21 $ 5($' -$== $6 $ 02'(/ )25 /,7(5$5< $1' 7+(25(7,&$/ :5,7,1* %\ -DPHV 0LFKDHO -DUUHWW $XJXVW &KDLUPDQ *UHJRU\ / 8OPHU 0DMRU 'HSDUWPHQW (QJOLVK $ SXQ RQ &KDUOLH 3DUNHUnV FRPSRVLWLRQ 'ULIWLQJ RQ D 5HHG P\ WLWOH SRLQWV WR WKUHH TXHVWLRQV ZKLFK JXLGHG WKLV VWXG\ )LUVW ZKDW KDSSHQV ZKHQ MD]] HQWHUV WKH GLVFRXUVH RI WKLV FXOWXUH" 1H[W WR ZKDW H[WHQW LV MD]] DQ HIIHFW RI UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ" /DVW DQG PRVW LPSRUWDQW ZKDW FRXOG LW PHDQ WR HPSOR\ MD]] DV D PRGHO IRU ZULWLQJ" 7R HQJDJH WKHVH TXHVWLRQV H[DPLQH UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI MD]] LQ OLWHUDWXUH DQG ILOP 6SHFLILFDOO\ ZRUNLQJ IURP D FULWLFDO SRVWXUH DVVRFLDWHG ZLWK SRVWPRGHUQ OLWHUDU\ WKHRU\ DQG WDNLQJ *XQWKHU 6FKXOOHUnV VWXG\ (DUO\ -D]] DV D GHSDUWXUH SRLQW VXUYH\ PXVLFRORJLFDO WUHDWPHQWV RI MD]] DQG ORFDWH IRXU PXOWLYDOHQW LPDJHVUKDSVRG\ VDWXUD REEOLJDWR DQG FKDULYDULZKLFK PDUN WKH HQWU\ RI MD]] LQWR GLVFRXUVH $IWHU GHPRQVWUDWLQJ KRZ WKHVH LPDJHV VKDSH WKH QRQILFWLRQ GLVFRXUVH RI MD]] DQG LQ WXUQ FXOWXUDO SHUFHSWLRQV RI MD]] VKRZ KRZ DV HQDEOLQJ ILJXUHV RU WURSHV WKH\ VWUXFWXUH DQG GHVWDELOL]H VSHFLILFDOO\ OLWHUDU\ UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI [L

PAGE 12

7R DFFRPSOLVK WKLV WDVN SDLU IRXU ZRUNV RI FULWLFDO MD]] WKHRU\ ZLWK IRXU H[DPSOHV RI MD]] ILFWLRQ 7KH FULWLFDO WH[WV HPSOR\ DUH -DFTXHV 'HUULGDnV 3LVVHPLQDWLRQ -RKQ &DJHnV 6L OHQFH 5RODQG %DUWKHVnV 6= DQG &ODXGH /HnYL6WUDXVVn V 7KH 5DZ DQG WKH &RRNHG 7KH ILFWLYH WH[WV DQDO\]HG DUH 5DOSK (OOLVRQnV ,QYLVLEOH 0DQ 0LFKDHO 2QGDDWMHnV &RPLQJ WKURXJK 6ODXJKWHU ,VKPDHO 5HHGnV 7KH )UHH/DQFH 3DOOEHDUHUV DQG 0DUWLQ 6FRUVHVHnV ILOP 1HZ
PAGE 13

+H VXGGHQO\ EHFDPH DZDUH WKDW WKH ZHLUG GURZV\ WKURE RI WKH $IULFDQ VRQJ DQG GDQFH KDG EHHQ VZLQJLQJ GURZVLO\ LQ KLV EUDLQ IRU DQ XQNQRZQ ODSVH RI WLPH *HRUJH :DVKLQJWRQ &DEOH 0XVLF LV DQ RYHUVLPSOLILFDWLRQ RI WKH VLWXDWLRQ ZH DFWXDOO\ DUH LQ -RKQ &DJH

PAGE 14

&$'(1=$ 0\ IHHOLQJf§RU P\ GRXEWOHVVO\ LQHUDGLFDEOH SUHMXGLFH DV D ZULWHULV WKDW QRWKLQJ ZLOO HQGXUH LI LW UHPDLQV XQVSRNHQ WKDW RXU SUHVHQW WDVN SUHFLVHO\ QRZ WKDW WKH JUHDW OLWHUDU\ UK\WKPV VSRNH RI DUH EHLQJ EURNHQ XS DQG VFDWWHUHG LQ D VHULHV RI GLVWLQFW DQG DOPRVW RUFKHVWUDWHG VKLYHULQJVf LV WR ILQG D ZD\ RI WUDQVSRVLQJ WKH V\PSKRQ\ WR WKH %RRN LQ VKRUW WR UHJDLQ RXU ULJKWIXO GXH )RU XQGHQLDEO\ WKH WUXH VRXUFH RI 0XVLF PXVW QRW EH WKH HOHPHQWDO VRXQG RI EUDVVHV VWULQJV RU ZRRG ZLQGV EXW WKH LQWHOOHFWXDO DQG ZULWWHQ ZRUG LQ DOO LWV JORU\0XVLF RI SHUIHFW IXOOQHVV DQG FODULW\ WKH WRWDOLW\ RI XQLYHUVDO UHODWLRQVKLSV 6WSKDQH 0DOODUP &RXOGQnW WU\ 1DWXUDOO\ LW ZRXOGQnW EH D TXHVWLRQ RI D WXQH EXW FRXOGQnW LQ DQRWKHU PHGLXP" ,W ZRXOG KDYH WR EH D ERRN GRQnW NQRZ KRZ WR GR DQ\WKLQJ HOVH -HDQ3DXO 6DUWUHA ,B 2QH VWRU\ WROG E\ MD]] DILFLRQDGRVSUREDEO\ WKH RQH PRVW IUHTXHQWO\ UHSHDWHGJRHV OLNH WKLV $ VRFLDOLWH DVNHG /RXLV $UPVWURQJ WR GHILQH MD]] +H UHSOLHG /DG\ LI \RX JRWWD DVN ZKDW LW LV \RXnOO QHYHU NQRZ &RPLQJ IURP DQ HQWHUWDLQHU ZKR ZRXOG RQH GD\ EH DFFXVHG RI REVHTXLRXVQHVV FKDUJHG ZLWK SOD\LQJ WKH UROH RI 8QFOH 7RPf $UPVWURQJnV UHMRLQGHU VHHPV SX]]LQJXQFKDUDFWHULV WLFDOO\ FXUW $Q\ QXPEHU RI H[SODQDWLRQV FRXOG EH DGGXFHG WR DFFRXQW IRU WKLV EXW WZR VKRXOG VXIILFH 3HUKDSV LWV DXWKRU ZDV IUXVWUDWHG PD\EH $UPVWURQJnV OLS ZDV JLYLQJ KLP WURXEOH PD\EH KH PLVVHG 1HZ 2UOHDQV PD\EH KH ORDWKHG

PAGE 15

V\FRSKDQWLF EOXHVWRFNLQJV 2U HOVH WKH QRUPDOO\ VDQJXLQH HQWHUWDLQHU IHHOLQJ HVSHFLDOO\ ]HDORXV DERXW KLV DUW ZDV PHUHO\ H[SUHVVLQJ D KHDUWIHOW FRQYLFWLRQ ,Q HLWKHU FDVH WKRXJK ZKHWKHU SURPSWHG E\ IUXVWUDWLRQ RU FRQYLFWLRQ $UPn VWURQJnV PRWLYDWLRQV DUH HVVHQWLDOO\ LUUHWULHYDEOH 7KH LPSRUWDQFH RI KLV GHFODUDWLRQ OLHV QHLWKHU LQ LWV SXWDWLYH RULJLQV LQ DQ LQGLYLGXDO SV\FKH QRU LQ LWV FRUUHVSRQGHQFH ZLWK VRPH UHDO REMHFWMD]] PXVLFEXW LQ LWV VWDWXV DV D YHUEDO VWUXFWXUH ,W LV LQ WKH ZRUGV RI .HQQHWK %XUNH DQ DOOHJRU\ DQ LQWHUSUHWDWLRQ RI RQH VHPLRWLF V\VWHP E\ WKH WHUPV RI DQRWKHU 4XLWH REYLRXVO\ LW LV QRW MD]] DOWKRXJK WKURXJK DQ LPDJLQDWLYH DFW RI UHIUDPLQJ ZH PLJKW EH DEOH WR KHDU LW DV VXFKf %XW LW KDV PDGH MD]] VSHDN 7KH LVVXH WKHQ DW OHDVW IRU P\ SXUSRVH LV WKLV ZKHQ MD]] VSHDNV ZKDW GRHV LW VD\" 7R HQJDJH WKLV TXHVWLRQ QHFHVVDULO\ LQYROYH P\VHOI LQ VHYHUDO ODUJH LVVXHV LQ DHVn WKHWLFV DQG WKHQ LQLWLDWH DQ LQYHVWLJDWLRQ LQWR ZKDW PLJKW EH FDOOHG WKH GLVFRXUVH RI MD]] E\ VWXG\LQJ UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI MD]] LQ OLWHUDWXUH QRQILFWLRQ DQG ILFWLRQf DQG ILOP 0DUWLQ 6FRUVHVHnV 1HZ
PAGE 16

DQG SUHVHQFH LQ DQG IRU WKH :HVWA 'HWDLOLQJ WKLV KLVWRU\ DQG WUDGLWLRQ LV D WDVN WKLV VWXG\ DVVXPHV 6WXGHQWV RI OLWHUDWXUH DQG FULWLFDO WKHRU\ ZLOO LPPHGLn DWHO\ QRWLFH WKDW P\ UHDO VXEMHFW KHUH LV WKH SUREOHP RI UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ DQG WKDW P\ VWXG\ LV UHGROHQW RI LI QRW SRVLn WLYHO\ LQGHEWHG WRf VXFK ZHOONQRZQ DSSOLHG VWXGLHV DV +D\GHQ :KLWHnV 0HWDKLVWRU\ DQG 6DLGnV DIRUHPHQWLRQHG 2ULHQWDO LVP IRU OLNH WKH DXWKRUV RI WKHVH WH[WV VHHN QRW WR IRUPXODWH D YHULGLF GLVFRXUVH DERXW VRPH DXWRQRPRXV REMHFW ZKLFK KDV EHHQ DQG RIWHQ VWLOO LV WKH JRDO RI PXVLFRORJLVWV KLVWRUn LDQV DQG 2ULHQWDOLVWVf EXW WR WKHRUL]H D JURXS RI WH[WV ZKLFK FRQVWLWXWH D ERG\ RI NQRZOHGJH /LNH :KLWH DQG 6DLG H[DPLQH V\VWHPV RI GLVFRXUVH WR WDNH DQRWKHU SKUDVH IURP 6DLG DQDO\]H WKH WH[WnV VXUIDFH LWV H[WHULRULW\ WR ZKDW LW GHVFULEHV 2UA f 0\ HPSKDVLV GRHV GLIIHU IURP WKHLUV KRZHYHU :KLWH FKDUDFWHUL]HV KLVWRULFDO WH[WV DV LQ UHDOLW\ IRUPDO L]DWLRQV RI SRHWLF LQVLJKWV WKDW DQDO\WLFDOO\ SUHFHGH WKHP DQG WKDW VDQFWLRQ WKH SDUWLFXODU WKHRULHV XVHG WR JLYH KLVWRULFDO DFFRXQWV WKH DVSHFW RI DQ nH[SODQDWLRQn 0+ [LLf +LV HODERUDWH VFKHPD ZKLFK V\VWHPDWLFDOO\ RUJDQn L]HV WKH ZD\V UKHWRULFDO WURSHV DUH IRUPDOL]HGWUDQVIRUPHG LQWR SORWV DUJXPHQWV DQG LGHRORJLHVEHDUV WKLV RXW 6DLG UHJDUGV 2ULHQWDOLVP DV D GLVWULEXWLRQ RI JHRSROLWLFDO DZDUHn QHVV LQWR DHVWKHWLF VFKRODUO\ HFRQRPLF VRFLRORJLFDO KLVWRUn LFDO DQG SKLORORJLFDO WH[WV DQ HODERUDWLRQ QRW RQO\ RI D EDVLF JHRJUDSKLFDO GLVWLQFWLRQ EXW DOVR RI D ZKROH VHULHV RI LQWHUHVWV 2U f +LV H[WHQVLYH UHVHDUFK DQG

PAGE 17

VXVWDLQHG DUJXPHQW EHDU WKLV RXW LPDJLQH MD]] DV WKH PXVLFDO DQG ZULWWHQ GLVVHPLQDWLRQ RI VHYHUDO FXOWXUDOO\ HQJHQn GHUHG LPDJHV RU LQ %DUWKHVnV GHVLJQDWLRQ V\PEROLF FRGHV DQG WUXVW WKDW WKLV HVVD\ ZLOO QRW RQO\ EHDU WKLV RXW EXW ZLOO FRQYLQFH WKH UHDGHU WKDW ZKHQ DSSOLHG WR WKH VWXG\ RI MD]] WH[WV DQG E\ H[WHQVLRQ DQ\ NLQG RI WH[Wf SRVWPRGHUQ FULWLFDO WKHRU\ LV QRW PHUHO\ DGHTXDWH IRU DQDO\VLV LH YHULILFDWLRQf EXW IRU LQYHQWLRQ DV ZHOO ,Q VKRUW WKHQ :KLWH IRUHJURXQGV WKH ORJLF RI FRQVFLRXVQHVV D KLVWRULFDO WKLQNHU FKRRVHV FRQFHSWXDO VWUDWHJLHV E\ ZKLFK WR H[SODLQ RU UHSUHVHQW KLV GDWD0+ [f 6DLG IRUHJURXQGV WKH ORJLF RI LGHRORJ\ WKH LQWHOOHFWXDO DHVWKHWLF VFKRODUO\ DQG FXOWXUDO HQHUJLHV >ZKLFK@ ZHQW LQWR WKH PDNLQJ RI DQ LPSHULDOLVW WUDGLn WLRQA f IRUHJURXQG WKH ORJLF RI ZULWLQJ %XW DJDLQ WKLV LV D PDWWHU RI HPSKDVLV $OO WKUHH WH[WV WUHDW WKH ZULWWHQ UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ VHULRXVO\ ILUVW EHFDXVH ZULWLQJ DOZD\V VLJQLILHV D VWUDWHJ\ RI FLUFXPVFULSWLRQ ZKHUHE\ VRPH WKLQJ LV IRUFHG WR VXEPLW WR WKH LQVWLWXWLRQ DXWKRUL]LQJ WKH ZULWWHQ WH[W VHFRQG EHFDXVH ZULWLQJ DOZD\V VLJQLILHV D VWUDWHJ\ RI SURGXFWLRQ ZKHUHE\ D WKLQJ LV PDGH WR FRPH LQWR UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ PDGH WR PDNH VHQVH ,,B 5HWXUQLQJ WR $UPVWURQJnV UHMRLQGHU ZH QRWLFH WKDW LW LV FDVW LQ ZKDW :KLWH FDOOV WKH LURQLF PRGH DQG VKDUHV DOO WKH IHDWXUHV RI ZKDW %DUWKHV FDOOV D FXOWXUDO RU UHIHUHQFH

PAGE 18

FRGH )LUVW LW LV D FRPPRQSODFH ,W UHIHUV WR EXW DW WKH VDPH WLPH VXPPDULO\ UHIXVHV WR GHILQH RU VDQFWLRQ DQ DFFHSWHG ERG\ RI NQRZOHGJH DERXW MD]] DQG LW SRLQWV WR WKH FDSDFLW\ RI ODQJXDJH WR REVFXUH PRUH WKDQ LW FODULILHV LQ DQ\ DFW RI YHUEDO ILJXUDWLRQ 0LO f ,Q RWKHU ZRUGV WKURXJK WKH UKHWRULFDO ILJXUH RI DSRULD OLWHUDOO\ GRXEWf MD]] KDV EHHQ EURXJKW LQWR ODQJXDJH LPEXHG ZLWK DQ LURQLF YRLFH WKDW WDFLWO\ DFNQRZOHGJHV D SUHHVWDEOLVKHG DQG QRUPDWLYH ERG\ RI NQRZOHGJH DQG SDUDGR[LFDOO\ DIIRUGHG D EDVLV LQ VFLHQn WLILF RU PRUDO DXWKRULW\$UPVWURQJ D VLJQ IXQFWLRQLQJ DV D PHWRQ\P IRU WKH VLJQ MD]] DOOXGHV WR DQG WKXV DIILUPV DQ LQDUWLFXODEOH ERG\ RI NQRZOHGJH DQG DQ HYHUUHFHGLQJ HSLVn WHPRORJ\ IRU WKH H[SUHVV SXUSRVH RI ZDUUDQWLQJ DQ DXWKRULWDn WLYH EXW KLJKO\ SUREOHPDWLF ZLWKGUDZDO IURP GLVFRXUVH 1H[W DV D JQRPLF H[SUHVVLRQ D VSHHFK IRUPXOD UHSHDWHGO\ DSSURSULDWHG E\ PHPEHUV RI D VXEFXOWXUH ZKLFK VKDOO FDOO WKH MD]] FRPPXQLW\f $UPVWURQJnV UHMRLQGHU UHIOHFWV DQG UHLQIRUFHV VRFLDO UHODWLRQVKLSV 7DNLQJ D SKUDVH LQWURGXFHG E\ 0DOLQRZVNL DQG WKHRUL]HG H[WHQVLYHO\ E\ -DNREVRQ LW IXQFn WLRQV SKDWLFDOO\ ,W FRQYHQLHQWO\ GLYLGHV WKH ZRUOG LQWR WZR JURXSV WKRVH ZKR GR QRW NQRZ ZKDW MD]] LV DQG WKRVH ZKR QR ORQJHU DVN DQG LW VHQWHQWLRXVO\ UHDIILUPV D VHW RI VKDUHG DVVXPSWLRQV FXOWXUDO FRGHV RU FRQQRWDWLRQVf DERXW WKH QDWXUH RI WKH PXVLFp 1HYHUWKHOHVV WKH GRXEOH ELQG LW H[SUHVVHVf§ UHSUHVHQWHG E\ WKH SKUDVH RXU PXVLF FDQQRW EH SXW LQWR ZRUGVLV RI FRXUVH QRW D FODLP PDGH H[FOXVLYHO\ E\ WKH MD]] FRPPXQLW\ ,W LV URXWLQHO\ PDGH IRU DOO PXVLF )RU

PAGE 19

H[DPSOH %DUWKHV REVHUYHV WKDW ODQJXDJH PDQDJHV YHU\ EDGO\ ZKHQ LW KDV WR LQWHUSUHW PXVLF DQG (OPHU %HUQVWHLQ 7KH 0DQ ZLWK WKH *ROGHQ $UP 7KH 0DJQLILFHQW 6HYHQ :DON RQ WKH :L,G 6LGHf YLUWXDOO\ UHYLVHV $UPVWURQJnV TXLS ZKHQ KH VWDWHV 0XVLF LV SDUWLFXODUO\ HPRWLRQDO LI \RX DUH DIIHFWHG E\ LW \RX GRQnW KDYH WR DVN ZKDW LW PHDQV ,QGHHG PXVLF LV WUDGLWLRQDOO\ FKDUDFWHUL]HG DV LUUDn WLRQDO XQUHSUHVHQWDEOH ODUJHO\ XQNQRZDEOH DQG P\VWHULn RXV WKDW LV WR VD\ DV D ZRPDQ 1RYHOLVW )DWLPD 6KDLN LQ 7KH 0D\RU RI 1HZ 2UOHDQV DFNQRZOHGJHV WKLV ZKHQ VKH KDV KHU FKDUDFWHU :DOWHU GHFODUH 0XVLF DQG ORYH LV ERWK ZRPHQ DQG WUXWK LV WRR DQG WKXV HFKR 1LHW]VFKHnV IRUPXODWLRQ 7UXWK LV D ZRPDQ &DURO )OLQQ LQ KHU VWXG\ RI WKH GLVFRXUVH RI ILOP PXVLF QRWHV LW ZKHQ VKH ZULWHV WKH WHQGHQF\ WR DOLJQ PXVLF LQ JHQHUDO ZLWK WKH IHPLQLQH FLUFXODWHV H[WHQVLYHO\ DFURVV D ZLGH UDQJH RI FULWLFDO WKHRU\rr $QG 'XNH (OOLQJWRQ FHOHEUDWHV LW +H LPDJLQHV WKH GUXP DV D ZRPDQ LWV IRUP D ZRPE LWV VNLQ D PDLGHQKHDG LQ KLV DXWRELRJUDSK\ 0XVLF ,V 0\ 0LVWUHVV LQ D SRHP HQWLWOHG 0XVLF KH ZULWHV 0XVLF LV D EHDXWLIXO ZRPDQ LQ KHU SULPH 0XVLF LV D VFUXEZRPDQ FOHDULQJ DZD\ WKH GLUW DQG JULPH 0XVLF LV D JLUO FKLOG 6LPSOH VZHHW DQG EHDPLQJ $ WKRXVDQG \HDUV ROG &ROG DV VOHHW DQG VFKHPLQJrr $OWKRXJK WKLV VWDQ]D DQG WKH WHQ ZKLFK IROORZ LW PDNH RQH JODG WKDW DV D UXOH (OOLQJWRQ HVFKHZHG WKH 0XVH RI SRHWU\ DV HIIHFWLYHO\ DV $UPVWURQJ GHWHUUHG WKH LQTXLULHV RI VRFLDOn LWHV LW GRHV GHPRQVWUDWH PXVLFnV PHWDSKRULFDO LQKDELWDWLRQ RI WKH IHPDOH ERG\

PAGE 20

-D]] LW VHHPV RUJDQL]HV LWV GLVFRXUVH E\ DGYDQFLQJ D UHDO RU IHLJQHG GLVEHOLHI LQ WKH WUXWK RI LWV RZQ VWDWHn PHQWV 0+A f ,W LQVFULEHV HYHQ VKURXGV LWVHOI ZLWK P\VWHULRXVQHVV DSRULDXQVLJQLILDELOLW\f ,W GRHV WKLV RQ VHYHUDO OHYHOV WKH OHYHO RI HPSORWPHQW RU QDUUDWLRQ WKH $UPVWURQJ DQHFGRWHf WKH OHYHO RI SRHWLFV RU ILJXUDWLRQ (OOLQJWRQnV HQJHQGHUHG PHWDSKRUf WKH OHYHO RI LGHRORJ\ WKH LPSOLFDWLRQV RI DQ HSLVWHPRORJ\ EDVHG RQ LQDUWLFXODEOH H[SHULHQFH D VHFXODUL]HG YHUVLRQ RI GLYLQH UHYHODWLRQf DQG WKH OHYHO RI H[SRVLWLRQ RU DUJXPHQW DV ZLOO ODWHU GHPRQVWUDWHf $QG LW OD\V FODLP WR D GRXEOH HQLJPD ,W FDQ EH QHLWKHU QRWDWHG RQ D VFRUH QRU UHSUHVHQWHG LQ ZRUGV ,I FODVVLFDO PXVLF FDQQRW EH SXW LQWR ZRUGV RU VR WKH DUJXPHQW JRHV LW FDQ QRQHWKHOHVV EH QRWDWHG KHUH DQG HOVHZKHUH HPSOR\ WKH WHUP FODVVLFDO PXVLF DQG RFFDVLRQDOO\ LI ZDQW WR FRQYH\ D KLQW RI LURQ\ WKH SURSHU QRXQ 0XVLF DV DQ LQFOXn VLYH WHUP UHIHUULQJ WR WKH HQWLUH (XURSHDQ PXVLFDO WUDGLWLRQf ,Q IDFW QRWDWLRQ DQG FODVVLFDO PXVLF DUH UHODWHG UHFLSURFDOO\ WKH GHYHORSPHQW RI HDFK LV XQWKLQNDEOH ZLWKRXW WKH RWKHU -D]] RQ WKH RWKHU KDQG LV FKDUDFWHUL]HG DV ZKROO\ RWKHU &HUWDLQO\ WKLV FODLP GHPDQGV VFUXWLQ\ ZH PXVW UHWXUQ WR LW %HIRUH ZH GR WKDW KRZHYHU ZH VKDOO FRQVLGHU DQRWKHU EROG FODLPRQH PDGH E\ 0DOODUP LQ WKH V ,W IXQFWLRQV DV D SHGDO SRLQW IRU P\ VWXG\+H ZURWH 0\VWHU\ LV VDLG WR EH 0XVLFnV GRPDLQ %XW WKH ZULWWHQ ZRUG DOVR OD\V FODLP WR LW

PAGE 21

7KH MD]] FRPPXQ L W\ OLNH DOO VXEFXOWXUHV GLIIHUHQWLDWHV LWVHOI IURP WKH ODUJHU FXOWXUH f E\ PDUNLQJ RII D ERG\ RI NQRZOHGJHZKDW -XOLR &RUW£]DU KDG RQH RI KLV ERKHPLDQ FKDUn DFWHUV LQ +RSVFRWFK VHOIULJKWHRXVO\ SURFODLP D UHSHUWRU\ RI LQVLJQLILFDQW WKLQJVWKDW GLVWLQJXLVKHV DQG VLWXDWHV DOEHLW SUREOHPDWLFDOO\f DQ LQVLGH DQG DQ RXWVLGH DXGLHQFH DQG f E\ SURWHFWLQJ DQG SROLFLQJ WKLV ERG\ RI NQRZOHGJH E\ UHSHDWLQJ LW LQ WKH IRUP RI JQRPLF FRGHV RU UHIHUHQFHV WR VSHFLDOL]HG UHSHUWRULHV ,QGHHG DV DQ\RQH IDPLOLDU ZLWK WKH KLW SDUDGH RU WKH UDQNLQJV RI &DVK %R[ %LOERDUG 5DGLR DQG 5HFRUGV DQG 5ROOLQJ 6WRQHf XQGHUVWDQGV UHSHWLWLRQ FRQVWL WXWHV FUHDWHV DQG UHIOHFWVf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

PAGE 22

SULFH V\VWHP YLH VKDOO FRQFHUQ RXUVHOYHV ZLWK SHUKDSV OHVV XWRSLDQ WKHPHV DQG ORRN DW WZR HIIHFWV RI UHSHWLWLRQ WKH GHVWDELOL]DWLRQ RI WKH QRWLRQ RI DXWKRU DQG WKH QRWLRQ RI PHDQLQJ ,I D VWDWHPHQW JHWV UHSHDWHG JDLQV UHFRJQLWLRQ DV D SURYHUE RU FXOWXUDO FRGH WKHQ LW PXVW JLYH XS LWV FODLP DV WKH H[FOXVLYH SURGXFW RI D VLQJOH FRQVFLRXVQHVV 3URYHUEV E\ GHILQLWLRQ H[SUHVV DJUHHG XSRQ LI RQO\ ORFDOL]HG RU VXEFXOWXUDOf WUXWKV )RU WKH PDWHULDOLVW WKH\ DUH SURGXFWV RI LGHRORJ\ )RU WKH PHWDSK\VLFLDQ WKH\ DUH XWWHUDQFHV RI 7UXWK 7KHUHIRUH HOHYDWLQJ RU ORZHULQJf /RXLV $UPVWURQJnV UHMRLQGHU WR WKH OHYHO RI SURYHUE SDUDGR[LFDOO\ UHGXFHV RU UDLVHVf LWV DXWKRU WR RQHEXW RQO\ WKH ILUVWLQ D VHULHV WR FLWH DQ DOUHDG\ZULWWHQ WUXWK DERXW MD]] 5HSHWLWLRQ UHWURVSHFWLYHO\ WUDQVIRUPV WKH DXWKRU RI WKH SKUDVH ,I \RX JRWWD DVN \RXnOO QHYHU NQRZ LQWR D FROOHFWLYH DQG DQRQ\PRXV YRLFH WKH YRLFH RI MD]] 6= f 7KH SKUDVH LWVHOI LV WUDQVIRUPHG LQWR D V\VWHP RI UHODn WLRQVKLSV FRPSOHWHO\ LQGHSHQGHQW RI ZKDW RQH OLWHUDU\ WKHRUn LVW 3DXO GH 0DQ GHVFULEHV DV WKH VXEVWDQWLYH DVVHUWLRQV RI D SUHVHQFH 7KHRUHWLFDOO\ LW FDQ FRPH WR PHDQ DQ\WKLQJ 3UDFWLFDOO\ LW PHDQV RQO\ ZKDW EXW HYHU\WKLQJ WKDW WKH FROOHFWLYH DQG DQRQ\PRXV YRLFH RI MD]] ZLOO DOORZ $V DQ LWHUDEOH IRUPXOD LPSO\LQJ WKH UDGLFDO DEVHQFH RI DQ DXWKRU DV ZHOO DV DQ LQILQLWH QXPEHU RI FRQWH[WV LW KDV GHVWDELOL]HG DQ\ FRQFHSWLRQ RI PHDQLQJ ZKLFK KROGV PHDQLQJ WR EH D WKLQJ ZKLFK DOWKRXJK KLGGHQ EXULHG RU WUDQVFHQGHQWf LV

PAGE 23

QHYHUWKHOHVV XQDOWHUDEOH DQG WKURXJK ZRUN RU KHOS IURP RQ KLJK GLVFRYHUDEOH 2EYLRXVO\ PXVW GHOLQHDWH ZKDW PHDQ E\ WKLV QRZ P\VWHULRXV YRLFH RI MD]] DQG LQYHVWLJDWH LWV WH[WXDOSROLWLFDO PDFKLQDWLRQV EXW EHIRUH EHJLQ WKDW WDVN WKH UHDGHU PXVW QRWLFH WKDW WKH FRQGLWLRQV HJ FXWWLQJ VSDFLQJ DQG JUDIWn LQJf ZKLFK RSHUDWH RQ $UPVWURQJnV UHMR LQGHUPDNLQJ LW SRVVLEOH DQG GHVWDELOL]LQJ LW DW RQH DQG WKH VDPH WLPHPRYLQJ LW IURP DQ RULJLQDO XWWHUDQFH FUHDWHG LQ WKH PRPHQW WR D FLWDn WLRQ RI WKH DOUHDG\ IRUPXODWHGDO GHULYH IURP DQ HFRQRP\ RI UHSHWLWLRQ ZULWLQJ LQ WKH EURDG VHQVHf DQG RSHUDWH RQ DOO WH[WV LQFOXGLQJ WKLV RQHf )DU H[FHHGLQJ DQ\ QDUURZO\ FLUFXPVFULEHG ERXQGDULHV RI ODQJXDJH RU ZULWLQJ WKHVH FRQGLn WLRQV RI ZKDW KDV EHHQ FDOOHG D WKHRU\ RI JHQHUDO WH[WXDOLW\ VHUYH DV WURSHVFROOHFWLYHO\ DV PRGHOV RU UKHWRULFVE\ ZKLFK SRVWPRGHUQLVW WKHRU\ FRQFHSWXDOL]HV SURGXFHV RU LPDJLQHVf WKH ZRUOG 5DWKHU WKDQ VXJJHVWLQJ D WKHRU\ ZKLFK UHJDUGV PXVLF DQG ODQJXDJH DV GLIIHUHQW HIIHFWV RI VLPLODU FRQGLWLRQV IRUPDOLVPf RU DV LVRPRUSKLF V\VWHPV VWUXFWXUDOLVPf KHQFH JUDVSDEOH WKURXJK VRPH HVSHFLDOO\ VXIILFLHQW PHWDGLVFRXUVH RI VFLHQFH D PDVWHU ODQJXDJH IRU FRQVXPHUVf WKH\ VXJJHVW WKH SRVVLELOLW\ WKDW GHEDWHV RYHU UHIHUHQWL D LW\ ZKLFK ZH DOVR PXVW SDVV WKURXJKf FDQ EH ILQDOO\ GLVSODFHG E\ D WKHRU\ RI WH[WXDO SURGXFWLRQ WKDW ZRXOG UHJDUG ODQJXDJH DQG PXVLF DV LPDJLQDEOHWKDW LV SURGXFLEOH ZKHWKHU XQGHUVWDQGDEOH RU QRWfWKURXJK WKH SOD\ RI FHUWDLQ ILJXUHV RU WURSHV

PAGE 24

%\ WKH WHUUD WURSH RI FRXUVH QRW RQO\ UHIHU WR WXUQV RU WULFNV RI ODQJXDJH EXW DOOXGH WR D PXVLFDO WHUP ZKLFK XVHG ORRVHO\ VLJQLILHV DQ\ LQWHUSRODWLRQ RU HPEHOOLVKPHQW RI WH[W PXVLF RU ERWK LQWR D OLWXUJLFDO FKDQW +&'0f $V RQH ZLOO UHFDOO PRVW VFKRODUV KROG WKDW LW ZDV IURP VXFK WURSHVWKH 4XHUQ TXDHULWLV WH[WVWKDW PHGLHYDO GUDPD GHYHORSHG %HYLQJWRQ ZULWHV $FFRUGLQJ WR D QLQWKFHQWXU\ PRQN IURP 6W *DOO QDPHG 1RWNHU %DEXOXV WURSHV KDG EHJXQ DV ZRUGOHVV PXVLFDO VHTXHQFHV ZLWK ZKLFK WKH VLQJHUV LQ WKH FKRLU ZRXOG HPEHOOLVK WKH YRZHO VRXQGV RI FHUWDLQ LPSRUWDQW ZRUGV LQ WKH VHUYLFH 2QH VXFK ZRUG IRU H[DPSOH ZDV WKH DOOHOXLD LQ WKH LQWURLW RSHQLQJ SURFHVVLRQDO FKDQWf RI WKH (DVWHU PDVV %DEXOXV UHSRUWV WKDW PXVLFDO WURSHV RI WKLV VRUW KDG EHFRPH VR HODERUDWH LQ WKH QLQWK FHQWXU\ WKDW ZRUGV ZHUH DGGHG WR PDNH WKH VHTXHQFHV HDVLHU WR PHPRUL]HA %XW DQG WKLV LV WKH UXE WURSHV ZHUH DPSOLILFDWLRQV RI KRO\ WH[WVWKH OLWXUJ\ DQG WKH VFULSWXUHV 7KH\ VLJQLILHG D UXSWXUH LQ WKH &KXUFKnV KHJHPRQ\ IRU WDNHQ FROOHFWLYHO\ WKH\ WHQGHG WRZDUGV JORVVRODOLD RU SOXUDOLW\ 7KH\ DOORZHG VRPH PLJKW VD\ HQFRXUDJHG WKH UKHWRULFDO ILJXUH RI FDWDFKUHVLV OLWHUDOO\ PLVXVHf WKH PDQLIHVWO\ DEVXUG 0HWDSKRU GHVLJQHG WR LQVSLUH ,URQLF VHFRQG WKRXJKWV DERXW WKH QDWXUH RI WKH WKLQJ FKDUDFWHUL]HG RU WKH LQDGHTXDF\ RI WKH FKDUDFWHUL]DWLRQ LWVHOI 0IL f $QG MXVW DV VXUHO\ DV WKH 3URWHVWDQW 5HIRUn PDWLRQ LQ /XWKHU DIIL[HG KLV WKHVHV WR WKH 6FKORVV NLUFKH DW :LWWHQEHUJfLWVHOI D WURSH ZULW ODUJHWKH\ RSHQHG XS WKH SRVVLELOLW\ RI DEHUUDQW UHDGLQJV EHFDXVH WKH\ PDUNHG DQ DVVXPSWLRQ RQ WKH PRVW IXQGDPHQWDO RI OHYHOV WKDW VFULSn WXUH ZDV QRW D FORVHG ERRN LW ZDV VXEMHFW WR LQWHUSUHWDWLRQ ,W FRXOG EH DGGHG WR FRPPHQWHG RQ LQ VKRUW HQGOHVVO\

PAGE 25

JORVVHG 1RW VXUSULVLQJO\ WKH LPSOLFDWLRQV RI WURSRORJLFDO SUDFWLFHZKDW ZH FRXOG FDOO WKH SROLWLFV RI PQHPRQLFV RU WKH ORJLF RI HPEHOLVKPHQWSURYHG WRR PXFK IRU WKH 5RPDQ &KXUFK WR EHDU $W WKH &RXQFLO RI 7UHQW f LW FRQn VLGHUHG DEROLVKLQJ DOO PXVLF LQ WKH VHUYLFH RWKHU WKDQ SODLQ VRQJ DQG HQGHG XS VXSSUHVVLQJ DOO EXW IRXU WURSHV DQG VHTXHQFHV +&'0f 'UDPD RI FRXUVH FRQWLQXHG WR EH D WKRUQ LQ WKH VLGH RI ERWK &DWKROLFV DQG 3URWHVWDQWV 0\ PDLQ SRLQW KHUH LV UHODWLYHO\ VWUDLJKWIRUZDUG ,I OLNH :KLWH ZH IROORZ WKH SUDFWLFH RI WUDGLWLRQDO SRHWLFV DQG PRGHUQ ODQJXDJH WKHRU\ DQG SRVWXODWH PHWDSKRU PHWRQ\P\ V\QHFRGRFKH DQG LURQ\ DV WKH IRXU EDVLF WURSHV RI ILJXUDWLYH ODQJXDJH WKHQ UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI PXVLF DUH HDVLO\ FODVVLILHG DV LURQLF SUHFLVHO\ EHFDXVH WKH\ WHQG WR GUDZ DWWHQWLRQ WR WKH LQDGHTXDF\ RI WKHLU RZQ UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV 7KH\ DUH nVHQWL PHQWDOn LQ 6FKLOOHUnV VHQVH RI nVHOIFRQVFLRXVnf RU DUWLn ILFLDO 0+A f ,I E\ HPSKDVL]LQJ WKH PHGLHYDO XVH RI WKH WHUP WKRXJK ZH QRWLFH WKH REYLRXVWKDW MD]] LV DOZD\V FRQFHLYHG DV RSHUDWLQJ DFFRUGLQJ WR WKH ORJLF RI WKH WURSH LH WKH WULFNV DQG WXUQV RI HPEHOOLVKPHQW LQ WKH EURDGHVW VHQVH RI WKH ZRUGfDQG LI ZH XQGHUVWDQG WKDW WKH YHU\ QRWLRQ RI WURSH DOUHDG\ LPSOLHV D PRUHRUOHVV VHOIFRQVFLRXV GHSOR\ PHQW RI WKH PXVLFDO RU ZULWWHQ VLJQnV DUELWUDULQHVV WKHQ RXU ZRUN KDV DFWXDOO\ RQO\ EHJXQ :H QHHG WR ZULWH RXW WKH ILJXUHV RI LURQ\ WKH WURSHV RI WURSLQJ 7KLV LQ EULHI LV WKH WDVN RI P\ VWXG\ KROG WKDW WKH ILJXUHV ZKLFK RUJDQL]H MD]] DUH LQ IDFW WKH ILJXUHV ZKLFK RUJDQL]H ZULWLQJ

PAGE 26

,,, ,Q 7KH 5KHWRULF RI %OLQGQHVV GH 0DQ PDLQWDLQV WKDW WKH UHDO 5RXVVHDX DV RSSRVHG WR 5RXVVHDXnV PLVLQWHUSUHWHUV ZKHWKHU 6WDURELQVNL 5D\PRQG RU 3RXOHWWKH XQZLWWLQJO\ EOLQGRU 'HUULGDWKH ZLWWLQJO\ DEHUUDQWf XQGHUVWRRG WKH LPSOLFDWLRQV DQG FRQVHTXHQFHV RI JHQHUDO WH[WXDOLW\WKH VHPLRWLF DQG QRQVHQVRU\ VWDWXV RI WKH VLJQDQG WKDW LQ WKH (VVD\ RQ WKH 2ULJLQ RI /DQJXDJHV ZKLFK KDG WKH RULJLQDO WLWOH (VVDL VXU OH SULQFLSH GH OD PORGLHf KH UHYHUVHG WKH SUHYDLOLQJ KLHUDUFK\ RI HLJKWHHQWKFHQWXU\ DHVWKHWLF WKHRU\ E\ DVVHUWLQJ WKH SULRULW\ RI PXVLF RYHU SDLQWLQJ DQG ZLWKLQ PXVLF RI PHORG\ RYHU KDUPRQ\f LQ WHUPV RI D YDOXHV\VWHP WKDW LV VWUXFWXUDO UDWKHU WKDQ VXEVWDQWLDO %t, f $V SDUWLDO HYLGHQFH IRU WKLV FRQWHQWLRQ GH 0DQ SURGXFHV WKH IROORZLQJ SDVVDJH IURP 5RXVVHDXnV (VVD\ :KDW LV LPSRUn WDQW IRU RXU SXUSRVHV LV LWV UHVWDWHPHQW DQG H[WHQVLRQ RI DQ RIWUHSHDWHG DQDORJ\ EHWZHHQ PXVLF DQG ODQJXDJH ZKLFK E\ XQGHUVFRULQJ SRLQWV KDYH DOUHDG\ LQWURGXFHG IXUWKHU LOOXVWUDWHV WKH GHVWDELOL]DWLRQ RI PHDQLQJ QHFHVVDULO\ DFFRPn SDQ\LQJ D WKHRU\ RI UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ WKDW SULYLOHJHV WKH FRQVHn TXHQFHV RI JHQHUDO WH[WXDOLW\ 1R VRXQG E\ LWVHOI SRVVHVVHV DEVROXWH DWWULEXWHV WKDW DOORZ XV WR LGHQWLI\ LW LW LV KLJK RU ORZ ORXG RU VRIW ZLWK UHVSHFW WR DQRWKHU VRXQG RQO\ %\ LWVHOI LW KDV QRQH RI WKHVH SURSHUWLHV ,Q D KDUPRQLF V\VWHP D JLYHQ VRXQG LV QRWKLQJ E\ QDWXUDO ULJKW XQ VRQ TXHOFRQTXH QnHVW ULHQ QRQ SOXV QDWXUHOOHPHQWfA ,W LV QHLWKHU WRQLF QRU GRPLQDQW KDUPRQLF RU IXQGDPHQWDO $OO WKHVH SURSHUn WLHV H[LVW DV UHODWLRQVKLSV RQO\ DQG VLQFH WKH HQWLUH V\VWHP FDQ YDU\ IURP EDVV WR WUHEOH HDFK VRXQG FKDQJHV LQ UDQN DQG SODFH DV WKH V\VWHP FKDQJHV LQ GHJUHH

PAGE 27

,Q WKLV V\VWHP RI VLJQV ZKHUH XQ VRQ QnHVW ULHQ QDWX UHOOHPHQW WKH PXVLFDO VLJQ ZULWHV GH 0DQ FDQ QHYHU EH LGHQWLFDO ZLWK LWVHOI RU ZLWK SURVSHFWLYH UHSHWLWLRQV RI LWVHOI ,W LV YRODWLOH QRW EHLQJ JURXQGHG LQ DQ\ VXEn VWDQFH %t, f FKDUDFWHUL]HG E\ DSRULD 2Q WKH RQH KDQG PXVLF LV FRQGHPQHG WR H[LVW DOZD\V DV D PRPHQW DV D SHUVLVWHQWO\ IUXVWUDWHG LQWHQW WRZDUG PHDQLQJ RQ WKH RWKHU KDQG WKLV YHU\ IUXVWUDWLRQ SUHYHQWV LW IURP UHPDLQLQJ ZLWKLQ WKH PRPHQW %t, f :DOWHU 2QJ PDNHV D VLPLODU REVHUYDWLRQ ZKHQ KH VWDWHV 6RXQG H[LVWV RQO\ ZKHQ LW LV JRLQJ RXW RI H[LVWHQFH ,W LV QRW VLPSO\ SHULVKDEOH EXW HVVHQWLDOO\ HYDQHVFHQWA $QG 6DUWUHnV FKDUDFWHU 5RTXHQWLQ ZULWHV )RU WKH PRPHQW WKH MD]] LV SOD\LQJ WKHUH LV QR PHORG\ RQO\ QRWHV D P\ULDG RI WLQ\ MROWV 7KH\ NQRZ QR UHVW DQ LQIOH[LEOH RUGHU JLYHV ELUWK WR WKHP DQG GHVWUR\V WKHP ZLWKRXW HYHQ JLYLQJ WKHP WLPH WR UHFXSHUDWH DQG H[LVW IRU WKHPVHOYHV 7KH\ UDFH WKH\ SUHVV IRUZDUG WKH\ VWULNH PH D VKDUS EORZ LQ SDVVLQJ DQG DUH REOLWHUn DWHG ZRXOG OLNH WR KROG WKHP EDFN EXW NQRZ LI VXFFHHGHG LQ VWRSSLQJ RQH LW ZRXOG UHPDLQ EHWZHHQ P\ ILQJHUV RQO\ DV D UDIILVK ODQJXLVKLQJ VRXQG PXVW DFFHSW WKHLU GHDWK PXVW HYHQ ZLOO LW NQRZ IHZ LPSUHVVLRQV VWURQJHU RU PRUH KDUVK 1DXVHD f %XW ZKHUHDV 2QJ DV SDUW RI KLV SURJUDP WR GLVWLQJXLVK RUDOLW\ IURP OLWHUDF\f DQG 6DUWUH DV SDUW RI DQ H[WHQGHG DQDORJ\f HPSKDVL]H WKH XQLTXH SK\VLFDO SURSHUWLHV RI VRXQG GH 0DQ JHQHUDOL]HV LWV VHPLRWLF LPSOLFDWLRQV WR PDNH D SRLQW DERXW WH[WXDOLW\ 2QJ VWDWHV >1@R RWKHU VHQVRU\ ILHOG WRWDOO\ UHVLVWV D KROGLQJ DFWLRQ VWDELOL]DWLRQ LQ TXLWH WKLV ZD\ 2t/ f 'H 0DQ VWLOO HFKRLQJ 5RXVVHDX VWDWHV 7KH VWUXFn WXUDO FKDUDFWHULVWLFV RI ODQJXDJH DUH H[DFWO\ WKH VDPH DV WKRVH DWWULEXWHG WR PXVLF %t, f DQG LQ DQRWKHU SODFH

PAGE 28

/LNH PXVLF ODQJXDJH LV D GLDFKURQLF V\VWHP RI UHODWLRQn VKLSV %t, f ,Q HIIHFW GH 0DQ UHYHUVHV WKH FRPPRQSODFH 0XVLF ZRUNV OLNH D ODQJXDJH WR UHDG /DQJXDJH ZRUNV OLNH PXVLF ,W GHFODUHV WKH FRQYHQWLRQDO VXSHURUGLQDWHVXERUGLQDWH UHODWLRQn VKLS EHWZHHQ ODQJXDJH DQG PXVLF SUREOHPDWLF LI QRW YRLGf DQG VXJJHVWV D IXQGDPHQWDO RU DW OHDVW DQ LPDJLQDEOH KRPRORJ\ EHWZHHQ ODQJXDJH DQG PXVLF /LNH 0DOODUP KH HQODUJHV WKH ERXQGDULHV RI WKH ZULWWHQ ZRUG WR DGPLW P\VWHU\D GRPDLQ IRUPHUO\ DVVLJQHG WR VWUXFWXULQJf PXVLF ,QGHHG LQVRIDU DV DQ DQDORJRXV HYHQ KRPRORJRXVf UHODn WLRQVKLS EHWZHHQ WKH ZRUNLQJV RI PXVLF DQG ODQJXDJH DV VLJQ V\VWHPV FDQ EH PDLQWDLQHG WKH DGDJH PXVLF LV D ODQJXDJH ZLWK WKH PHWDSKRULFDO YHKLFOH VWUXFWXULQJ RXU FRQFHSWLRQ RI D WHQRU PXVLFf FDQ EH UHYHUVHG DQG SUHVVHG LQWR D QHZ PHWDSKRULFDO DOOHJRULFDOf DUUDQJHPHQW 0XVLF FDQ VHUYH DV D YHKLFOH VWUXFWXULQJ D WHQRU ODQJXDJH DQG ODQJXDJH FDQ EH WR HPSOR\ D KLJKO\ VXVSHFW YHUEf LPDJHG DV D PXVLFWKH UHODWLRQDO SOD\ RI GLIIHUHQFH D PDWUL[ RI SRVVLn ELOLWLHV %XW KHUH DJDLQ WKHUH DUH FRQVHTXHQFHV :KHQ ZH DGPLW D PHWDSKRULFDO UHFLSURFLW\ EHWZHHQ PXVLF DQG ODQJXDJH DYHU WKDW PXVLF LV D ODQJXDJH LV D PXVLFRU DOORZ WKDW ODQJXDJH PD\ EH D VXERUGLQDWH FDWHJRU\ RI D VXSHURUGLQDWH FDWHJRU\ PXVLF ZH LQ HIIHFW GHFODUH WKDW WKH UHODWLRQVKLS EHWZHHQ WHQRU DQG YHKLFOH RU VXERUGLQDWH DQG VXSHUn RUGLQDWH OLNH WKH UHODWLRQVKLS EHWZHHQ ODQJXDJH DQG PXVLF LV RQH RI VWUXFWXUHFRQYHQLHQFH LPDJLQDWLRQ RU

PAGE 29

FXOWXUDOSROLWLFDO QHFHVVLW\QRW VXEVWDQFH 8QKRRNHG IURP D PHWDSK\VLFV RI SUHVHQFH IURP DQ XQVKLIWLQJ RQWRORJLFDO EDVH RU WHQRUf WKH ZRUGV ZH HPSOR\ DQG WKH V\QWDJPV ZH FRQVWUXFW IDOO XQGHU D ORJLF RI VWUXFWXUDO UHODWLYLW\ FRQYHQn WLRQDOO\ UHVHUYHG IRU H[SODQDWLRQV RI PXVLF RU LQ 'HUULGDnV HPSOR\PHQW RI WKH WHUP ZULWLQJ +H VWDWHV )RU VRPH WLPH QRZ RQH VD\V ODQJXDJH IRU DFWLRQ PRYHPHQW WKRXJKW UHIOHFWLRQ FRQVFLRXVQHVV XQFRQVFLRXV QHVV H[SHULHQFH DIIHFWLYLW\ HWF 1RZ ZH WHQG WR VD\ ZULWLQJ WR GHVLJQDWH QRW RQO\ WKH SK\VLFDO JHVWXUHV RI OLWHUDO SLFWRJUDSKLF RU LGHRJUDSKLF LQVFULSn WLRQ EXW DOVR WKH WRWDOLW\ RI ZKDW PDNHV LW SRVVLEOH DQG DOVR EH\RQG WKH VLJQLI\LQJ IDFH WKH VLJQLILHG IDFH LWVHOI $QG WKXV ZH VD\ ZULWLQJ IRU DOO WKDW JLYHV ULVH WR DQ LQVFULSWLRQ LQ JHQHUDO ZKHWKHU LW LV OLWHUDO RU QRW DQG HYHQ LI ZKDW LW GLVWULEXWHV LQ VSDFH LV DOLHQ WR WKH RUGHU RI WKH YRLFH FLQHPDWRJUDSK\ FKRUH RJUDSK\ RI FRXUVH EXW DOVR SLFWRULDO PXVLFDO VFXOSn WXUDO ZULWLQJ 2QH PLJKW DOVR VSHDN RI DWKOHWLF ZULWn LQJ DQG ZLWK HYHQ JUHDWHU FHUWDLQW\ RI PLOLWDU\ RU SROLWLFDO ZULWLQJ LQ YLHZ RI WKH WHFKQLTXHV WKDW JRYHUQ WKRVH GRPDLQV WRGD\ $OO WKLV WR GHVFULEH QRW RQO\ WKH V\VWHP RI QRWDWLRQ VHFRQGDULO\ FRQQHFWHG ZLWK WKHVH DFWLYLWLHV EXW WKH HVVHQFH DQG WKH FRQWHQW RI WKHVH DFWLYLWLHV WKHPVHOYHVp 7KXV EHIRUH HQVFRQFLQJ PXVLF DV WKH QHZ WHUP RI SULYLn OHJH ZH PXVW FDOO IRU D GHFRQVWUXFWLRQ RI WKH ELQDU\ RSSRVLn WLRQ PXVLFODQJXDJH D SURMHFW RQO\ VXJJHVWHG KHUHf RQH WKDW ZRXOG VWDJH WKH TXHVWLRQ 7R ZKDW GHJUHH LV WKH WHUP PXVLF DV D NH\ WHUP LQ D SDUWLFXODU V\VWHPf EURDFKHGUXSWXUHGKHOG LQFRPSOHWH E\ WKDW HOHPHQW >ZULWLQJ" VHPDQWLFV"@ ZKLFK WKH V\VWHP PXVW H[FOXGH LQ RUGHU WR ILQG FORVXUH DV D V\VWHP DQG \HW LV QHFHVVDU\ IRU WKH IXQFWLRQLQJ RI WKH V\VWHP"A 7KLV SURMHFW \HW DQRWKHU H[WHQVLRQ RI 'HUULGD DQG WKH
PAGE 30

ORJRFHQWULVP ZULWLQJ UHLQHG LQ E\ PHWDSKRU PHWDSK\VLFV DQG WKHRORJ\* f ZRXOG QHHG WR GHPRQVWUDWH ZULWH RXWf f WKH VWUXFWXUDOO\ DQG D[LRORJLFDOO\ GHWHUPLQHG UHODn WLRQVKLS DVVXPHG EHWZHHQ ODQJXDJH DQG PXVLF 2* f f WKH PHDQV E\ ZKLFK RQH VHW RI SKHQRPHQDWKH LGHQWLW\ FDWHJRU\ PXVLFLV PDGH WR GLIIHU IURP DQRWKHU VHW RI SKHQRPHQDWKH LGHQWLW\ FDWHJRU\ ODQJXDJH f DQG WKH KLVWRU LFRPHWDSK\VLFD HIIHFWV RI PDLQWDLQLQJf VXFK D V\VWHP RI GLIIHUHQFH 0RUH SUDFWLFDOO\ VXFK D VWXG\ FRXOG DVN VXFK TXHVWLRQV DV f &DQ ZH UHDG PXVLF DV DQ HIIHFW RU FRQWLQXLQJ UHDOL]Dn WLRQ H[SORUDWLRQ DQG UHSUHVVLRQf RI WKH SRVVLELOLW\ RI ZULWLQJ RU UHFRUGLQJ LH K\SRPQHVLD RU DUWLILFLDO PHPRU\f" f &DQ ZH GHPRQVWUDWH WKDW UHFRUGLQJ WHFKQRORJLHV IURP PXVLFLDQnV JXLOGV DQG JULRW VRFLHWLHV WR VKHHW PXVLF DQG FRPSDFW GLVFVf WUDGLWLRQDOO\ SHUFHLYHG DV VXSSRUWLQJ PXVLF ZHUH DFWXDOO\ WKH FRQGLWLRQV IRU WKH SRVVLELOLW\ RI PXVLF" )RU H[DPSOH LV LW SRVVLEOH WR VKRZ WKDW VWDQGDUG QRWDWLRQ RVWHQVLEO\ GHYHORSHG DV DQ HIILFLHQW PHDQV IRU UHFRUGLQJ PXVLF RQ SDSHU FDUULHG EH\RQG LWV JRDO DQG PDGH FODVVLFDO PXVLF SRVVLEOH" &RQWUDULZLVH FDQ ZH GHPRQVWUDWH WKDW UHFRUGLQJ WHFKQRORJLHV PDNH PXVLF LPSRVVLEOH E\ XQGRLQJ SUHYLRXVO\ HVWDEOLVKHG FRQFHSn WLRQV RI ZKDW PXVLF LV DQG LV QRWf" )RU H[DPSOH LV LW SRVVLEOH WR VKRZ WKDW VWDQGDUG QRWDWLRQ GHVWUR\HG FODVVLFDO PXVLF E\ LPSO\LQJ VHULDO PXVLF RU WKDW

PAGE 31

7KHORQLRXV 0RQN RQH RI WKH IRXQGHUV RI PRGHUQ MD]] EHERSf ZDV DOVR RQH RI LWV GLVPDQWOHUV ,V EXLOGLQJ DQG GLVPDQWOLQJ D VLPXOWDQHRXV RSHUDWLRQ" f *LYHQ WKDW KLVWRULFLW\ LWVHOI LV WLHG WR WKH SRVVLn ELOLW\ RI ZULWLQJ 2* f ZKDW LV WKH KLVWRULFDO UHODWLRQVKLS EHWZHHQ PXVLF DQG ZULWLQJ FULWXUH LQVFULSn WLRQ LQ WKH QDUURZ VHQVH RI WKH ZRUGf" :KDW PRGHV RI UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ KDYH EHHQ SULYLOHJHG RU GLVDOORZHG ZKHQ ZULWLQJ DERXW PXVLF" f 7R ZKDW H[WHQW LV WKH KLVWRU\ RI PXVLFDV RQH YHUVLRQ RQH WUDFNf RI D PXOWLWUDFNHGf KLVWRU\ RI UHFRUGLQJ WHFKQRORJLHVD VHULHV RI LGHRORJLFDO VWUDWHJLHV FDOn FXODWHG WR FRQWDLQ UHSUHVVf WKH HIIHFWV RI QHZ UHFRUGLQJ WHFKQRORJLHV E\ IRUFLQJ WKRVH HIIHFWV WR EROVWHU RU GLVJXLVH WKH YXOQHUDEOH SRLQWV RI SUHYLRXV WHFKQRORJLHV f 'R WKH UHFRUGLQJ WHFKQRORJLHV DVVRFLDWHG ZLWK PXVLF IURP DSSUHQWLFHVKLS WR GLJLWDO VDPSOLQJf DQWLFLSDWH GXSOLFDWH RU IROORZ WHFKQRORJLFDO FKDQJHV LQ RWKHU DUHDV RI FXOWXUH" $QG KRZ IDU FDQ RQH JHQHUDOL]H IURP WKH FRPSRVLWLRQDO VWUDWHJLHV DVVRFLDWHG ZLWK PXVLF ZULWLQJ LQ WKH EURDG VHQVH RI WKH ZRUGf DQG DSSO\ WKHP WR FRPSRVLWLRQDO WDVNV LQ RWKHU GLVFLSOLQHV" f 0XVLF LV RIWHQ FKDUDFWHUL]HG DV D QRQUHSUHVHQWDWLRQDO VHPLRWLF V\VWHP 4XRWLQJ (FR LW SUHVHQWV RQ WKH RQH KDQG WKH SUREOHP RI D VHPLRWLF V\VWHP ZLWKRXW D VHPDQWLF OHYHO RU D FRQWHQW SODQHf RQ WKH RWKHU KDQG KRZHYHU WKHUH DUH PXVLFDO nVLJQVn RU V\QWDJPVf ZLWK DQ H[SOLFLW

PAGE 32

GHQRWDWLYH YDOXH WUXPSHW VLJQDOV LQ WKH DUP\f DQG WKHUH DUH V\QWDJPV RU HQWLUH nWH[WVn SRVVHVVLQJ SUHFXOWXUDOL]HG FRQQRWDWLYH YDOXH nSDVWRUDOn RU nWKULOOLQJn PXVLF HWFfO 7KH TXHVWLRQ LV E\ ZKDW SURFHVV GR ZH DVVLJQ PHDQLQJ GHQRWDWLRQ DQG FRQQRWDWLRQf WR VXFK D V\VWHP" $QG VKRXOG ZH FRQFHLYH RI PXVLF DV D VHPLRWLF V\VWHP WKDW QRUPDOO\ ODFNV PHDQLQJ LH DV DQ H[FHSWLRQDO RU GHILFLHQW ODQJXDJHf RU DV D V\VWHP ZKHUH RYHUGHWHUPL QDWLRQD VXUIHLW RI PHDQLQJLV ODEHOHG ODFN XQWLO VXFK WLPH DV FXOWXUDO UHVWULFWLRQV JHQHUDWH D VHPDQWLF HIIHFW 7KH SURMHFW RXWOLQHG E\ WKHVH TXHVWLRQVf§DQ HODERUDWLRQ RU DSSOLFDWLRQ RI VWUXFWXUDOLVW DQG SRVWVWUXFWXUDOLVW WKLQNLQJ DSSOLHG WR PXVLFLV SDUW EXW RQO\ DQ H[WHQVLRQ RI DQ DOUHDG\ EHJXQ SURJUDP JUDPPDWRORJ\ ,Q IDFW LI DV (FR PDLQWDLQV WKH ZKROH RI PXVLFDO VFLHQFH VLQFH WKH 3\WKDJRUHDQV KDV EHHQ DQ DWWHPSW WR GHVFULEH WKH ILHOG RI PXVLFDO FRPPXQLFDWLRQ DV D ULJRURXVO\ VWUXFWXUHG V\VWHP 76 f WKHQ JUDPPDWRORJ\ FRXOG EH UHJDUGHG DV WKH GLVFRUGDQW RYHUWRQHV RI MXVW VXFK DQ DWWHPSWWKDW LV XQOHVV ZH UHDG PXVLFDO VFLHQFH DV DQ HYHU YLJLODQW HIIRUW WR GDPSHQ WKH JUDPPDWRORJLFDO LPSOLFDWLRQV RI LWV RZQ HQGHDYRUV 5RXVVHDX DV ZH KDYH VHHQ DQQRXQFHV DQG LQ 'HUULGDnV UHDGLQJ VXPPDULO\ VXSSUHVVHVf JUDPPDWRORJ\ ZKHQ KH ZRUNV DQ DQDORJ\ WR PDLQWDLQ DQ RSSRVLWLRQf EHWZHHQ PXVLF DQG ODQJXDJH 2* f 1LHW]VFKH UHDQQRXQFHV LW LQ 7KH %LUWK RI 7UDJHG\ DV GRHV 0DOODUP LQ KLV (VVD\V 0D[ :HEHU H[SORUHV

PAGE 33

LVVXHV DVVRFLDWHG ZLWK LW LQ 7KH 5DWLRQDO DQG 6RFLDO )RXQGDn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nSHGLJUHHn DQG GHYHORSLQJ QHZ SHUVSHFWLYHV $PRQJ WKH SLRQHHU ZRUNV OHW XV TXRWH WKH ELEOLRJUDSK\ HODERUDWHG E\ -1DWWLH] LQ 0XVLTXH HQ MHX $V IRU WKH UHODWLRQVKLS EHWZHHQ PXVLF DQG OLQJXLVWLFV DQG EHWZHHQ PXVLF DQG FXOWXUDO DQWKURSRORJ\ VHH -DNREVRQ f 5XZHW f DQG /YL6WUDXVV LQ WKH SUHIDFH WR 7KH 5DZ DQG WKH &RRNHGf 2XWOLQHV RI QHZ WUHQGV DUH WR EH IRXQG LQ 1DWWLH] f 2VPRQG6PLWK f 6WHIDQL f 3RXVVHXU f DQG RWKHUV 76 f 7R WKLV OLVW ZH VKRXOG DGG HYHQ PRUH UHFHQW VWXGLHV -DFTXHV $WWDOL 1RLVH 'DYLG 6XGQRZ 7DONnV %RG\ $ 0HGLWDWLRQ EHWZHHQ 7ZR .H\ERDUGV -RVHSK .HUPDQ &RQWHPSODWLQJ 0XVLF DQG :HQG\ 6WHLQHU HG 7KH 6LJQ LQ 0XVLF DQG /LWHUDWXUH ,Q $SSOLHG *UDPPDWRORJ\ D ZRUN WKHRUL]LQJ WKH SHGDJRJLFDO DSSOLFDWLRQ RI D PRGH RI ZULWLQJ QR ORQJHU VXERUGLQDWHG WR VSHHFK RU WKRXJKW *UHJRU\ 8OPHU LGHQWLILHV WKUHH SKDVHV RI JUDPPDWRORJ\ D KLVWRU\ RI ZULWLQJ VWLOO XQGHU ZD\f D WKHRU\ RI ZULWLQJ RQH YHUVLRQ QRZ IRUPXODWHG E\ 'HUULGDf DQG D JUDPPDWRORJLFDO SUDFWLFH WKH DSSOLFDWLRQ RI WKH KLVWRU\ DQG WKHRU\ WR WKH GHYHORSPHQW RI D QHZ ZULWLQJf $* f 7KLV VWXG\ OLNH 8OPHUnV ZRUNV WRZDUGV D UHDOL]DWLRQ RI WKH WKLUG RU DSSOLHG SKDVH RI JUDPPDWRORJ\ DQG VSHFLILFDOO\ LW

PAGE 34

VHHNV WR PDQHXYHU WKH GLVFRXUVH RI MD]]f§UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV LQ PXVLFRORJ\ OLWHUDWXUH DQG ILOPLQWR D SRVLWLRQ IURP ZKLFK WKLV JRDO FRXOG EH DFWLYHO\ SXUVXHG -D]] FRJQRVFHQWL ZLOO LPPHGLDWHO\ QRWLFH WKH RULJLQ RI P\ WLWOH $Q HDV\ SXQ RQ &KDUOLH 3DUNHUnV FRPSRVLWLRQ 'ULIWLQJ RQ D 5HHG LW SRLQWV WR WKUHH TXHVWLRQV ZKLFK GLUHFWHG P\ HQGHDYRUV )LUVW ZKDW KDSSHQV ZKHQ MD]] LPDJHG PHWRQ\PLFDOO\ DV D UHHGf HQWHUV GLVFRXUVH LPDJLQHG DV WKH UHDOP RI UHDGLQJf" 1H[W WR ZKDW H[WHQW LV MD]] DOZD\V DQ HIIHFW RI UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ HJ RI SKRQRJUDSK UHFRUGV RU ZULWLQJf DQG WR ZKDW H[WHQW GR MD]] PXVLF DQG MD]] OLWHUDWXUH HQMR\ D UHFLSURFDO UHODWLRQVKLS" )LQDOO\ DQG PRVW LPSRUn WDQWO\ ZKDW FRXOG LW PHDQ WR HPSOR\ MD]] DV D PRGHO IRU ZULWLQJ FRPSRVLWLRQ DQG LPSURYLVDWLRQf" ,Q RUGHU WR HQJDJH WKHVH TXHVWLRQV UHDG ZLGHO\ LQ WKH OLWHUDWXUH RI MD]] DQG LQ VR GRLQJ QRWLFHG DQG ILQDOO\ LVRODWHG IRXU PXOWLYDOHQW WURSHV ZKLFK DV D VHW SURYLGH MD]] ZLWK D UKHWRULF 7KH\ DUH WKH LPDJHV RI f WKH REEOLJDWR RU DJUPHQWV f WKH VDWXUD RU DPDOJDP f WKH UKDSVRG\ RU FRXQWHUIHLW DQG f WKH FKDULYDUL RU FKDVVH EHDX[ 0DUNLQJ WKH HQWU\ RI MD]] LQWR GLVFRXUVH WKHVH LPDJHV H[DPSOHV RI ZKDW %DUWKHV FDOOHG D V\PEROLF FRGH WKH SURYLQFH RI WKH DQW LWKHVLV6= f OLWHUDOO\ JLYH MD]] D YRLFH VWUXFWXUn LQJ DQG GHVWDELOL]LQJ LW RUJDQL]LQJ LW RQ D KLJKO\ DEVWUDFW

PAGE 35

OHYHO %XW WKLV LV QRW DOO 7KH\ DOVR HQDEOH ZKDW FRPH WR ODEHO MD]]RORJ\ PXVLFRORJ LFD PHWKRGRORJ\ DSSOLHG WR WKH VWXG\ RI MD]]f 7KDW LV WKH\ PDNH SRVVLEOH WKH VHULRXV VWXG\ RI MD]] DQG GLVUXSW VXFK D VWXG\DQG WKH\ SURYLGH XV ZLWK D PRGHO IRU ZULWLQJ LQGHHG WKH\ KDYH DOUHDG\ EHHQ SURYHQ DV JHQHUDWLYH DJHQWV RI GLVVHPLQDWLRQf RUJDQL]H P\ GLVn FXVVLRQ E\ WKHVH WURSHV ,Q WKH ILUVW FKDSWHU WRXFK RQ WKH EURDG WKHRUHWLFDO LVVXHV UDLVHG E\ DQ LQYHVWLJDWLRQ RI WKH GLVFRXUVH RI MD]] VSHOO RXW ZKDW PHDQ E\ D JUDPPDWRORJLFDO VWXG\ DQG H[SODLQ P\ PHWKRGRORJ\ &KDSWHUV 7ZR WKURXJK )LYH DUH RUJDQL]HG E\ WKH IRXU WURSHV DQG IRUP WKH ERG\ RI P\ HVVD\ (DFK FKDSWHU KDV WZR PDLQ SDUWV ZLWK RQH WUDQVLWLRQDO VHFWLRQf 7KH ILUVW SDUW ORFDWHV D SDUWLFXODU WURSH LQ WKH QRQILFWLRQ OLWHUn DWXUH RI MD]] DQG DQDO\]HV KRZ LW KDV EHHQ HPSOR\HG WR JHQHUDWH D UHIHUHQWLDOLH VFLHQWLILFHIIHFW +HUH OLNH :KLWH GHPRQVWUDWH WKDW WKH VXSSRVHGO\ VFLHQWLILF WH[W LV SUHGLFDWHG RQ D FRQFHSWXDOL]DWLRQ RI SKHQRPHQD WKDW LV JHQHUDOO\ SRHWLF DQG VSHFLILFDOO\ OLQJXLVWLF LQ QDWXUH 0+A L[f DQG DUJXH WKDW QRQILFWLRQ UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI MD]] PRVW RIWHQ ZRUN E\ GLVJXLVLQJ WKHLU OLWHUDU\UKHWRULFDO EDVH LH VXSSUHVVLQJ LGHRORJLFDOO\ GLVHQIUDQFKLVHG FRQQRWDWLRQV RI WKH YHU\ VLJQL ILHUV ZKLFK PDNH UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ SRVVLEOHf 7R PDNH WKHVH SRLQWV HYLGHQW VWDJH DQ HVSHFLDOO\ FORVH LQWHQWLRQDOO\ DEHUUDQW UHDGLQJ RI WKH ILUVW SDUDJUDSK RI *XQWKHU 6FKXOOHUnV (DUO\ -D]] D UHSUHVHQWDWLYH PXVLFRORJLFDO WH[W DQG VXUYH\ D ZLGH UDQJH RI QRQILFWLRQ OLWHUDWXUH DERXW MD]] 6LQFH IHZ

PAGE 36

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f KRZ WKH OLWHUDU\ LH WKH EHOOHWULVWLFf UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ RI MD]] FDQ EH FRQFHSWXDOL]HGLH RUJDQL]HG DQG GLVUXSWHGDV WKH SOD\ RI WKHVH KLJKO\ HIILFDFLRXV LPDJHV DQG f KRZ WKHVH VDPH WURSHV WXUQV RU WULFNVf RFFXS\ WKH FRQFHUQV RI SRVWPRGHUQ FULWLFDO WKHRU\ 7KH SDLULQJV RI WH[WV PDGH LQ WKH VHFRQG PRUH H[SHULPHQWDO SDUWV RI &KDSWHUV 7ZR WKURXJK )LYH DUH PRVW HDVLO\ UHSUHVHQWHG E\ WKH IROORZLQJ ILJXUH &+$37(5 7:2 2%%/,*$72 5DOSK (OOLVRQ ,QYLVLEOH 0DQ -DFTXHV 'HUULGD 'LVVHPLQDWLRQ &+$37(5 )285 5+$362'< ,VKPDHO 5HHG 7KH )UHH/DQFH 3DOOEHDUHUV 5RODQG %DUWKHV 6= &+$37(5 7+5(( 6$785$ 0LFKDHO 2QGDDWMH &RPLQJ 7KURXJK 6ODXJKWHU -RKQ &DJH 6LOHQFH &+$37(5 ),9( &+$5,9$5, 0DUWLQ 6FRUVHVH 1HZ
PAGE 37

%ULHIO\ REEOLJDWR DV ERWK ZKDW LV REOLJDWRU\ DQG PHUHO\ DQ RUQDPHQW UDLVHV WKH LVVXH RI FRPSRVLWLRQ DQG LPSURYLVDWLRQ 7KH UHIUDLQ :KDW GLG GR WR EH VR EODFN DQG EOXH" DQG WKH 5LQHKDUW HSLVRGH IURP (OOLVRQnV ,QYLVLEOH 0DQ DUH H[DPLQHG ZLWK D YLHZ WRZDUGV ZULWLQJ REEOLJDWL RQ WKHVH WH[WV UDWKHU WKDQ ZULWLQJ D WKHPH DERXW WKHP 7KH H[SHULPHQWDO HVVD\ ZKLFK UHVXOWV IURP WKLV VWXG\ WDNHV LWV OHDG IURP 'HUULGDnV 'LVVHPLQDWLRQ ZKLFK DV D ZKROH DGYDQFHV WKH WKHVLV WKDW WKH FRQFHSW WKHVLV LV XQWHQDEOH D KHUPHQHXWLF RI GLVVHPLQDWLRQ FRXOG UHSODFH D KHUPHQHXWLF FRQFHSW RI SRO\VHP\ 6DWXUD D ZRUG RULJLQDOO\ VLJQLI\LQJ D PL[WXUH RU PHGOH\ DQG WKH ZRUG IURP ZKHUH ZH JHW WKH (QJOLVK ZRUG VDWLUH FRQWHVWV DQG \HW PDLQWDLQV GLVWLQFWLRQV EHWZHHQ WKH SXUH DQG WKH DPDOJDP &DJHnV 6LOHQFH LV UHDG DV D PDQLIHVWR GHFODUn LQJ PRGHUQ PXVLFnV UHLQYHVWLJDWLRQ RI VDWXUD DV D JHQHUDWLYH WURSH DQG 2QGDDWMHnV GRFXQRYHO LV DGYDQFHG DV D PRGHO ZRUN UHSHDWLQJ WKH LPDJH RI WKH VDWXUD RQ ERWK WKH V\QWDJPDWLF DQG SDUDGLJPDWLF D[HV 7KLV VHFWLRQ VXUYH\V ILFWLYH UHSUHVHQn WDWLRQV RI MD]] PXVLF WKURXJK D PRGHO GHULYHG IURP &DJH DQG 2QGDDW MH 5KDSVRG\ ZRUNV RII QRWLRQV RI V\PSKRQ\ DQG RUGHU DQG SUREOHPDWL]HV WKH RSSRVLWLRQ FRXQWHUIHLWJHQXLQH ,VKPDHO 5HHGnV ZRUN LV WDNHQ DV D UDSS DQ FRXQWHUIHLW FRLQ WKDW SDVVHG IRU FXUUHQF\ LQ WKFHQWXU\ ,UHODQGf LH DV D JHQXLQH FRXQWHUIHLW ,W LV H[DPLQHG LQ WKH OLJKW RI %DUWKHV ZRUN RQ QDUUDWLYH LQ 6= DQG HVSHFLDOO\ KLV DVVHUWLRQV WKDW WKH DUHD RI WKH UHDGHUO\f WH[W LV FRPSDUDEOH DW HYHU\ SRLQW WR D

PAGE 38

FODVVLFDOf PXVLFDO VFRUH DQG WKDW WR XQOHDUQ WKH UHDGHUO\ ZRXOG EH WKH VDPH DV WR XQOHDUQ WKH WRQDO 6= f 7KH &KDU LYDUL UHSUHVHQWV WKH ULWXDOSROLWLFDO HPSOR\n PHQW RI QRLVH QRLVH FRPHV IURP WKH 2OG )UHQFK ZRUG QDXVHDf 7KH 5DZ DQG WKH &RRNHG SURYLGHV WKH FRQFHSWXDO WRROV IRU YLHZLQJ 1HZ
PAGE 39

HIIHFWV GRHV QRW PDNH DQDO\VLV RU VFKRODUVKLS LWV JRDO +HUH LQVWHDG RI DQDO\]LQJ MD]] RQH ZRXOG XVH LW DV DQ RFFDn VLRQ IRU PDNLQJ D WH[W 7KLV RI FRXUVH LV %DUWKHV OHVVRQ LQ 6= +H ZULWHV >7@KH JRDO RI OLWHUDU\ ZRUN RI OLWHUn DWXUH DV ZRUNf LV WR PDNH WKH UHDGHU QR ORQJHU D FRQVXPHU EXW D SURGXFHU RI WKH WH[W 6= f $QG LW LV DOVR WKH OHVVRQ RI WKH HOHPHQWDU\ VFKRRO WHDFKHU ZKR KDV KHU VWXGHQWV GUDZ RU SDLQW LQ UHVSRQVH WR PXVLF 7KH DFWLYH UHDGHU RU ZULWHU WKH WZR FDQ EH VFDUFHO\ GLIIHUHQWLDWHGf DVVXPHV VRPHWKLQJ HOHPHQWDU\ WH[WV SURPSW WH[WV (YHU\ MD]] PXVLFLDQ NQRZV WKLV NQRZV WKDW WKH EHVW UHVSRQVH WR VRPHRQH HOVHnV FRPSRVLWLRQ RU VROR LV WR EORZ RQH RI \RXU RZQ 6DUWUH NQHZ LW DQG .HURXDF NQHZ LW 6DUWUH EHOLHYHG WKDW WKH PRVW DGHTXDWH UHVSRQVH KH FRXOG SRVVLEO\ KDYH WR OLVWHQLQJ WR 6RSKLH 7XFNHU VLQJ 6RPH RI 7KHVH 'D\V ZDV WR ZULWH 1DXVHD .HURXDF DIWHU KDQJLQJ RXW RQ QG 6WUHHW OLVWHQLQJ WR 0RQN %LUG DQG 'L]]\ ZURWH 2Q WKH 5RDG $QG NQRZ LW WRR 1RWHV 7KH FLWDWLRQV ZKLFK IRUP WKLV VWXG\nV HSLJUDSK ZHUH WDNHQ IURP *HRUJH :DVKLQJWRQ &DEOH 7KH *UDQGLVVLPHV 1HZ
PAGE 40

A/HQ /\RQV RQ 5HFRUGV 1HZ 7KH %HVW -D]] $OEXPV $ +LVWRU\ RI -D]]
PAGE 41

0XVLF WUDQV %ULDQ 0DVVXPL 0LQQHDSROLV 8QLY RI 0LQQHVRWD 3UHVV f S $WWDOL VXEVHTXHQWO\ FLWHG DV 1RLVH O3DXO GH 0DQ %OLQGQHVV DQG ,QVLJKW (VVD\V LQ WKH 5KHWRULF RI &RQWHPSRUDU\ &ULWLFLVP QG HG 0LQQHDSROLV 8QLYHUVLW\ RI 0LQQHVRWD 3UHVV f S 6XEVHTXHQWO\ FLWHG DV %t, OA'DYLG %HYLQJWRQ 0HGLHYDO 'UDPD %RVWRQ +RXJKWRQ 0LIIOLQ f SS M 5RXVVHDX (VVDL VXU OnRULJLQH GHV UHSURGXLW GnDSUV OnGLWLRQ $ %HOLQ GH *UDSKH 3DULV QGf S LQ %t, S ODQJXHV %LEOLRWKTXH WH[WH GX :DOWHU 2QJ 2UDOLW\ DQG /LWHUDF\ 7KH 7HFKQRORJL]LQ RI WKH :RUG /RQGRQ 0HWKXHQ f S 6XEVHTXHQWO\ FLWHG DV 2t/ frMDFTXHV 'HUULGD 2I *UDPPDWRORJ\ WUDQV *D\DWUL &KDNUD ERUW\ 6SLYDN %DOWLPRUH -RKQV +RSNLQV 8QLY 3UHVV f S 6XEVHTXHQWO\ FLWHG DV 2* A5REHUW &KHDWKDP ,QWHUYLHZ -DFTXHV 'HUULGD $UW 3DSHUV -DQ)HE S A5RJHU %URZQ :RUGV DQG 7KLQJV 1HZ
PAGE 42

&+$37(5 -$==2/2*< $ %,5'n6 (<( 9,(: 6WRU\YLOOH QLJKWV ZKHUH WKH ROG RQO\ UHDOO\ XQLYHUVDO PXVLF RI WKH FHQWXU\ KDG FRPH IURP VRPHWKLQJ WKDW EURXJKW SHRSOH FORVHU WRJHWKHU DQG LQ D EHWWHU ZD\ WKDQ (VSHUDQWR 81(6&2 RU DLUOLQHV D PXVLF ZKLFK ZDV SULPLWLYH HQRXJK WR KDYH JDLQHG VXFK XQLYHUVDOLW\ DQG JRRG HQRXJK WR PDNH LWV RZQ KLVWRU\ ZLWK VFKLVPV DEGLFDWLRQV DQG KHUHVLHV LWV &KDUOHVWRQ LWV %ODFN %RWWRP LWV 6KLPP\ LWV )R[ 7URW LWV 6WRPS LWV %OXHV WR ODEHO LWV IRUPV WKLV VW\OH DQG WKH RWKHU RQH VZLQJ EHERS FRRO D FRXQWHUSRLQW RI URPDQWLFLVP DQG FODVVLFLVP KRW DQG LQWHOOHFWXDO MD]] KXPDQ PXVLF PXVLF ZLWK D KLVWRU\ LQ FRQWUDVW WR VWXSLG DQLPDO GDQFH PXVLF WKH SROND WKH ZDOW] WKH ]DPED D PXVLF WKDW FRXOG EH NQRZQ DQG OLNHG LQ &RSHQKDJHQ DV ZHOO DV LQ 0HQGR]D RU &DSHWRZQ D PXVLF WKDW EULQJV DGROHVFHQWV WRJHWKHU ZLWK UHFRUGV XQGHU WKHLU DUPV WKDW JLYHV WKHP QDPHV DQG PHORGLHV WR XVH DV SDVVZRUGV VR WKH\ FDQ NQRZ HDFK RWKHU DQG EHFRPH LQWLPDWH DQG IHHO OHVV ORQHO\ VXUURXQGHG E\ ERVVHV IDPLOLHV DQG ELWWHU ORYH DIIDLUV D PXVLF WKDW DFFHSWV DOO LPDJLQDWLRQV DQG WDVWHV D FROOHFWLRQ RI LQVWUXPHQWDO nV ZLWK )UHGGLH .HSSDUG RU %XQN -RKQVRQ WKH UHDFWLRQDU\ FXOW RI 'L[LHODQG DQ DFDGHPLF VSHFLDOL]DWLRQ LQ %L[ %HLGHUEHFNH RU LQ WKH DGYHQWXUHV RI 7KHORQLRXV 0RQN +RUDFH 6LOYHU RU 7KDG -RQHV WKH YXOJDULWLHV RI (UUROO *DUQHU RU $UW 7DWXP UHSHQWDQFH DQG UHMHFWLRQ D SUHIHUHQFH IRU VPDOO JURXSV P\VWHULRXV UHFRUGLQJV ZLWK IDOVH QDPHV DQG VWUDQJH WLWOHV DQG ODEHOV PDGH XS RQ WKH VSXU RI WKH PRPHQW DQG WKDW ZKROH IUHHPDVRQU\ RI 6DWXUGD\ QLJKWV LQ D VWXGHQWnV URRP RU LQ VRPH EDVHPHQW FDI DOO RI WKLV IURP D NLQG RI PXVLF WKDW KRUULILHV VROLG FLWL]HQV ZKR WKLQN WKDW QRWKLQJ LV WUXH XQOHVV WKHUH DUH SURJUDPV DQG XVKHUV DQG WKDWnV WKH ZD\ WKLQJV DUH DQG MD]] LV OLNH D ELUG ZKR PLJUDWHV RU HPLn JUDWHV RU LPPLJUDWHV RU WUDQVPLJUDWHV URDGEORFN MXPSHU VPXJJOHU VRPHWKLQJ WKDW UXQV DQG PL[HV LQ MD]]RORJ\ GHGXFWLYH VFLHQFH SDUWLFXODUO\ HDV\ DIWHU IRXU RnFORFN LQ WKH PRUQLQJ -XOLR &RUW£]DUA

PAGE 43

:DUPLQJ 8S D 5LII 7KH GLVDSSHDUDQFH RI WKH DXWKRULDO YRLFH WULJJHUV RII D SRZHU RI LQVFULSWLRQ WKDW LV QR ORQJHU YHUEDO EXW SKRQLF 3RO\SKRQLF -DFTXHV 'HUULGDA +RZHYHU PXFK SRVW6DXVVXUHDQ WKHRU\ PD\ KROG WR D YLHZ RI ODQJXDJH DQG PXVLF DV QRQPLPHWLF D FHDVHOHVV SOD\ RI VLJQLILFDWLRQ ZKRVH RQO\ UHIHUHQW LV LQ 5RXVVHDXnV ZRUGV OH QDQW GHV FKRVHV KXPDLQHV ZH PXVW DGPLW WKDW RXU GD\ WRGD\ H[SHULHQFH RI ODQJXDJH DQG PXVLF VHHPV IDU PRUH FLUFXPn VFULEHG A )RU H[DPSOH PD\ FRQFHGH WKDW WKH MD]] SURYHUE ,I \RX JRWWD DVN \RXnOO QHYHU NQRZ FRXOG VXJJHVW DQ\ RI WKH PHDQLQJV OLVWHG EHORZ %XW LQ SUDFWLFH NQRZ RU DW OHDVW VHQVH WKDW /RXLV $UPVWURQJnV UHWRUW WR D VRFLDOLWHnV TXHU\ :KDW LV MD]]"f VLJQLILHV D YHU\ OLPLWHG VHW RI SRVVLn ELOLWLHV f $UPVWURQJ WKH =HQ PDVWHU 6SHFXODWLRQ HYHQ WKH QHHG WR DVN ZKDW MD]] LV SUHFOXGHV NQRZLQJ &I 0XPRQ f $UPVWURQJ WKH SKHQRPHQRORJLVW -D]] LV RI WKH RUGHU RI H[SHULHQFLQJ QRW WKH RUGHU RI NQRZLQJ 7KHUH LV D UDGLFDO VSOLW EHWZHHQ ODQJXDJH DQG WKLQJV VXEMHFWV DQG REMHFWV &I +XVVHUO f $UPVWURQJ WKH OLQJXLVW $VNLQJ :KDW LV MD]]" FDQ RQO\ EH DQVZHUHG E\ GHOLQHDWLQJ ZKDW ZH GR QRW PHDQ E\ WKH VLJQ MD]] -D]] LV GHILQHG QRW E\ NQRZLQJ LW ZKDW LW LQFOXGHV EXW WKURXJK DQ DZDUHQHVV RI DOO WKDW LV H[FOXGHG LQ FRQVWUXFWLQJ WKH VHW MD]] LH LQ WKH

PAGE 44

UHODWLRQDO GLIIHUHQFH EHWZHHQ WKH VHW RI VLJQV WKH SDUWLFn XODU VLJQ MD]] LQFOXGHV DQG WKH VHW RI VLJQV LW H[FOXGHV LH HYHU\WKLQJ IURP DFRXVWLF SKHQRPHQD WR VW\OHV RI FORWKHVf 7KH VRFLDOLWH ZKR DVNV $UPVWURQJ WR GHILQH MD]] FDQQRW NQRZ MD]] VKH LV RQH RI WKH VLJQV MD]] H[FOXGHV &I 6DXVVXUH f $UPVWURQJ WKH PHWDSK\VLFDO SRHW *LYHQ WKH REVFHQH HW\PRORJ\ DVVRFLDWHG ZLWK WKH ZRUG MD]] WKH VRFLDOLWHnV TXHVWLRQ LV WKH HTXLYDOHQW RI $UPVWURQJ DVNLQJ WKH VRFLDOn LWH D TXHVWLRQ WKDW FDUULHG ZLWK LW WKH FRQQRWDWLRQ :KDW LV FRSXODWLRQ" 7KH DQVZHUf§FR\QHVV WR WKH FR\ LV D NQRW RI LURQ\ &I 0DUYHOO f $UPVWURQJ WKH PRGHUQLVW -D]] FDQQRW EH LQKHULWHG SDVVHG RQ WR DQRWKHU OLNH D 3HUVLDQ UXJ ,I \RX ZDQW LW \RX PXVW REWDLQ LW E\ JUHDW ODERXU ,W LQYROYHV LQ WKH ILUVW SODFH WKH KLVWRULFDO VHQVH DQG WKH KLVWRULFDO VHQVH LQYROYHV D SHUFHSWLRQ QRW RQO\ RI WKH SDVWQHVV RI WKH SDVW EXW RI LWV SUHVHQFH &I (OLRWr f $UPVWURQJ WKH SRVWPRGHUQLVW ,I ZH SUHVXPH WR DVN WKH TXHVWLRQ :KDW LV MD]]" ZH KDYH DOUHDG\ SUHVXPHG WKH YDOLGLW\ RI DQG DQ DQVZHU WR WKH UHFXUVLYH TXHVWLRQ :KDW LV LV" :H KDYH DOUHDG\ JURXQGHG RXU LQTXLU\ RQ D SUHHVWDEOLVKHG QRWLRQ RI EHLQJ LH SUHVHQFH 7KXV WKH LQLWLDO W\SLFDOO\ PRGHUQLVWf TXHVWLRQ DVVXPHV WRR PXFK QDPHO\ WKDW MD]] LBV DQG WKDW LW LV D V\VWHPD WUDGLWLRQ RU FRQVWUXFWZH FDQ NQRZ IURP D SRVLWLRQ RXWVLGH WKDW V\VWHP RXWVLGH WH[WXDOLW\f $UPVWURQJnV

PAGE 45

VWDWHPHQWZKLFK FXQQLQJO\ SDUDV LGLFDO\ PLPHV WKH PRWLRQV RI D PHWDSK\VLFV RI SUHVHQFHf§H[HPSOLILHV D SROLn WLFV RI LQGLUHFWLRQ LW WKURXJK D UXVH WHDVHV RXW SUHVXSSRVLWLRQVf GHFRQVWUXFWLQJ MD]] DV D WUDQVFHQn GHQWDO VLJQLILHGf DQG VXJJHVWLQJ WKDW LW LV GHILQDEOH RQO\ DV SUD[LV WH[WXDO VWUDWHJ\ &I 'HUULGD f $UPVWURQJ WKH KRPHVSXQ SKLORVRSKHU /LQFROQ LI ZH WUXVW PDWHULDO JLYHQ LQ D VKRUW SOD\ E\ :RRG\ $OOHQ ZDV RQFH DVNHG 0U 3UHVLGHQW KRZ ORQJ PXVW D PDQnV OHJV EH" +H UHSOLHG /RQJ HQRXJK WR UHDFK WKH JURXQG 6RPH TXHVWLRQV UHTXLUH DQVZHUV WKDW PDNH FRPPRQ VHQVH ZKLFK LVQnW VR FRPPRQ QRZDGD\Vf &I :LOO 5RJHUVA 7R WKLV OLVW VKRXOG EXW ZLOO QRW DGG PRUH LQWHUSUHWDWLRQV DQ $IUR$PHULFDQ IHPLQLVW 0DU[LVW RU /DFDQLDQ UHDGLQJ IRU H[DPSOH ZRXOG ZRUN ZHOO FRXOG HYHQ GHFODUH WKDW $UPVWURQJnV UHMRLQGHU OLNH KLV UHFRUGLQJ RI VD\ 3RWDWR +HDG %OXHV KDV WKH SRWHQWLDO WR PHDQ DQ\WKLQJ ZKLFK LV WR VD\ HYHU\WKLQJ DQG WKXV QRWKLQJf EHFDXVH LW FDQ EH UHDG LQ DQ LQILQLWH QXPEHU RI FRQWH[WV %XW ZK\ KHDS RQ PRUH SRVVLEOH UHDGLQJV" (YHU\RQH SUHWW\ ZHOO NQRZV ZKDW WKH VWDWHn PHQW PHDQV 5LJKW" 2XWVLGH RI D IHZ LQVWLWXWLRQDO VLWHV VFKRROV FKXUFKHV FRXUWV RU WKH PHGLD ZKHUH WUDLQHG H[HJHWHVWHDFKHUV MXGJHV PLQLVWHUV DQG SULHVWV DQG QHZV FRPPHQWDWRUVf§PDNH VHQVH RI WKLQJV IRU XVf ZH VHOGRP IHHO RYHUZKHOPHG E\ WKH DQ[LHW\ RI KHUPHQHXWLFDO SRVVLELOLW\ (YHQ LI ZH NQRZ RWKHUn ZLVH ZH WHQG WR WKLQN WKDW WKLQJV MXVW PHDQ ZKDW WKH\ PHDQ

PAGE 46

$QG H[SOLFDWLQJ DQ RIIWKHFXII UHPDUN VXFK DV $UPVWURQJnV HYHQ LI LW LV IUHTXHQWO\ DSSURSULDWHGf DV WKRXJK LW ZHUH D OLQH RI O\ULF SRHWU\ LV OLNHO\ WR VWULNH XV DV DW EHVW SHGDQWLF DW ZRUVW FRPSOHWHO\ DVLQLQH :K\ LV WKLV WKH FDVH WKRXJK" VXVSHFW WZR UHDVRQV 2QH WKH ODERU RI H[SRn VLWLRQ LPEXHV WKH SKUDVH ZLWK YDOXH DQG WKLV YDOXH WHDVHV RXW LGHRORJLFDOO\ DVVLJQHG YDOXHV WKH YDOXHV RXU FXOWXUH WKLQNV WKDW WKH SKUDVH PHULWV ,W LVQnW D OLQH IURP 3RSH RU .HDWVL ,WnV /RXLV $UPVWURQJ IRU FU\LQJ RXW ORXG QRW 6FKRHQEHUJf 4XLWH REYLRXVO\ WKLV LV H[DFWO\ ZKDW LV KDSSHQLQJ ZKHQ D MD]] FULWLF IRU LQVWDQFH *DU\ *LGGLQV GHFODUHV ,Q IRXU GHFDGHV RI SUL]HJLYLQJ WKH 3XOLW]HU &RPPLWWHH KDV QHYHU UHFRJQL]HG D MD]] FRPSRVHU 2Q WKH RQH KDQG KLV VWDWHPHQW FDOOV DWWHQWLRQ WR WKH LQVWLWXWLRQDO QRQfVWDWXV RI MD]] 2Q WKH RWKHU KDQG EHFDXVH LW GRHV QRW HYRNH SHDOV RI ODXJKWHU RYHU WKH DEVXUGLW\ RI LWV LPSOLHG VXJJHVWLRQ WKDW LV EHFDXVH LW FDQ EH PDGH ZLWK D VWUDLJKW IDFH LW OLNH WKLV VWXG\f FDOOV DWWHQWLRQ WR WKH ULVLQJ VWDWXV WR WKH LQVWLWXWLRQDOLn ]DWLRQ RI MD]] 7ZR H[SRVLWLRQ YLRODWHV D WDFLW LQWHUGLFn WLRQ IRUELGGLQJ VSHFXODWLRQ XQGHUFXWV WKH DVVXUDQFH WKDW WKLQJV DUH H[DFWO\ ZKDW WKH\ VHHP WR EH E\ PHUHO\ DVVXPLQJ WKH QHHG IRU H[SODQDWLRQf DQG WKXV RSSRVHV WKH YHU\ ORJLF D FRUUHFW LQWHUSUHWDWLRQ RI WKH SKUDVH ZRXOG GHPDQG 3RSV PHDQW MXVW ZKDW KH VDLGL 7KH PXVLF VSHDNV IRU LWVHOI $VNLQJ ZKDW KH FRXOG KDYH PHDQW LV FUD]\ DOPRVW DV ZURQJKHDGHG DV DVNLQJ ZKDW MD]] PHDQVf

PAGE 47

0\ SRLQW FRXOG EH WDNHQ DV WULWH \HW DQRWKHU KRPDJH SDLG WR WKH RPQLSRWHQW ZRUN RI LGHRORJ\ D UHVWDWHPHQW RI WKH FODLP WKDW DQ\ VLJQ RI DQ\ VRUW LV DOZD\V PDGH WR PHDQ OHVV WKDQ LW FRXOG PHDQ %XW LW LV QRWWKDW LV QRW WULWH DQG QRW D KRPDJH GR DVVXPH WKDW PHDQLQJ LV VRFLDOO\ SURn GXFHG DQG FRQVWUDLQHG WKDW LQ )LVNHnV ZRUGV 7KH PHDQLQJV ILQG LQ D VLJQ GHULYH IURP WKH LGHRORJ\ ZLWKLQ ZKLFK WKH VLJQ DQG H[LVW E\ ILQGLQJ WKHVH PHDQLQJV GHILQH P\VHOI LQ UHODWLRQ WR WKH LGHRORJ\ DQG LQ UHODWLRQ WR P\ VRFLHW\A %XW LQVWHDG RI HPSKDVL]LQJ WKH FRQVWUDLQWV LGHRORJ\ SODFHV XSRQ XQLPDJLQDEOH EXW VRPHKRZ IHOWf SRWHQWLDO PHDQLQJVRU KRZ LGHRORJ\ GHOLPLWV ERWK RUGHUV RI VLJQLILFDWLRQ GHQRWDWLRQ DQG FRQQRWDWLRQf RU PRUH VSHFLILFDOO\ ZKDW FDQ VD\ RU HYHQ WKLQN DERXW D SKUDVH VXFK DV P\ FKRVHQ H[DPSOH, ZRXOG UDWKHU WUDFH WKH PHDQV E\ ZKLFK LGHRORJ\ZULW L QJ DV D SROLn WLFRVRFLDO DFWLYLW\SURGXFHV DSSURSULDWHV DQG YDOLGDWHVf WURSHV WR FRQFHSWXDOL]H UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI REMHFWLYH VWUXFn WXUHV LQ WKLV FXOWXUH 6WDWHG SUDFWLFDOO\ DP OHVV LQWHUn HVWHG LQ GHPRQVWUDWLQJ KRZ WKH GRPLQDQW LGHRORJ\ KDV FRQWDLQHG SRWHQWLDO PHDQLQJV RI MD]] DOWKRXJK WKLV QHHGV WR EH VKRZQf H[SRVLQJ WKH UKHWRULF RI MD]] DV WKH VLJQLI\LQJ DVSHFW RI LGHRORJ\ WKDQ LQ QDPLQJ IDYRUHG LPDJHVVLJQLILHUV RI FRQQRWDWLRQZKLFK WKLV FXOWXUH KDV FKRVHQ WR UHSUHVHQW PRGHOf MD]] WR LWVHOI ,07 f %XW PRUH WKDQ WKLV DP HDJHU WR H[SORLW D SULQFLSOH ZH KDYH DOUHDG\ QRWHG 1DPHO\ WKH FRQQRWDWLRQV DQ LGHRORJ\ DOORZV ZKLFK DUH LQ HIIHFW WKH FRQQRWDWLRQV ZKLFK FRQVWUXFW WKDW LGHRORJ\PDGH H[SOLFLW WKURXJK WKH ZRUN RI H[SOLFDWLRQ ZULWLQJ LQ WKH QDUURZ VHQVHf

PAGE 48

DOZD\V WKUHDWHQ WKH KHJHPRQ\ RI WKH V\VWHP WKDW JHQHUDWHV WKHP EHFDXVH LQ WKHLU PXOWLSOLFLW\ WKH\ UHYHDO WKDW GHQRWDWLRQ >WUXWK REMHFWLYLW\ WKH ODZ@ LV QRW WKH ILUVW PHDQLQJ EXW SUHWHQGV WR EH VR XQGHU WKLV LOOXVLRQ LW LV XOWLPDWHO\ QR PRUH WKDQ WKH ODVW RI WKH FRQQRWDWLRQV WKH RQH ZKLFK VHHPV ERWK WR HVWDEOLVK DQG WR FORVH WKH UHDGLQJf WKH VXSHULRU P\WK E\ ZKLFK WKH WH[W SUHWHQGV WR UHWXUQ WR WKH QDWXUH RI ODQJXDJH WR ODQJXDJH DV QDWXUH 6= f ,Q VXEVXPLQJ GHQRWDWLRQ XQGHU FRQQRWDWLRQ RU LQ ZULWLQJ RXW WKH FRQQRWDWLRQV RI WKH WURSHV D FXOWXUH HPSOR\V WR FRQFHS WXDOL]H D JLYHQ V\VWHP RQH ZLOO RI FRXUVH UHPDLQ ZLWKLQ LGHRORJ\ IRU LI LGHRORJ\ RU VRFLHW\ DV 'XUNKHLP VWDWHV PD\ EH VHHQ DV WKDW WRWDO JHQXV EH\RQG ZKLFK QRWKLQJ HOVH H[LVWV WKHQ LW KDV QR ERXQGV QR EH\RQG ERWK WHUPV EHFRPH SUREOHPDWLFf JHWWLQJ RXWVLGH LW LV OHVV WKDQ GHVLUDEOH LI QRW SRVLWLYHO\ GDQJHURXVp %XW LI DV %DUWKHV ZULWHV &RQQRWDWLRQ LV WKH ZD\ LQWR WKH SRO\VHP\ RI WKH FODVVLF WH[W 6= f WKHQ UHLQWURGXFLQJ WKH SOXUDOLW\ ZKLFK ZDV EDQLVKHG DOZD\V LQHIIHFWXDOO\ EHFDXVH LW FDQQRW EH VHQW RXWVLGHf IRU WKH VDNH RI LQVXULQJ XQLYRFDOLW\ FDQRQLFDO PHDQLQJf LQVXUHV WKH VXEVWLWXWLRQ RI D PRGHO RI SURGXFWLRQ IRU WKH FODVVLF PRGHO RI UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ 6= f VWUHVVLQJ VXSSUHVVHG FRQQRWDWLRQV DYDLODEOH RQFH DJDLQ EHFDXVH WKH\ DOZD\V UHWXUQf LV WDQWDPRXQW WR IRUVDNLQJ WKH SDWK RI WKH REMHFW WKH VWXG\ RI WKH QDWXUH RI WKH nREMHFWLYHn VWUXFn WXUHV RI D JLYHQ FXOWXUDO WH[Wf IRU WKH SDWK RI WKH VXEMHFW ZKLFK ZRXOG LQVWHDG IRUHJURXQG WKH LQWHUSUHWLYH FDWHJRULHV RU FRGHV WKURXJK ZKLFK ZH UHDG DQG UHFHLYH WKH WH[W LQ TXHVn WLRQf 38 f

PAGE 49

$JDLQ VWDWHG SUDFWLFDOO\ WKH WURSHV ZKLFK EULQJ MD]] LQWR GLVFRXUVH DUH HQDEOLQJ LPDJHV 7KH\ VXFFHVVIXOO\ HQXQFLn DWH MD]]GLIIHUHQWLDWH LW IURP RWKHU PXVLFV DQG LPEXH LW ZLWK PHDQLQJ IRU RXU FXOWXUH %XW WKH\ DOVR KDYH FRQQRWDWLRQV ZKLFK ZRXOG GLVUXSW GLVFRXUVH GLIIHUHQFH DQG PHDQLQJ :ULWLQJ RXW RI WKHVH WURSHV HPSOR\LQJ WKHP DV WKHVDXULf LV WKHUHIRUH QRW DQ DWWHPSW WR DUUDQJH DOO WKH PHDQLQJV RI D WH[W >MD]]@ LQ D FLUFOH DURXQG WKH KHDUWK RI GHQRWDWLRQ 6= f EXW DQ DWWHPSW WR HPSOR\ WKH GLVFRXUVH RI MD]] DV D FRPSRVLWLRQDOLPSURYLVDWLRQDO PRGHO IRU RSHQLQJ XS VFDWWHUn LQJ DQG GLVVHPLQDWLQJ 0HDQGHULQJ >7@KHUH ZRXOG EH QR PXVLF LI ODQJXDJH KDG QRW SUHFHGHG LW DQG LI PXVLF GLG QRW FRQWLQXH WR GHSHQG RQ LW f§&ODXGH /YL6WUDXVV 7KH DQDORJ\ ZLWK ODQJXDJH RIWHQ XVHG E\ LPSURYLVLQJ PXVLFLDQV LQ GLVFXVVLQJ WKHLU ZRUN LV XVHIXO WR LOOXVWUDWH WKH EXLOGLQJ XS RI D FRPPRQ SRRO RI PDWHULDOD YRFDEXODU\ZKLFK WDNHV SODFH ZKHQ D JURXS RI PXVLFLDQV LPSURYLVH WRJHWKHU UHJXODUO\ 'HUHN %DLOH\ :KR FDQ WHOO \RX ZKDW ORYH LV" 0LOHV 'DYLVA %HIRUH SURFHHG DQ\ IDUWKHU VKRXOG PDNH LW FOHDU WKDW MD]] KDV WZR W\SHV RI PHDQLQJ IRU PH DULVLQJ IURP WZR RUGHUV RI VLJQV )LUVW LW KDV VSHFLILFDOO\ PXVLFDO QRQUHIHUHQWLDO PHDQLQJ 6HFRQG LW KDV UHIHUHQWLDO PHDQLQJPHDQLQJ WKDW LV DUWLFXODEOH FXOWXUDOO\ VKDUHG DQG IUHTXHQWO\ FRQWHVWHG

PAGE 50

$IWHU \HDUV RI OLVWHQLQJ WR /RXLV $UPVWURQJ &KDUOLH 3DUNHU 2UQHWWH &ROHPDQ DQG RWKHU MD]] PXVLFLDQV XQGHUVWDQG DQG HQMR\ WKHLU PXVLF EHFDXVH KDYH OHDUQHG WKH PXVLFDO ODQJXDJH WKH\ VSHDN KDYH OHDUQHG WR PDNH LQWUDPXVLFDO PDSV FDQ WUDQVODWH ZLWKLQ WKH UHDOP RI PXVLF 0RUH VSHFLIn LFDOO\ EHFDXVH KDYH OHDUQHG D JURXS RI PXVLFDO VLJQV LQFOXGLQJ FRGHV RI VHOHFWLRQ DQG FRPELQDWLRQ HJ D SDUDn GLJPDWLF FRGH JLYHQ WKH WLWOH RI EOXH QRWH D V\QWDJPDWLF FRGH GHVLJQDWHG WKH ,9,,,9 FKRUG FKDQJHV WR *HUVKZLQnV *RW 5K\WKP RU D PXVLFDO JUDPPDU FDOOHG WRQDOLW\f UHFRJn QL]H FHUWDLQ DFRXVWLFDO SDWWHUQV DV MD]] RWKHU SDWWHUQV DV QRWMD]] 7KHVH VLJQVZKLFK SURGXFH ZKDW FRXOG EH WHUPHG PXVLFDO PHDQLQJ SHUKDSV D GLIIHUHQW RUGHU RI PHDQLQJ WKDQ WKDW SURGXFHG E\ UHIHUHQWLDO VLJQVfIRUP WKH REMHFW RI VWXG\ IRU PXVLFRORJ\ DQG HWKQRPXVLFRORJ\ WKH VWXG\ RI PXVLF LQ FXOWXUH WR XVH $ODQ 3 0HUULDPnV SKUDVHf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n YDWLRQ $JDLQ /YL6WUDXVV ZULWHV ,W >PXVLF@ LV WKH RQO\

PAGE 51

ODQJXDJH ZLWK WKH FRQWUDGLFWRU\ DWWULEXWHV RI EHLQJ DW RQFH LQWHOOLJLEOH DQG XQWUDQVODWDEOH 5t& f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f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n RWLFV WR WKH VSHFLILF SUREOHP RI QRWDWLQJ MD]] LV DUWLFXODWHG

PAGE 52

LQ WKH IROORZLQJ VWDWHPHQW PDGH E\ :LQWKURS 6DUJHDQW ,Q -D]] +RW DQG +\EULG f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f f f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n VHDX DQG 6ZLIWZULWWHQ ZKHQ :HVWHUQ WKLQNHUV EHJDQ WR FRPH WR WHUPV ZLWK ZKDW ZHUH DFWXDOO\ WKH LPSOLFDWLRQV RI H[SORUn DWLRQ DQG FRORQL]DWLRQ HFKRHV FRQWHPSRUDU\ FRQFHUQV LQ DQWKURn SRORJ\ LW ZDV ZULWWHQ LQ f DQG DQWLFLSDWHV LVVXHV WKDW ZRXOG ODWHU LH QRZf DQLPDWH RUDO LW\LWHUDF\ GLVFXVVLRQV LQ WKH KXPDQLWLHV %XW LW DOVR PDQLIHVWV DOO WKH PDUNV RI ZKDW KDV EHHQ GHVLJQDWHG ORJRFHQWULVP EHFDXVH RQFH VWDUWHG 6DUJHDQWnV DUJXPHQWRVWHQVLEO\ OHYHOHG DJDLQVW QRWDWLRQ IDOOV EDFN RQ WKH FRQFHSW RI VRPH WUDQVFHQGHQWDO 0XVLF RXWVLGH GLIIHUHQFH WUDQVODWLRQ RU QRWDWLRQf IURP ZKLFK DOO PXVLF

PAGE 53

GHULYHV DQG WR ZKLFK DOO PXVLF VXSSRVHGO\ VWULYHVf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f§LQ RUGHU WR NHHS WKH FRQFHSWV RI QRWDWLRQ DQG WUDQVODWLRQ IURP EHFRPLQJ SUREOHPDWLF LPSOLFDWLQJ DOO PXVLF DQG KHQFH FROODSVLQJ WKH GLVWLQFWLRQ EHWZHHQ QRWDWHG DQG XQQRWDWDEOH PXVLF6DUJHDQWnV DUJXPHQW PXVW VWRS WKH ORJLF RI LWV RZQ ORJLF 6DUJHDQWnV DUJXPHQW LV D MD]] YHUVLRQ RI WKH WXQH KDUSHG RQ E\ QXPHURXV SKLORVRSKHUV IURP 3ODWR WR 5RXVVHDX WR /YL 6WUDXVV DQG P\ DUJXPHQW DOWKRXJK PXFK WRR VNHWFK\ FRXOG EH UHDG DV D MD]] YHUVLRQD IOHHWLQJ TXRWDWLRQ LQ WKH PLGGOH RI D VRORWR D WXQH SOD\HG E\ 'HUULGD LQ 2I *UDPPDWRORJ\ FI 2* f 6DUJHDQW FRQWLQXHV 7KH QREOHVW GHSDUWPHQW RI :HVWHUQ FRQFHUW PXVLF KDV EHFRPH WKH DUW RI FRPSRVLWLRQ 7KLV DUW RI FRPSRVLWLRQ LV QRW FRQFHUQHG GLUHFWO\ ZLWK WKH FUHDWLRQ RI PXVLF LH VRXQGf EXW UDWKHU ZLWK WKH FUHDWLRQ RI SODQV IURP ZKLFK PXVLF PD\ EH VXEVHTXHQWO\ FUHDWHG ,Q LWV GRPLQDWLRQ E\ WKH SODQQHU UDWKHU WKDQ WKH PDQLSXODWRU RXU PXVLFDO V\VWHP LV XQLTXH DQG LWV SHFXOLDULWLHV KDYH REVFXUHG IRU PDQ\ RI XV WKH IXQGDPHQWDO QDWXUH RI PXVLFDO H[SUHVn VLRQ ,Q LWV SULPLWLYH HVVHQWLDOV WKH DUW RI PXVLF KDV QRWKLQJ ZKDWHYHU WR GR ZLWK WKH LQVWLWXWLRQ RI WKH

PAGE 54

FRPSRVHU $FWXDOO\ LPSURYLVDWLRQWKH DUW RI FUHDWLQJ PXVLF GLUHFWO\ ZLWK YRFDO RU LQVWUXPHQWDO PHDQVLV IDU PRUH IXQGDPHQWDO WR PXVLF WKDQ LV WKH FRPSOH[ GLIILFXOW DQG VSHFLDOL]HG DUW RI SODQQLQJ FRPSRVLWLRQV RQ SDSHU f f f ,I ZH PD\ DOWHU WKH IDPLOLDU RSHQLQJ WR *HQHVLV WR VXLW \HW DQRWKHU FRQQRWDWLRQ ,Q WKH EHJLQQLQJ ZDV LPSURYLn VDWLRQ SS f 7KXV 6DUJHDQWnV DIILQLW\ IRU MD]] LV HDVLO\ H[SODLQHG ,W DPRQJ DOO WKH PXVLFV RI WKH :HVW LV RQH RI LI QRW WKH FORVHVW PXVLF WR 0XVLF 5KHWRULFDOO\ DQG V\PEROLFDOO\ MD]]WKH DUW RI WKH LPSURYLVHU QRW WKH FRPSRVHUVWL VKDUHV D YHVWLJH RI WKH SXULW\ RI DQ RULJLQDU\ 0XVLF EHFDXVH LW LV FUHDWHG GLUHFWO\ ZLWKRXW WKH PHGLDWLRQ RI D FRPSRVHU FRPSDUHG WR FODVVLFDO PXVLF MD]] KDV VXVWDLQHG IHZHU WUDQVODWLRQV ,W LV SULPLWLYH PXVLF LQ WKH EHVW VHQVH RI WKH ZRUG 7KLV LV SUHFLVHO\ 6RFUDWHVn DUJXPHQW IRU GLDOHFWLFV RYHU ZULWLQJ LQ 3ODWRnV 3KDHGUXV DQG LW LV 5RXVVHDXnV DUJXPHQW IRU PXVLF LQ KLV (VVD\ RQ WKH 2ULJLQ RI /DQJXDJHV 2QH PLJKW HYHQ QRWH WKDW P\ UKHWRULF DOWKRXJK LW RSSRVHV WKLV WHQGHQF\ LV FRQWUDn GLFWHG E\ P\ JUDPPDU IRU ZKHQ ZULWH RU VHHN WR WKHRUL]H UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI MD]] DVVXPH WKH YHU\ QRWLRQ ZRXOG GHQ\QDPHO\ WKDW MD]] FDQ EH GLVWLQJXLVKHG IURP LWV UHSUHn VHQWDWLRQV WKDW UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ ZKLFK RI FRXUVH LQFOXGHV EXW LV QRW UHVWULFWHG WR WKH ZULWWHQf LV VXSSOHPHQWDO WDFNHG RQWR WKH UHDO PXVLFDO LWHP 0DQ\ HWKQRPXVLFRORJLVWV DQG PXVLFLDQV ZRXOG UHDGLO\ DJUHH ZLWK 6DUJHDQW DW OHDVW RQH FRQWHPSRUDU\ PXVLFLDQ KDV H[WHQGHG WKH ORJLF RI KLV DUJXPHQW .HLWK -DUUHWW ZKR LV EHVW NQRZQ IRU UHSRSXODUL]LQJ WKH VROR SLDQR FRQFHUW LQ MD]] KDV EHFRPH RQH RI WKH PRVW YRFLIHURXV VSRNHVPHQ DJDLQVW HOHFWURQLF PXVLF

PAGE 55

,Q DQ LQWHUYLHZ FRQGXFWHG LQ KH UHLWHUDWHG WKH DQFLHQW PHWDSK\VLFDO DUJXPHQW DJDLQVW QRWDWLRQ UHSUHVHQWLQJ PXVLF JUDSKLFDOO\f DQG FDUULHG WKH MD]] YHUVLRQ RI WKH ORJRFHQWULF SRVLWLRQ WR LWV LQHYLWDEOH6RFUDW LFFRQFOXVLRQ +HUH LV D SRUWLRQ RI KLV VWDWHPHQW 086,&,$1 /HW PH DOVR EURDFK WKH LVVXH RI &RQ (G DQG ZKDW LW KDV ZURXJKW RQ WKH PXVLFDO ODQGVFDSH ,WnV QRZ WHQ \HDUV VLQFH \RXU PDMRU DQWLHOHFWULF PXVLF SURFODPD W L RQ -$55(77 WKLQN P\ DUJXPHQW LV PRUH SHUVXDVLYH WRGD\ 7RGD\ WKHUH DUH D ORW PRUH LQWHUHVWLQJ WKLQJV KDSSHQLQJ ZLWK HOHFWURQLF PXVLF WKDQ WKHUH ZHUH WHQ \HDUV DJR $QG WKLQN LWnV SUREDEO\ PRUH GDQJHURXV WKDQ LW ZDV WKHQ 086,&,$1 :KDW GR \RX PHDQ GDQJHURXV" -$55(77 PHDQ LW LV D NLQG RI SRLVRQ 6RPHWKLQJ WKDW \RXU FRQQHFWLRQ IURP WKH VRLO DZD\ LV D SRLVRQ WKLQN WKDW IRU D ORQJ ORQJ WLPH LW ZLOO EH D ORW RI IXQ DQG WKHQ DW D SRLQW HOHFWURQLF PXVLF ZLOO HLWKHU JR DZD\ RU LW ZLOO EH DOO WKDW ZH KDYH ,I LWnV DOO ZH KDYH WKHQ WKH SRLVRQ KDV GRQH LWV MRE 3HRSOH DUH QRW DEOH WR OLVWHQ WR DFRXVWLF PXVLF DIWHU WKH\nYH KHDUG HOHFWULF PXVLF NQRZ WKLV LV WUXH IRU PH LWnV D YHU\ GLIILFXOW GLIILFXOW WKLQJ WR JHW XVHG WR 086,&,$1 :K\ SRLVRQ" :K\ DQ LPDJH RI VLFNQHVV DQG GHDWK" -$55(77 %HFDXVH LWnV VRPHWKLQJ SHRSOH DUH GRLQJ WR WKHPVHOYHV 086,&,$1 :KDW GR \RX EHFRPH GHVHQVLWL]HG WR" -$55(77 IHHO ILUVW RI DOO WKHUH GRHVQnW QHHG WR EH DUW (YHQ DFRXVWLF PXVLF LV LQ WKH HQG D VHFRQGDU\ WKLQJ WR WKH VSLULW WKDW DQLPDWHV LW /LNHZLVH WKH SDLQWLQJ LV QRW WKH PRVW LPSRUWDQW WKLQJ LWnV ZKDW WKH SDLQWHU GRHV WR SDLQW LW 6R GRQnW XQGHUVWDQG ZK\ ZH KDYH WR WDNH RXUVHOYHV VR IDU DZD\ IURP EDVLF FORVH RUJDQLF VXEVWDQFHV WKDW DUH DOUHDG\ IDU HQRXJK DZD\ LQ DFRXVWLF LQVWUXPHQWV NQRZ XOWLPDWHO\ WKDW LWnV D SRLVRQ WKDW HLWKHU FDQ JHW ZRUVH RU JHW EHWWHU DQG LI LW JHWV EHWWHU ZHnUH OXFN\ $OWKRXJK DP WHPSWHG WR GHYRWH PXFK PRUH VSDFH WR GLVFXVVLQJ 6DUJHDQW DQG -DUUHWWnV UHVWDWHPHQWV RI ORJRFHQWULVP ZLOO QRW GR VR IRU UHDVRQV WKDW VPDFN RI NHWWOH ORJLF GR QRW IHHO FRPSHWHQW WR GR VR P\ FRPPHQWV ZRXOG GLVWUDFW PH IURP WKH PDLQ OLQH RI P\ DUJXPHQW WR ZKLFK VKDOO VKRUWO\ UHWXUQf EXW LQ IDFW WKH JHQHUDO SUREOHPWKH YDORUL]DWLRQ RI PXVLF

PAGE 56

RYHU OLWHUDWXUH SUHVHQFH RYHU ZULWLQJKDV DV KDYH QRWHG DOUHDG\ EHHQ UHGUHVVHG PRVW QRWDEO\ LQ WKH ZRUN RI 'HUULGD DQG GH 0DQ ZLOO HPSKDVL]H KRZHYHU WKH DVVHUWLRQV RI 6DUJHDQW DQG -DUUHWW DUH SDUWLFXODUO\ LQWHUHVWLQJ DQG GHVHUYH IXUWKHU DWWHQWLRQ 7KH\ DSSURDFK WKH SUREOHP RI ZULWLQJLH QRWDWLRQ WUDQVODWLRQ DQG UHSUHVHQWDWLRQIURP RXWVLGH SKLORn VRSKLFDO GLVFRXUVH DQG \HW WKH\ HFKR WKH UKHWRULF RI WKH PHWDSK\VLFV RI SUHVHQFH RU YRLFHf ZKLFK IRU WZR WKRXVDQG \HDUV KDV GRPLQDWHG :HVWHUQ ZD\V RI WKLQNLQJ $V SRSXODUL]HG YHUVLRQV RI FRQWLQXLQJ EXW DQFLHQW SKLORVRSKLFDO GHEDWHV WKH\ UHDGLO\ GHPRQVWUDWH WKDW WKH GLVFXVVLRQV DQLPDWLQJ FRQWHP SRUDU\ FULWLFDO WKHRU\ IDU IURP EHLQJ DEVWUXVH DQG KLGHERXQG UHIOHFW DQG VSHDN WR LVVXHV ZKLFK FRQFHUQ FXOWXUH DV D ZKROH -DUUHWWnV DUJXPHQW LV HVSHFLDOO\ QRWHZRUWK\ ,W LV D JODULQJ H[DPSOH RI WHOHSKRELD WKH IHDU RI EHLQJ VHSDUDWHG IURP EDVLF FORVH RUJDQLF VXEVWDQFHV WKDW DUH DOUHDG\ IDU HQRXJK DZD\f $QG EHFDXVH LW LV DGYDQFHG DJDLQVW DQ HOHFn WURQLF PHGLXP HOHFWURQLF PXVLF LV D FRS\ RI DFRXVWLF PXVLF ZKLFK LV LWVHOI D FRS\ RI VSLULWf LW LV SDUWLFXODUO\ WLPHO\ LQGLFDWLYH RI D ODUJHU LVVXH SURGXFLQJ VLPLODU DUJXPHQWV XVHG LQ SROHPLFV DJDLQVW DOO IRUPV RI VHFRQGDU\ RUDOLW\ HJ WHOHYLVLRQ DQG WKH FRPSXWHU $ JHQHUDOL]DWLRQ RU H[WHQn VLRQ RI 6DUJHDQWnV UDWKHU VSHFLILF FRPSODLQW LW LV SRZHUIXO LQ LWV DEVWUDFWLRQ ,W GHPDQGV WKDW UHFRUGLQJ RQ WDSH YLQ\O RU FRPSDFW GLVFf DQG PRUH LPSRUWDQWO\ SOD\LQJ DQG OLVWHQLQJ EH DFNQRZOHGJHG DV W\SHV RI QRWDWLRQV RU

PAGE 57

WUDQVODWLRQVf§SUREOHPDWLF PDSSLQJV IURP RQH ODQJXDJH WR DQRWKHU )LQDOO\ LQ XSGDWLQJ DQG SUDFWLFDOO\ SDUDSKUDVLQJ 6RFUDWHVn FRQGHPQDWLRQ RI ZULWLQJ LW VXJJHVWV WKDW ZH UHDVVHVV DQG XOWLPDWHO\ UHMHFW /YL6WUDXVVnV WKHVLV WKDW LQWHOOLJLn ELOLW\ DQG XQWUDQVODWDELLW\ DUH VXL JHQHULV IHDWXUHV RI WKH ODQJXDJH FDOOHG PXVLF SUHFLVHO\ EHFDXVH WKLV FODLP KDV DOVR EHHQ PDGH IRU VSHHFK DQG RWKHU ODQJXDJHV $V $QGUHL WKH SURWDJRQLVW RI 7DUNRYVN\n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nV DUJXPHQW LQ 7KH 5DZ DQG WKH &RRNHG" $QG JLYHQ WKH XQWUDQVODWDELLW\ RI PXVLF QRW WR PHQWLRQ DOO ODQJXDJHVf KRZ GRHV LQWHOOLJLELOLW\ DULVH" VKDOO DQVZHU WKH ILUVW DQG D UHODWHG TXHVWLRQf§:K\ PXVW VWUXFWXUDOLVP UHMHFW VHU L DOLVP"LQ D ODWHU FKDSWHU EXW IRU QRZ QRWLFH /YL6WUDXVVnV UHVSRQVH WR WKH TXHVWLRQ RI LQWHOOLJLELOLW\ +H ZULWHV %DXGHODLUH PDGH WKH SURIRXQG UHPDUN WKDW ZKLOH HDFK OLVWHQHU UHDFWV WR D JLYHQ ZRUN LQ KLV RZQ SDUWLFXODU ZD\ LW LV QHYHUWKHOHVV QRWLFHDEOH WKDW PXVLF DURXVHV VLPLODU LGHDV LQ GLIIHUHQW EUDLQV ,Q RWKHU ZRUGV PXVLF DQG P\WKRORJ\ DSSHDO WR PHQWDO VWUXFWXUHV WKDW WKH GLIIHUHQW OLVWHQHUV KDYH LQ FRPPRQ 5t& f

PAGE 58

$FFRUGLQJ WR /YL6WUDXVV PXVLF DQG P\WKRORJ\ DUH QDWXUDO V\Vn WHPV DXWRPDWLFDOO\ LQWHOOLJLEOH EHFDXVH WKH\ DUH H[SUHVVLRQV RI WKH D SULRUL FRQGLWLRQV WKDW PDNH FRPPXQLFDWLRQ SRVVLEOH 7KH\ DUH RULJLQDU\ ODQJXDJHV (YHU\RQH XQGHUVWDQGV WKHP IRU WKH\ FRQVWLWXWH WKH FRQGLWLRQV IRU XQGHUVWDQGLQJf QR RQH FDQ WUDQVODWH WKHP 2U VWDWHG GLIIHUHQWO\ ZKHQ WKH PLQG >LQGLYLGXDO RU FRUSRUDWH@ LV OHIW WR FRPPXQH ZLWK LWVHOI DQG QR ORQJHU KDV WR FRPH WR WHUPV ZLWK REMHFWV LW LV LQ D VHQVH UHGXFHG WR LPLWDWLQJ LWVHOI DV REMHFW 5t& f 7KH SURGXFW RI VXFK VHOIUHIOH[LYH REMHFWLILFDWLRQ LV PXVLF LQGLn YLGXDOO\ SURGXFHGf RU P\WKRORJ\ VRFLDOO\ SURGXFHGf +HQFH ZH XQGHUVWDQG PXVLF DQG P\WKRORJ\ EHFDXVH WKHVH LVRPRUSKLF RULJLQDO ODQJXDJHV PLPLFDFWXDOO\ PRGHOWKH VWUXFWXUHV RI WKH KXPDQ PLQG 7KLV LV ZK\ /YL6WUDXVV FDQ GHFODUH PXVLF KDV LWV EHLQJ LQ PH DQG OLVWHQ WR P\VHOI WKURXJK LW 5t& f 'HPRQVWUDWH WKH ORJLFDO RSHUDWLRQV WKDW JRYHUQ PXVLF DQG P\WKRORJ\ DQG \RX UHYHDO WKH SDWWHUQ RI EDVLF DQG XQLYHUn VDO ODZV WKDW JRYHUQ KXPDQ EHLQJV 7KHUH LV KRZHYHU DQRWKHUP\ SUHIHUUHGZD\ RI DFFRXQWn LQJ IRU WKH LQWHOOLJLELOLW\ RI PXVLF DQG DOWKRXJK WKLV ZD\ DFFHSWV WKH LPSRVVLELOLW\ RI WUDQVODWLRQ LW DOVR DVVHUWV WKH QHFHVVLW\ RI WUDQVODWLRQ 8QOLNH VWUXFWXUDOLVP LW GRHV QRW VHHN WR JURXQG LWVHOI LQ RQWRORJ\ ,W GHFODUHV WKDW LQWHOOLJLELOLW\ LV DQ HIIHFW SURGXFHG E\ PDSSLQJ RQH V\VWHP RU VWUXFWXUHf RQWR DQRWKHU $OWKRXJK SKLORVRSKLFDOO\ LPSRVVLEOHLQHOXFWDEO\ SUREOHn PDWLF WUDQV ODW L RQ JHQHUDWHV LQWHOOLJLELOLW\ RU XQGHUVWDQGLQJ

PAGE 59

$QG LW LQHYLWDEO\ RFFXUV 6WDWHG PRUH IRUFHIXOO\ DVVXPH WKDW LQWHOOLJLELOLW\ LV D E\SURGXFW RI LPDJLQLQJ RU FUHDWLQJ PDSV LQVWLWXWLRQDOO\ VDQFWLRQHG PDSV FUHDWH WKH HIIHFW RI RQWRORJLFDO VWDELOLW\ WUXWK ,I D PXVLF LV WR JDLQ VLJQLILn FDQFH LQ D FXOWXUH LW PXVW EH WXUQHG LQWR VRPH NLQG RI WH[W DQG WKHUHE\ DFTXLUH UHIHUHQWLDO PHDQLQJ 6R WKHQ DV VWDWHG HDUOLHU MD]] KDV UHIHUHQWLDO PHDQLQJ ,W SRVVHVVHV GHQRWDWLYH DQG FRQQRWDWLYH YDOXHV RU EHWWHU LW DFTXLUHV WKHVH YDOXHV ZKHQ LW HQWHUV LV PDSSHG RQWR RU WUDQVODWHG LQWRf GLVFRXUVH WH[WXDOLW\f ZKHQ LQ SDLULQJ FXOWXUDO VLJQV OLQJXLVWLF DQG QRQOLQJXLVWLF VHPLF UHIHUHQFH DQG V\PEROLF FRGHVf ZLWK PXVLFDO VLJQV RXU FXOWXUH UHSUHVHQWVHQXQFLDWHVMD]] WR LWVHOI %HFDXVH DP DFTXDLQWHG ZLWK WKH FXOWXUDO VLJQV ZKLFK VLJQLI\ MD]] DQG ZKLFK MD]] VLJQLILHVf DVVXPH ZKHWKHU ULJKWO\ RU ZURQJO\ LV QRW WKH LVVXHf WKDW XQGHUVWDQG MD]] 7KH SRLQW LV WKH HIIHFW RI EHOLHYLQJ WKDW NQRZ ZKDW MD]] PHDQV UHVXOWV QRW VR PXFK IURP WKH DELOLW\ WR UHDG PXVLFDO VLJQV ZKLFK FRXOG EH FDOOHG WKH DELOLW\ WR SOD\ RU OLVWHQf EXW IURP DQ DFTXLUHG FRPSHWHQFH LQ GHFLSKHULQJ WKH FXOWXUDOO\ DVVLJQHG DQG SROLWLFn DOO\ SULYLOHJHG VLJQV WKDW JRYHUQ WKH SUHVHQWDWLRQ RI MD]] HJ WKH PHWDVFLHQWLILF GLVFRXUVH RI HWKQRPXVLFRORJ\ WKH VW\OHV RI FORWKHV ZRUQ E\ EHERSSHUV RU WKH DUJRW RI WKH KLSVWHUf 7KHVH VLJQV RU FRGHV ZKLFK PDUN VLWHV RI LGHRORJn LFDO FRQWHVWDWLRQ IRUP WKH REMHFW RI VWXG\ IRU WKH OLWHUDU\ WKHRULVW DQG VXEVHTXHQWO\ IRU P\ ZRUN :KHWKHU IRXQG LQ DUWLVWLF PXVLFRORJLFDO RU FXOWXUDO WH[WV WKH\ UHIHU QRW

PAGE 60

WR ZKDW MD]] LBV EXW WR LGHQWLILDEOH DV ZULWLQJ DQG LQ UD\ VWXG\ H[FHSW ILOP 1HZ
PAGE 61

3UREDEO\ -DPHVRQ LV FRUUHFW 2XU UHDGLQJV RI WH[WV GR DUULYH DOZD\VDOUHDG\PHGLDWHG %XW ZKDW GR ZH PDNH RI WKLV QRWLRQ RI D IUHVK WH[W" -XVW EHFDXVH ZH QHYHU UHDOO\ H[SHULn HQFH MD]] LQ LWV SULVWLQH IRUP DV D WKLQJLQLWVHOILVRODWHG IURP VHGLPHQWHG OD\HUV RI SUHYLRXV LQWHUSUHWDWLRQVGRHV QRW LQVXUH WKDW LW FRXOG EH KHDUG LQ D K\SRWKHWLFDO SUHODSVDU LDQ XWRSLDQ RU PLOOHQQLDO VWDWH 1HYHU KDYLQJ EHHQ LQ VXFK D VWDWH ZH VKRXOG EH ZLOOLQJ WR LPDJLQH ZLWK -DPHVRQf WKDW MD]] PXVW EH HVSHFLDOO\ JRRG WKHUH VLQFH LW LV IUHVK GRHV QRW KDYH WR SDVV WKURXJK OD\HUV RI VHGLPHQWf IHDU ZLWK /YL6WUDXVVf WKDW WKHUH LV QR MD]] WKHUH EHFDXVH HYHQ WKRXJK PXVLF >OLNH P\WKRORJ\@ SURYLGHV D EDVLV IRU ODQJXDJH LW LV PHDQLQJOHVV ZLWKRXW ODQJXDJHf RU EH VDWLVILHG WR REVHUYH WKDW LQ WKLV FXOWXUH LQ RXU H[SHULHQFH MD]] OLNH DQ\ PXVLF GULIWV RQ D UHDGRQ VRFLDOO\ SURGXFHG WH[WV WKDW VXVWDLQ HYHQ FUHDWHf LW DV D PXVLF ZLWK VSHFLILF PHDQLQJV :KDW WKHQ DUH ZH WR PDNH RI WKH WH[WV ZKLFK QDPH SUHVHQW PRGHO DQG VLWXDWHf§MD]] WKDW EULQJ LW LQWR GLVn FRXUVH" +RZ VKRXOG ZH DSSURDFK WKH UHFRUGLQJV FORWKHV PXVLFDO LQVWUXPHQWV VSDFHV IRU SHUIRUPDQFH DQG HVSHFLDOO\ DW OHDVW IRU P\ SXUSRVHV WKH ERRNV DQG ILOPV WKDW SRVLWLRQ DQG RYHUGHWHUPLQHf WKLV FXOWXUHnV H[SHULHQFH RI MD]]" $QG KRZ FDQ ZH VSHDN RI WKHVH W\SHV RI UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RU RI MD]] ZLWKRXW DVVXPLQJ DQ LPSRVVLEOH SRVLWLRQ RXWVLGH WH[W XDOLW\" 1DWKDQLHO 0DFNH\ DXWKRU RI %HGRXLQ +RUQERRNDQ HSLVWRODU\ QRYHO ZKRVH GLVFRXUVH OLNH WKH PXVLF RI RQH RI LWV FKDUDFWHUV PDQLIHVWV D VRPHZKDW )UHQFKLQIOHFWHG VHQVH RI

PAGE 62

$IULFDQ GUXPPLQJKDV KLV SURWDJRQLVW 1 RIIHU RQH SRVVLEOH VROXWLRQ WR RXU GLOHPPD$IWHU DZDNLQJ IURP D GUHDP KH ZULWHV WR WKH $QJHO RI 'XVW WKH UHFLSLHQW RI KLV FRUUHVSRQn GHQFH DZRNH WR WKH HYHQ PRUH UDGLFDO UHDOL]DWLRQ WKDW LWnV QRW HQRXJK WKDW D FRPSRVHU VNLOOIXOO\ FRYHU KLV WUDFNV WKDW KH HUDVH WKH HFKR RI LPSRVLWLRQ FRPSRVLWLRQ FDQnW KHOS EXW EH KDXQWHG E\ ,Q D FHUWDLQ VHQVH UHDOL]HG WR GR VR RQO\ PDNHV PDWWHUV ZRUVH 7KH TXHVWLRQ ZDV OHIW ZLWK RI FRXUVH ZDV :KDW FDQ RQH GR WR RXWPDQHXYHU WKH LQHUWLD ERWK RI ZKDW RQH NQRZV DQG RI ZKDW RQH IHHOV RU SUHVXPHV WR IHHO" 7KHUH PXVW EH VRPH ZD\ ,nP FRQn YLQFHG WR LQYHVW LQ WKH HYHU VR VOLJKW VXJJHVWLRQ RI FRPSRVW FRQWLQXH WR JHW IURP WKH ZRUG FRPSRVH %+ f 1f§D IRXQGLQJ PHPEHU RI D PXVLFDO FROOHFWLYH NQRZQ DV WKH 0\VWLF +RUQ 6RFLHW\ DQ DJJUHJDWLRQ SDWWHUQHG DIWHU 6XQ 5DnV $UNHVWUD RU WKH $UW (QVHPEOH RI &KLFDJRKLQWV DW D JUDPPDWR ORJLFDO DSSURDFK WR FRPSRVLWLRQDO LQHUWLD LH D SURYLVLRQDO VROXWLRQ WR WKH SUREOHP RI KRZ WR XQFOHQFK RQHnV WHHWKWULJJHU FRPSRVLWLRQf $OWKRXJK KH GHFODUHV GRQnW FODLP WR KDYH FRPH XS ZLWK D VROXWLRQ \HW KH GRHV DGPLW WKDW KH KDV SUREn DEO\ DVVXPHG -RKQ &ROWUDQHnV VWDWHG JRDO TXRWHG LQ WKH OLQHU QRWHV WR &ROWUDQH /LYH DW WKH 9LOODJH 9DQJXDUG $JDLQf DQG LV WU\LQJ WR ZRUN RXW D NLQG RI ZULWLQJ WKDW ZLOO DOORZ IRU PRUH SODVWLFLW\ PRUH YLDELOLW\ PRUH URRP IRU LPSURYLVDWLRQ LQ WKH VWDWHPHQW RI WKH PHORG\ LWVHOI +LV DSSURDFKGHFRP SRVLWLRQKDV WKH H[WUDYDJDQFH DQG HOHJDQFH RI D PHWDSK\VLFDO FRQFHLW EXW DV D SRVWPRGHUQ LQYHQWLR LW LV DFFRUGLQJ WR 8OPHU DQRWKHU YHUVLRQ RI ZKDW 'HUULGD GHVFULEHV DV WKH PRVW IXQGDPHQWDO IHDWXUH RI ODQJXDJHLWHUDELLW\ $* f

PAGE 63

'HWHFWLQJ WKH HYHU VR VOLJKW ZKLII RI FRPSRVW LQ WKH ZRUG FRPSRVH LV WKH GLVFRXUVH HTXLYDOHQW RI UHYHUVLQJ WKH GLUHFWLRQ VHQVf RI VXEODWLRQ IRU LW EHJLQV WKH ZRUN RI UHWXUQLQJ FRPSRVLWLRQ D PDVWHU FRQFHSW RI :HVWHUQ WKRXJKW WR WKH ERGLO\ PHWDSKRU SKLORVRSKHPHf RQ ZKLFK LW ZDV EDVHG RU DW OHDVW WR D EDVH ERGLO\ PHWDSKRUf %\ WKLV PHWKRG ZKHUHE\ WKH LQWHOOLJLEOH LV PDQXUHG IURP PDQRXYUHU WR ZRUN ZLWK WKH KDQGV FXOWLYDWHf LQWR WKH VHQVLEOH GHFRPSRVLWLRQ FKDOOHQJHV RXWPDQHXYHUVf WKH LGHDOL]LQJ DQG DSSURSULDWLQJ RSHUDWLRQV RI PHWDSK\VLFV ZKLFK OLIWHG PHWDSKRUV LQWR FRQFHSWV DQG ZKLFK H[DOWHG WKH HSLVWHPH RYHU D LVWKHVLV DV WKH RQO\ JHQXLQH VRXUFH RI WUXWK $* f LW UHLQWURGXFHV WKDW ZKLFK ZDV VXSSUHVVHG RU LJQRUHG ,W SUHVHQWV D ZD\ WR ZULWH WKDW LV ZULWH RXW RI WKH WURSHV ZKLFK RUJDQL]HG :HVWHUQ PHWDn SK\VLFV DQG LW SURYLGHV WKLV VWXG\ ZLWK DQ H[SHULPHQWDO WHQWDWLYH DQG DOWHUQDWLYHf PHDQV RI ZULWLQJ DERXW WKH WURSHV ZKLFK RUJDQL]H WKH UKHWRULF RI MD]] 8OPHU ZULWHV RI VXFK D SURMHFW ,Q GHFRPSRVLWLRQ D WHUP GRHV QRW JHQHUDWH LWV RSSRVLWH EXW PHWDPRUSKRVHV LQWR LWV RZQ DOORVHPHV ZLWKRXW XQLW\ FRQFOXVLRQ RU KLHUDUFK\ EXW RQO\ VFDWWHULQJ $* f 7KH WDVN RI GHfFRPSRV LWLRQ WKHQ LV WR EUHDN GRZQ OHWWHU DOL]Hf WKH FRQFHSWV WKDW FRPSRVH RQHnV NQRZOHGJH RI D SDUWLFXODU ILHOG LQWR D WH[WXDO FRPSRVW SLOH WKDW FDQ EH H[SORLWHG LQ D VHDUFK IRU D NLQG RI ZULWLQJ WKDW ZLOO DOORZ IRU PRUH SODVWLFLW\ PRUH YLDELOLW\ PRUH URRP IRU LPSURYLn VDWLRQ 5DWKHU WKDQ IHLJQLQJ RULJLQDOLW\ E\ HUDVLQJ WKH HFKR >RU WUDFH@ RI nLPSRVLWLRQn FRPSRVLWLRQ FDQnW KHOS EXW

PAGE 64

EH KDXQWHG E\ RU VNLOOIXOO\ FRYHULQJ ZULWLQJnV WUDFNV WR SDVW WH[WV D JUDPPDWRORJLFDO PRGH RI ZULWLQJOLNH MD]] PXVLFIHHGV RII WKH GHFD\ RI WUDGLWLRQA ,Q VWDWLQJ WKLV DP RI FRXUVH IHHGLQJ RII WKH WKHRU\ JUDPPDWRORJ\f DQG PHWKRG GHFRQVWUXFWLRQf H[HPSOLILHG LQ WKH ZRUN RI 'HUULGD DQG D JURXS RI WKHRULVWV EURDGO\ UHIHUUHG WR DV WH[WXDOLVWV MXVW DV WUDGLWLRQDO VWXGLHV FRQWLQXH WR IHHG RII D WKHRU\ PLPHVLVf DQG PHWKRG IRUPDO DQDO\VLVf DV ROG DV DQG PRVW UHDGLO\ LGHQWLILHG ZLWK $ULVWRWOH S f $FFRUGLQJO\ IHHO QR PRUH LQFXPEHQF\ WR DFWXDOO\ UHVWDWH WKH WH[WXDOLVW GHFRQVWUXFWLRQLVWJUDPPDWRORJLFDOf SRVLWLRQ WKDQ D WUDGLWLRQDO VFKRODU ZRXOG IHHO WR UHVWDWH $ULVWRWOHnV 3RHWLFV %RWK KDYH DOUHDG\ EHHQ GRQH 0\ VWXG\ LV QRW D FRPPHQWDU\ RQ 'HUULGD H[FHSW LQ DQ REOLTXH VRUW RI ZD\f ,W LV KRZHYHU WKRXJK LW LV KDUG WR XVH WKH ZRUG DQ\PRUH ZLWKRXW ZLQFLQJf VRPHWKLQJ RI D GHFRQVWUXFWLRQ RI WKH PXVLFR ORJLFDO OLWHUDWXUH RI MD]] DQG WKHQ D VXJJHVWHG DSSOLFDWLRQ RI JUDPPDWRORJLFDO WKHRU\ WR WKUHH ERRNV DQG D ILOP ZKLFK UHSUHVHQW MD]] DQ H[SHULPHQW LQ GHfFRPSRV LWLRQ DQ HPEOHP DQ DOOHJRU\ RU PRGHO RI D QHZ NLQG RI ZULWLQJ -XVW IRU WKH 5HFRUG >7@KH GLVF LV VFUDWFKHG DQG LV ZHDULQJ RXW SHUKDSV WKH VLQJHU LV GHDG -HDQ3DXO 6DUWUHA 7KH PXVLFRORJLFDO ZRUN ZKLFK VSHDNV RI MD]] UHSUHVHQWV DQ DWWHPSW WR EULQJ WKDW PXVLF LQWR ZULWWHQ ODQJXDJH 2QH

PAGE 65

PLJKW VD\ WKDW LW LV RQH PD\EH WKH LQVWLWXWLRQDOO\ SULYLOHJHG PHDQV E\ ZKLFK WKLV FXOWXUH SURYLGHV MD]] ZLWK D VSHDNLQJ YRLFH 8QOLNH LWV REMHFW RI VWXG\ KRZHYHU WKH PXVLFRORJLFDO ZRUN LV VXVFHSWLEOH WR WKH W\SH RI WKHRUHWLFDO VFUXWLQ\ DQG VSHFXODWLRQ PRVW IUHTXHQWO\ UHVHUYHG IRU VRFDOOHG OLWHUDU\ RU DUWLVWLF WH[WV EHFDXVH LW LV ILUVW DQG IRUHPRVW D YHUEDO VWUXFWXUH ,W WR SDUDSKUDVH :KLWH FRPELQHV GDWD WKHRUHWn LFDO FRQFHSWV IRU H[SODLQLQJ WKHVH GDWD DQG D OLQJXLVWLF VWUXFWXUH WR SUHVXPDEO\ SUHVHQW DQ LFRQ RI WKH PXVLF XQGHU H[DPLQDWLRQ 0+B L[f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n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

PAGE 66

2U f $V IDU DV KDYH EHHQ DEOH WR DVFHUWDLQ LW LV WKH ILUVW ERRNOHQJWK VWXG\ WR SULYLOHJH WKH VLJQLILHUV RI MD]] RYHU WKH VLJQLILHG MD]] ,W VHHNV DERYH DOO WR WKHRn UL]H KRZ DQG E\ H[WHQVLRQ WKLV FXOWXUH KDYH PDQDJHG WR XQGHUVWDQG RQH RI WKH PRVW LQWHUHVWLQJ DUW IRUPV RI WKLV FHQWXU\ FKRVH WR VXUYH\ WKH ODQJXDJH RI PXVLFRORJLFDO VWXGLHV RI MD]] IRU ILYH UHDVRQV )LUVW VLQFH WKH ODQJXDJH RI PXVLn FRORJ\ RFFXSLHV D SULYLOHJHG SRVLWLRQ LQ XQLYHUVLW\ PXVLF GHSDUWPHQWV DQ LQYHVWLJDWLRQ RI WKDW ODQJXDJH FRQVWLWXWHV DQ LQVWLWXWLRQDO LPSHUDWLYH WR DQ\ VWXG\ WKDW ZRXOG LQYHVWLJDWH UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI MD]] LQ LPDJLQDWLYH OLWHUDWXUH RU WKH SHUFHSWLRQ RI MD]] LQ WKH FXOWXUDO UHIHUHQFH 6HFRQG DOWKRXJK JHQHUDOO\ VSHDNLQJ PXVLFRORJLFDO OLWHUDWXUH GHVFULEn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f§D VHPLRWLF V\VWHP ZLWKRXW D VHPDQWLF OHYHO RU FRQWHQW SODQHf 7L f )RXUWK MD]] LV DQ LQGH[ RI PRGHUQLVP (YHQ PRUH WKDQ WKH PXVLF RI 6FKRHQEHUJ DQG 6WUDYLQVN\ LW WR WKH FKDJULQ RI FULWLFV VXFK DV $GRUQRf

PAGE 67

IRUPHG WKH VRXQGWUDFN WR WKH 0RGHUQ $JH DQG SRLQWHG WRZDUGV SRVWPRGHUQLVP PXFK DV URFN DQG UROOPRUH WKDQ WKH PXVLF RI &DJH DQG %RXOH]IRUPV WKH VRXQGWUDFN WR SRVWPRGHUQLVP DQG SRLQWV WR VRPHWKLQJ HOVH DV \HW XQUHDOL]HGf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nV XUJH WR V\VWHPDn WL]DWLRQ DQG WR WKH MD]] ORYHUnV XUJH WR VSRQWDQHLW\ 2Q WKH V\VWHPDWLF VLGH WR VWDUW P\ ZRUN FODVVLILHG DQG HYDOXn DWHG D VHOHFWLRQ RI WH[WV FKRVHQ IURP WKUHH ELEOLRJUDSKLHV %RRWKnV FKDSWHU 5DJWLPH DQG -D]] LQ $PHULFDQ 3RSXODU 0XVLF $ 5HIHUHQFH *XLGH .HQQLQJWRQ DQG 5HDGnV 7KH /LWHUn DWXUH RI -D]] DQG +DUULVRQnV FKDSWHU RQ MD]] LQ 7KH 1HZ *URYH *RVSHO %OXHV DQG -D]]A %XW WKLV VWXG\ LV LQ QR ZD\ LQWHQGHG WR EH HQF\FORSHGLF LQ VFRSH KDYH QRW UHDG DOO RI WKH ERRNV OLVWHG LQ WKHVH ELEOLRJUDSKLHV ,QVWHDG E\ UHDGLQJ ZLGHO\ EXW VHOHFWLYHO\ DWWHPSWHG WR JDLQ D JHQHUDO FRQFHSWLRQ RI WKH ILHOG RI MD]] GLVFRXUVH LWV VKDSH DQG LQWHUQDO RUJDQL]DWLRQ LWV SLRQHHUV SDWULDUFKDO DXWKRULWLHV FDQRQLFDO WH[WV GR[RORJLFDO LGHDV H[HPSODU\ ILJXUHV LWV

PAGE 68

IROORZHUV HODERUDWRUV DQG QHZ DXWKRULWLHV 2U f 2Q WKH VSRQWDQHRXV VLGH IROORZHG D JHQHUDO UXOH RI LQYHQWLRQ ODLG GRZQ E\ (GLVRQ +H VDLG :KHQ \RX DUH H[SHULPHQWLQJ DQG \RX FRPH DFURVV DQ\WKLQJ \RX GRQnW WKRURXJKO\ XQGHUVWDQG GRQn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f§D UHFHQWO\ LQYHQWHG FDUERQ WUDQVn PLWWHU IRU %HOOn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n SDVV WKLV GLIILFXOW\ KH KDG DWWDFKHG D VKRUW QHHGOH WR WKH GLDSKUDJP RI WKH UHFHLYHU :KHQ KH OHW KLV ILQJHU

PAGE 69

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nV QR GRXEW WKDW VKDOO EH DEOH WR VWRUH XS DQG UHSURGXFH DXWRPDWLFDOO\ DW DQ\ IXWXUH WLPH WKH KXPDQ YRLFH SHUn IHFWO\ ,Q VXEVHTXHQW H[SHULPHQWV (GLVRQ LPSURYHG KLV LQYHQWLRQIRU H[DPSOH KH VXEVWLWXWHG WLQ IRLO IRU SDUDIILQ ZD[aEXW LWV JHQHUDO RSHUDWLQJ SULQFLSOH UHPDLQHG WKH VDPH 2Q $XJXVW KH KDQGHG -RKQ .UXHVL RQH RI KLV PRVW WUXVWHG PHFKDQLFV D VNHWFK RI WKH SKRQRJUDSK 7KLUW\ KRXUV ODWHU DFFRUGLQJ WR RIILFLDO DFFRXQWV .UXHVL ZDV ILQLVKHG (GLVRQ VKRXWHG 0DU\ KDG D OLWWOH ODPE LQWR WKH LQVWUXPHQWnV PRXWKSLHFH DQG PDGH WKH ILUVW SKRQRJUDSK UHFRUGLQJ UHODWH WKLV DFFRXQW IRU D FRXSOH RI UHDVRQV )RU RQH WKLQJ LW SURYLGHV D P\WKLFf UDWLRQDOH IRU GLJUHVVLYH WHQGHQn FLHV -XVW DV (GLVRQnV GLJUHVVLRQ SUHFLSLWDWHG WKH LQYHQWLRQ RI WKH SKRQRJUDSK RQH RI P\ ODSVHV IURP V\VWHPDWLF UHDGLQJ LQ WKH ILHOG RI MD]] WXUQHG XS -RVHSK .HUPDQnV &RQWHPSODWLQJ 0XVLF &KDOOHQJHV WR 0XVLFRORJ\ f 7KLV H[HPSODU\ ZRUN LQWURGXFHG PH WR WKH VWXG\ RI FODVVLFDO PXVLF DV RUJDQL]HG DQG SUDFWLFHG LQ WKH 8QLWHG 6WDWHV DQG %ULWDLQ VLQFH :RUOG :DU ,, DQG DFTXDLQWHG PH ZLWK WKH VWDQGDUG GLYLVLRQV RI ODERU LQ PXVLFDO VWXGLHVYL] PXVLFRORJ\ WKHRU\ DQDO\VLV

PAGE 70

HWKQRUDXVLFRORJ\ DQG FULWLFLVP ,W IXQFWLRQHG IRU PH PXFK DV 7HUHQFH +DZNHVnV 6WUXFWXUDOLVP DQG 6HPLRWLFV &DWKHULQH %HWn VH\nV &ULWLFDO 3UDFWLFH RU VLPLODU LQWURGXFWRU\ VXUYH\V RI OLWHUDU\ WKHRU\ PLJKW IXQFWLRQ IRU D VWXGHQW RI PXVLF LQWHUn HVWHG LQ FULWLFDO WKHRU\ $OWKRXJK LW GLG QRW GLVFXVV DQ\ ERRNV RU DUWLFOHV VSHFLILFDOO\ RQ MD]] LW RULHQWHG P\ WKRXJKWV YLV D YLV FRQWHPSRUDU\ PXVLFRORJ\ %XW DOVR UHSHDWHG WKH VWRU\ RI (GLVRQnV LQYHQWLRQ RI WKH SKRQRJUDSK IRU DQRWKHU UHDVRQ %HFDXVH WKH KLVWRU\ RI MD]] LV FRH[WHQVLYH ZLWK WKH LQYHQWLRQ DQG GHYHORSPHQW RI WKH SKRQRJUDSK LQFOXGLQJ DVVRFLDWHG LQYHQWLRQV VXFK DV WKH PLFURn SKRQH DQG WDSH UHFRUGHUf WKLV DFFRXQW LQWURGXFHV VHYHUDO PRWLIV ZKLFK ZH VKDOO UHSHDWHGO\ HQFRXQWHU LQ WKLV VWXG\ )RU H[DPSOH WKH SKRQRJUDSK ZDV SHUFHLYHG DQG VLWXDWHG DV DW RQFH DQ LQYHQWLRQ DQ LQGXVWU\ DQG D PXVLFDO LQVWUXn PHQW 3KRQR f $V VXFK LWV SURGXFWV ZKLFK LQFOXGH MD]] OLNH WKH SURGXFWV RI WKH (GLVRQnV .LQHWRJUDSK RU .LQHWRVFRSH PXVW EH UHFHLYHG DV LPEULFDWLQJ VFLHQFH HFRQRPLFV DQG DHVWKHn WLFV ,I FLQHPD ZRXOG EH LPSRVVLEOH ZLWKRXW LW LV LQVHSDUDEOH IURPf WKH WHFKQRORJ\ ZKLFK EURXJKW LW LQWR H[LVWHQFH MD]] D PXFK PRUH SUREOHPDWLF FDVH EHFDXVH LW FRXOG KDYH FRQFHLYDEO\ GHYHORSHG ZLWKRXW HOHFWURQLF PRGHOLQJ V\VWHPV HOHFWURQLFDOO\ GHSHQGHQW WHFKQRORJLHV IRU UHFRUGLQJ DQG UHSURGXFLQJ VRXQGf LV QHYHUWKHOHVV XQWKLQNDEOH DSDUW IURP WKH SKRQRJUDSK DQG UDGLR UDGLR XQGRXEWHGO\ WKH SULPDU\ PHDQV E\ ZKLFK MD]] ZDV GLVVHPLQDWHG HOHFWURQLFDOO\ UHSURGXFHV VRXQG EXW XQOLNH

PAGE 71

WKH HDUO\ SKRQRJUDSK ZKLFK FRXOG UHFRUG DQG SOD\ EDFN LW GRHV QRW VWRUH XS LWV UHSURGXFWLRQVf $V 0LOHV 'DYLV TXLSSHG ZKHQ VSHDNLQJ RI D IHOORZ WUXPSHW SOD\HUnV FDPSDLJQ WR SUHVHUYH WLPHKRQRUHG MD]] WUDGLWLRQV :\QWRQ 0DUVDOLV" GRQnW NQRZ DERXW KLP PDQ %XW NQRZ KH GRHVQnW WDON OLNH WKDW ZKHQ ZHnUH DORQH WRJHn WKHU n3UHVHUYH WKLVn DQG nSUHVHUYH WKDWnf§WKH ZD\ WKH\nUH JRLQJ ZHnOO KDYH EODFNV EDFN RQ WKH SODQWDWLRQ PHDQ LW DOUHDG\ LBV SUHVHUYHG ,VQnW WKDW ZKDW UHFRUGV DUH DOO DERXW" MXVW WHOO SHRSOH LWnV OLNH WKLV FDQnW ZHDU EHOOERWWRP SDQWV DQ\PRUH $QG GRQnW GULYH DQ (GVHO GULYH D )HUUDUL RQH IXOO \HDU EHIRUH WKH 2ULJLQDO 'L[LHODQG -D]] %DQG UHFRUGHG WKH ILUVW MD]] UHFRUG $W WKH 'DUNWRZQ 6WUXWWHUVn %DOO IRU &ROXPELD@ WKH 9LFWRU 3KRQRJUDSK &RPSDQ\ DSSURDFKHG WKH 2ULJLQDO &UHROHV ZLWK DQ RIIHU WR UHFRUG .HSSDUG WKRXJKW LW RYHU DQG VDLG 1RWKLQn GRLQn ER\V :H ZRQnW SXW RXU VWXII RQ UHFRUGV IRU HYHU\ERG\ WR VWHDOA

PAGE 72

-D]] WKHQ LV D UHVSRQVH WR DQG D UHDFWLRQ DJDLQVW WKH WHFKQRORJ\ RI HOHFWURQLF VRXQG UHSURGXFWLRQ DQG WKHUHIRUH PDNHV D JRRG WHVW FDVH IRU VWXG\LQJ KRZ HOHFWURQLF PRGHOLQJ V\VWHPVDFWXDOO\ QHZ PHDQV RI ZULWLQJLQHYLWDEO\ JHW ERXQG XS LQ SKLORVRSKLFDO VFLHQWLILF HFRQRPLF DQG DHVWKHWLF LVVXHV ZLWK XOWLPDWHO\ SROLWLFDO UDPLILFDWLRQV LH UDLVH LVVXHV RI SRZHU PRVW RIWHQ GLVFXVVHG LQ WHUPV RI FODVV UDFH DQG JHQGHUf ,Q WKH IROORZLQJ SDJHV VKDOO UHWXUQ WR H[SDQG DQG IRFXV WKHVH REVHUYDWLRQV %XW IRU QRZ LW LV HQRXJK WR QRWLFH WKDW WKH TXHVWLRQV UDLVHG E\ WKH HOHFWURQLF UHSURGXFWLRQ DQG UHFRUGLQJf RI MD]]D PXVLF FUHDWHG DV $QWKRQ\ 'DYLV SXW LW LQ WKH PRPHQWSUHVHQW D SDUWLFXODUO\ LQWHUHVWLQJ FRQWHPSRUDU\ YHUVLRQ RI WKH DQFLHQW RSSRVLWLRQ EHWZHHQ PQHPH DQG K\SRPQHVLV DQG FRQVHTXHQWO\ UHFDSLWXODWH WKH RUD LW\LWHUDF\ GLVFXVVLRQV ZKLFK KDYH FRQFHUQHG WKHRUn LVWV VXFK DV 3DUU\ /RUG +DYHORFN )ROH\ 2QJ 0F/XKDQ *RRG\ DQG 'HUULGD IRU WKH ODVW WZHQW\ILYH \HDUV RU VR 2XW RI WKH 7URSLFV 6KH WROG PH WKLQJV VKH NQHZ OLNH ZKHQ WKH ZKLWH PDQ FDPH WR $IULFD KH DFWHG IULHQGO\ DW ILUVW DQG WULHG WR VKRZ WKH WULEHV KLV VXSHULRULW\ LQ PDJLFEXW RXU SHRSOHnV PHGLFLQH ZDV DV DGYDQFHG DV KLV DQG PRUH VR ZKHQ LW FDPH WR WURSLFDO IHYHUV DQG GLVHDVHV 7KH ZKLWH PDQ KDG RQH PDJLF ZH GLGQnW KDYH KH FRXOG ZULWH KH FRXOG ZULWH GRZQ LGHDV DQG WKLV DPD]HG RXU SHRSOH &KDUOHV 0LQJXV
PAGE 73

2QH FULWLF GHVFULEHG (DUO\ -D]] ,WV 5RRWV DQG 0XVLFDO 'HYHORSPHQW DV DPRQJ WKH WZR RU WKUHH ILQHVW FRQWULEXWLRQV WR MD]] LWHUDWXUH %XW WKDW LV QRW ZK\ HPSOR\ WKH 3UHIDFH WR 9ROXPH RI *XQWKHU 6FKXOOHUnV DV \HW XQFRPSOHWHG FRPSUHKHQVLYH KLVWRU\ RI MD]] PXVLF DV WKH GHSDUWXUH SRLQW IRU P\ VXUYH\ DQG DQDO\VLV RI PXVLFRORJLFDO OLWHUDWXUH GHYRWHG WR MD]] 0\ UHDVRQV DUH JXLGHG SULPDULO\ E\ SHUVRQDOSURIHVn VLRQDO LQWHUHVWV WKH FRQFHUQV RI P\ WKHVLV 6FKXOOHUnV 3UHIDFH ZKDWHYHU LWV RWKHU SXWDWLYH PHULWV VHUYHV P\ SXUSRVHV EHFDXVH LW SURYLGHV D KLVWRU\ RI ZULWLQJ DERXW MD]] DV ZHOO DV D UHJLVWHU RI WKH DXWKRUnV DWWLWXGH WRZDUGV WKDW KLVWRU\ $V D VXFFLQFW GLDFKURQLF RU V\QWDJ PDWLFf DFFRXQW RI MD]] PXVLFRORJ\ LW DIIRUGV D XVHIXO RYHUYLHZ RI WKH UKHWRULFDO WRSRJUDSK\ RI MD]] +HQFH VKDOO FLWH LW DOPRVW LQ LWV HQWLUHW\ %XW LQ DGGLWLRQ WR WKLV 6FKXOOHUnV 3UHIDFH DOVR SUHVHQWVLQ LWV ILUVW SDUDJUDSKZKDW FRXOG EH FDOOHG D V\QFKURQLF RU SDUDGLJPDWLFf UHSUHVHQWDWLRQ RI MD]] PXVLFRORJ\ ,Q WKLV SDVVDJH 6FKXOOHU ZKR ZDV IRUPHUO\ 3UHVLn GHQW RI WKH 1HZ (QJODQG &RQVHUYDWRU\ RI 0XVLF LQ %RVWRQ $UWLVWLF 'LUHFWRU DW WKH %HUNVKLUH 0XVLF &HQWHU DW 7DQJOH ZRRG DQG WKH )UHQFK KRUQ SOD\HU RQ 0LOHV 'DYLVn KLVWRULF UHFRUGLQJ 7KH %LUWK RI WKH &RRO DFFXVHV WKH PDMRULW\ RI ERRNV RQ MD]] RI VRPH YHU\ VSHFLILF PLVWDNHV +LV UHDVRQV IRU GRLQJ VR DUH VLPSOH D UKHWRULFDO QHFHVVLW\ 7R GLVWLQn JXLVK KLV ERRNVHW LW DSDUW IURP WKH SDFNKH PXVW VLPXOWDQHn RXVO\ SHUSHWXDWH DQG UHSXGLDWH D FULWLFDO WUDGLWLRQ LH D KHULWDJH RI UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV WKDW ERWK FRPHV EHIRUH KLP ZKLFK

PAGE 74

DOORZV KLP WR ZULWHf DQG DIWHU KLP ZKRVH IXWXUHLI KLV ERRN LV WDNHQ DV GHILQLWLYHZL EH IL[HG RU HYHQ IRUHFORVHGf ,Q RUGHU WR DFFRPSOLVK WKLV WDVN KH WR PL[ P\ PHWDSKRUV DWWHPSWV WR VLWXDWH KLV RZQ ZRUN ZLWKLQ D FULWLFDO ILHOG DQG DW WKH HQG RI D KLVWRULFDOLQWHOOHFWXDO OLQHDJH $QG LQ WKH SURFHVV RI LGHQWLI\LQJ KLV ZRUN ZLWK DQG GLVWLQJXLVKLQJ LW IURP D FULWLFDO WUDGLWLRQ KHSHUKDSV XQLQWHQWLRQDOO\ DWWULEXWHV D H[WUDRUGLQDU\ DOEHLW QHJDWLYH XQLW\ WR D GLYHUVH JURXS RI ZULWLQJV +H VWDWHV $OWKRXJK WKHUH LV QR GHDUWK RI ERRNV RQ MD]] YHU\ IHZ RI WKHP KDYH DWWHPSWHG WR GHDO ZLWK WKH PXVLF LWVHOI LQ DQ\WKLQJ PRUH WKDQ JHQHUDO GHVFULSWLYH RU LPSUHVVLRQLVWLF WHUPV 7KH PDMRULW\ RI ERRNV KDYH FRQFHQWUDWHG RQ WKH OHJHQGU\ RI MD]] DQG RYHU WKH \HDUV D ERG\ RI ZULWLQJ KDV DFFXPXODWHG ZKLFK LV OLWWOH PRUH WKDQ DQ DPDOJDP RI ZHOOPHDQLQJ DPDWHXU FULWLFLVP DQG IDVFLQDWHG RSLQLRQ 7KDW WKLV ZDV DOORZHG WR SDVV IRU VFKRODUVKLS DQG VHULRXV DQDO\VLV LV DWWULEXWDEOH QRW RQO\ WR WKH KXPEOH VRFLDOO\ XQDFFHSWDEOH RULJLQ RI MD]] EXW DOVR WR WKH ZLGHO\ KHOG QRWLRQ WKDW D PXVLF LPSURYLVHG E\ VHOIWDXJKW RIWHQ PXVLFDOO\ LOOLWHUDWH PXVLFLDQV GLG QRW ZDUUDQW JHQXLQH PXVLFRORJLFDO UHVHDUFK 'HVSLWH WKH IDFW WKDW PDQ\ VHULRXV FRPSRVHUV DQG SHUIRUPHUV KDG LQGLFDWHG WKHLU KLJK UHJDUG IRU MD]] DV HDUO\ DV WKH V WKH DFDGHPLF FUHGHQWLDOV RI MD]] ZHUH KDUGO\ VXIILFLHQW WR SURGXFH D VHULRXV LQWHUHVW LQ WKH DQDO\VLV RI LWV WHFKn QLTXHV DQG DFWXDO PXVLFDO FRQWHQW (YLLf )RU UHDVRQV VKDOO VRRQ SURGXFH WKLV SDVVDJH LV DV HPLQHQWO\ UHPDUNDEOH DV LW LV DOWRJHWKHU XQH[FHSWLRQDO +ROG \RXU ILQJHU RQ LW 7KH ELEOLRJUDSK\ IROORZLQJ WKH MD]] HQWU\ LQ 7KH 1HZ *URYH *RVSHO %OXHV DQG -D]] OLVWV ERRNV XQGHU WKH KHDGLQJV &ULWLFLVP +LVWRU\ $QDO\VLV DQG 6RFLRORJLFDO DQG 5HODWHG :RUNV $QG DV RQH PLJKW H[SHFW WKH FRPELQHG HIIHFW RI WKH YRLFHV UHSUHVHQWHG E\ WKLV ELEOLRJUDSK\ KDUGO\ SURGXFHV DQ HIIHFW GHVFULEDEOH DV HXSKRQLRXV DOWKRXJK WKH HIIHFW WKDW

PAGE 75

LW GRHV SURGXFH FRXOG EH OLNHQHG WR FROOHFWLYH LPSURYLVDWLRQ WKDW LV DV DQDORJRXV WR GHVFULSWLRQV RI HDUO\ 1HZ 2UOHDQV VW\OH MD]] ZKHUH ZLWKRXW VXERUGLQDWLQJ RQH LQVWUXPHQWDO YRLFH WR DQRWKHU DOO JURXS PHPEHUV SOD\HG DW WKH VDPH WLPHf 6LQFH WKH ZRUG MD]] VWDUWHG WR DSSHDU LQ SULQW VRPHWLPH EHWZHHQ DQG RU WR JLYH WKH UHDGHU VHYHUDO RWKHU SRLQWV RI UHIHUHQFH VLQFH -HOO\ 5ROO 0RUWRQ FODLPHG KH LQYHQWHG MD]] f 3DXO :KLWHPDQ GHEXWHG *HUVKZLQnV 5KDSVRG\ LQ %OXH )HEUXDU\ f DQG /RXLV $UPVWURQJ DQG KLV +RW )LYH PDGH WKHLU VHPLQDO UHFRUGLQJV fWKH OLWHUDWXUH WKDW EULQJV MD]] PXVLF LQWR ODQJXDJH KDV DJUHHG RQ YHU\ OLWWOH" ,Q GHVFULELQJ LW RQH FRQVWDQWO\ UXQV WKH ULVN RI ZULWLQJ XVHOHVV JHQHUDOLWLHV RU HQJDJLQJ LQ HQGOHVV VSHFLILFLW\ 6FKXOOHUnV RSHQLQJ SDUDJUDSK DYRLGV WKHVH GDQJHUV WKRXJK *UDQWHG LW HQYLVLRQV D VHW RI WH[WV WKDW VKDUH DQ REMHFW RI VWXG\ ZKRVH GHILQLWLRQ DOWKRXJK SUREOHPDWLF LV DVVXPHG WR EH NQRZDEOH HYHQ VHOI HYLGHQWf *UDQWHG LW VXSSRVHV WKDW MD]]WKH REMHFW RI VWXG\FDQ EH REVHUYHG E\ LWVHOI XQHQn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

PAGE 76

WRMD]] VFKRODUVKLS E\ DVVLJQLQJ LPDJHV RI SDXFLW\ WR SDVW WH[WV DQG E\ ILOOLQJ LQ WKLV SRYHUW\ ZLWK D WDFLW SURPLVH RI LPPLQHQW SOHQLWXGH $V LW WXUQV RXW WKH QHJDWLYHf LPDJHV 6FKXOOHU XVHV WR RUJDQL]H MD]] VFKRODUVKLS DUH LQ VOLJKWO\ GLVJXLVHG IRUP SULYLOHJHG WURSHV WKDW DOO ZKR UHSUHVHQW MD]] LQ ZULWLQJ ZKHWKHU LQ ILFWLRQ RU QRQILFWLRQXVH WR FRQFHSWXDOL]H WKLV PXVLF 6RPHWLPHV WKH\ DUH JLYHQ D QHJDWLYH YDOHQFH DV LQ WKH ZULWLQJV RI $GRUQRf VRPHWLPHV WKH\ DUH JLYHQ D SRVLWLYH WZLVW RU WXUQ DV LQ WKH ERG\ RI (DUO\ -D]]f ,Q WKH IROORZLQJ FKDSWHUV VKDOO LQWURGXFH WKHVH HQDEOLQJ LPDJHVIRXU WURSHV ZKLFK SURYLGH D PHDQV RI ZULWLQJ MD]] 7KLV ZLOO OHDG PH WR DQ H[DPLQDWLRQ RI 6FKXOOHUnV SURMHFW RU EHWWHU KLV PXVLFRORJ LFD LGHDO ZKLFK E\ PHDQV RI D JHQHUDOL]DWLRQ UHDG DV WKH GUHDP RI WKH VFLHQFH RI MD]]RORJ\ KRZ VHULRXV DQDO\VLVJHQXLQH PXVLFRORJLFDO UHVHDUFKVHHNV WR ULVH DERYH VXSSOHPHQW RU FDVW RXWf WKH PHUHO\ UKHWRULFDOWKH GHILFLHQFLHV RI JHQHUDO GHVFULSWLYH RU LPSUHVVLRQLVWLF WH[WV :LWKRXW D GRXEW P\ FRPPHQWV FRXOG EH PLVFRQVWUXHG DV DQ DWWDFN RQ PXVLFRORJ\ DQG LWV VWHSFKLOG MD]]RORJ\ 7KDW ZRXOG EH D PLVWDNH ,Q IDFW P\ FRPPHQWV VKRXOG EH WDNHQ DV D OLWHUDU\ WKHRULVWnV DWWHPSW WR XQGHUVWDQG KRZ PXVLFRORJ\ VXFFHHGVKRZ LW FRPHV WR FRXQW DV WUXWKQRW KRZ LW LQHYLWDEO\ IDLOV RU LV VWDOOHG E\ FRQWUDGLFWLRQV 7KH IDFW LV EHOLHYH PXVLFRORJ\ LV ULGGOHG ZLWK FRQWUDGLFWLRQV DJUHH ZLWK /HRQDUG )HDWKHU ZKHQ KH ZULWHV 0DQ\ KDYH WULHG WR H[SODLQ MD]] LQ

PAGE 77

ZRUGV DOO KDYH IDLOHG %XW VWUDQJH DV LW PD\ VHHP FRQWUDGLFWLRQ DQG IDLOXUH KDYH QHYHU EHHQ EDUULHUV WR ZULWLQJ RU UKHWRULFDO VXFFHVV )DU IURP LW $V VWUXFWXUDOLVP KDV UHSHDWHGO\ VKRZQ FRQWUDGLFWLRQ PRWLYDWHV FRPSRVLWLRQ DQG DV SRVWVWUXFWXUDOLVP LV IRQG RI SRLQWLQJ RXW WKH VHPLRWLF FRQGLWLRQV ZKLFK ZRXOG XQGR ZULWLQJ HJ WKH LPSRVVLELOLW\ RI HVWDEOLVKLQJ D VWDEOH FRQWH[Wf DOVR PDNH LW SRVVLEOH LWHU DELOLW\ WKH PRELOLW\ RI WKH VLJQ DOORZV ZULWLQJf +HQFH DOWKRXJK PDNH QR FODLPV RI EHLQJ GLVLQWHUHVWHG GLG QRW FKRRVH WKH 3UHIDFH WR (DUO\ -D]] EHFDXVH IHDWXUHG WKDW LW ZRXOG PDNH DQ HDV\ ZKLSSLQJ ER\ FKRVH LW EHFDXVH LW H[HPSOLILHV FRQWUDGLFWLRQV WKDW DQLPDWH HQDEOH DQG GHIHDWf QRQILFWLRQ GLVFRXUVH RQ MD]] DQG EHFDXVH LW HYLGHQFHV D OHYHO RI VFKRODUVKLS WKDW ERRNV RQ MD]] KDYH FRQVLVWHQWO\ VWULYHQ WR DFKLHYH EXW VHOGRP DWWDLQHG 1RWHV A&RUW£]DU SS A-DFTXHV 'HUULGD 'LVVHPLQDWLRQ WUDQV %DUEDUD -RKQVRQ &KLFDJR 8QLY RI &KLFDJR f S 6XEVHTXHQWO\ FLWHG DV 'LV A5RXVVHDX /D 1RXYHOOH +ORLVH 3OLDGH HGLWLRQ 2HXYUHV FRPSOWHV YRO ,, S LQ %t, S 7 6 (OLRW 7UDGLWLRQ DQG WKH ,QGLYLGXDO 7DOHQW 6HOHFWHG 3URVH RI 7 6 (OLRW HG )UDQN .HUPRGH 1HZ
PAGE 78

*DU\ *LGGLQV 5K\WKPDQLQJ -D]] 7UDGLWLRQ DQG ,QQRYDn WLRQ LQ WKH nV 1HZ
PAGE 79

f SS 'RQDOG .HQQLQJWRQ DQG 'DQQ\ / 5HDG 7KH /LWHUDWXUH RI -D]] $ &ULWLFDO *XLGH QG HG &KLFDJR $PHU LFDQ /LEUDU\ $VVRFLDWLRQ f 3DXO 2OLYHU 0D[ +DUULVRQ DQG :LOOLDP %ROFRP 7KH 1HZ *URYH *RVSHO %OXHV DQG -D]] ZLWK 6SLULWXDOV DQG 5DJWLPH 1HZ
PAGE 80

$ODQ 3 0HUULDP DQG )UDGOH\ + *DUQHU -D]]7KH :RUG (WKQRPXVLFRORJ\ f 7KLV DUWLFOH LV VXEVHn TXHQWO\ FLWHG DV -D]] ,WV DXWKRUV UHFRUG WKH ROGHVW UHIHUHQFH WR WKH ZRUG MD]] VHHPV WR EH WKDW DGYDQFHG E\ &KDSPDQ ZKR >LQ @ LV UHSRUWHG WR KDYH WXUQHG XS D SRVWHU VRPH \HDUV ROG ZLWK WKH ZRUG -D]] RQ LW 2WKHU WKDQ WKLV ZH KDYH $XVWLQnV VWDWHPHQW WKDW WKH WHUP nMD]]n LQ LWV UHODWLRQ WR PXVLF GDWHV IURP DERXW WKLV WLPH SRVW &LYLO :DUf ZKLOH &OD\ 6PLWK QRWHV n-D]]n ZDV ERUQ DQG FKULVWHQHG LQ WKH ORZ GDQFH KDOOV RI RXU IDU ZHVW RI WKUHH GHFDGHV DJRn ZKLFK ZRXOG SODFH LW DERXW /HRQDUG )HDWKHU 7KH %RRN RI -D]] )URP 7KHQ 7LOO 1RZ 1HZ
PAGE 81

&+$37(5 2%%/,*$72 *277$ :5,7( 72 6,1* 7+( %/8(6 2UQDPHQW LV FRQIDEXODWLRQ LQ WKH LQWHUVWLFHV RI VWUXFWXUH $ SRHP E\ '\ODQ 7KRPDV D VD[RSKRQH VROR E\ &KDUOHV 3DUNHU D SDLQWLQJ E\ -DFNVRQ 3ROORFN f§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f§+HQU\ -DPHV :H EHOLHYH WKDW D WKLQJ LV YDOXDEOH WR WKH H[WHQW WKDW LW LV LPSURYLVHG KRXUV PLQXWHV VHFRQGVf QRW H[WHQVLYHO\ SUHSDUHG PRQWKV \HDUV FHQWXULHVf f§) 7 0DULQHWWL $JUPHQWV 6FKXOOHUnV WUHDWLVH RQ HDUO\ MD]] EHJLQV ZLWK D SURQRXQFHn PHQW 2I DOO WKH YROXPHV SXEOLVKHG RQ MD]] PRVW DUH PHUH WH[WXDO RUQDPHQWV (PEHOOLVKPHQWV RI ZKDW FRXOG EH FDOOHG WKH VRXQG REMHFW WKHVH WH[WV KDYH RQO\ DWWHPSWHG WR GHDO ZLWK WKH PXVLF LWVHOI LQ JHQHUDO GHVFULSWLYH RU

PAGE 82

LPSUHVVLRQLVWLF WHUPV 7KH\ DUH LQ WKH ODQJXDJH RI PXVLn FRORJ\ DJUPHQWV $ FROOHFWLYH WHUP LQWURGXFHG LQWR WKH )UHQFK PXVLFDO YRFDEXODU\ RI WKH WK FHQWXU\ DQG ILQDOO\ DGRSWHG LQWR DOO (XURSHDQ PXVLF DJUPHQWV UHIHUV WR D JURXS RI VLJQV RU DEEUHYLDWLRQV IRU VLJQLI\LQJ PXVLFDO RUQDPHQWV ,Q WKH DUW PXVLF RI WKH :HVW WKH FRGLILFDWLRQ RI DJUPHQWV PDUNV WKH V\VWHPDWL]DWLRQ DQG XOWLPDWH VWDQGDUGL]DWLRQ RI LPSURYLVHG RUQDPHQWDWLRQ WKH SUDFWLFH RI HPEHOOLVKLQJ PXVLFDO ZRUNV WKURXJK DGGLWLRQV WR RU YDULDWLRQV RI WKHLU HVVHQWLDO UK\WKP PHORG\ RU KDUPRQ\f $OWKRXJK WKHLU FRUUHFW LQWHUSUHn WDWLRQ FRQVWLWXWHV D FRQVLGHUDEOH SUREOHP LQ SHUIRUPLQJ PXVLF RI WKH WK DQG WK FHQWXU\ DQG DOWKRXJK WKH WHUP LWVHOI PD\ VHHP WR VXJJHVW WKH H[LVWHQFH RI XQDGRUQHG FRPSRn VLWLRQV UHSUHVHQWLQJ WKH SXUH LQWHQWLRQV RI WKHLU FRPSRVHUV WKH PXVLFDO ILJXUHV WKDW DJUPHQWV UHSUHVHQW ZHUH LQGLVSHQVDEOH IHDWXUHV RI PDQ\ PXVLFDO ZRUNV SDUWLFXODUO\ LQ WKH WK DQG WK FHQWXULHV 7KH\ DUH GLYLGHG LQWR WKH IROORZLQJ FDWHJRULHV f DSSRJJLDWXUD DOVR GRXEOH DSSRJJLDWXUDf f WULOO f WXUQ f PRUGHQW f 1DFKVFKODJ f DUSHJJLR f YLEUDWR 2UQDPHQWDWLRQ DQG $JUPHQWV +&'0f 2WKHU WKDQ QRWLQJ WKDW WKH PDMRULW\ RI ERRNV KDYH FRQFHQn WUDWHG RQ WKH OHJHQGU\ RI MD]] WKDW LV RQ D PDWWHU VXSSRVn HGO\ WDQJHQWLDO WR UHDO LVVXHV 6FKXOOHU GRHV QRW HODERUDWH RQ RU FDWDORJ WKH YDULRXV DSSURDFKHV ZULWHUV WRRN LQ ZULWLQJ HPEHOOLVKPHQWV RQ MD]] WKH PXVLF LWVHOI +H FKRRVHV QRW WR OLVW DQG DQDO\]H WKH DJUPHQWV RI QRQILFWLRQ WH[WV RQ

PAGE 83

MD]] PXVLF 7KLV WDVN KRZHYHU QHHGV WR EH GRQH 7R VWDUW ZLWK VRPHRQH FRXOG V\VWHPDWL]H WKH SUHPXVLFRORJLFDO GLVFRXUVH RI MD]] WKHRUL]H WKH FRQQRWDWLYH YDOXHV LW DVVLJQV WR WKH PXVLF $V RI \HW WKRXJK QR RQH KDV SURGXFHG WKH VHPLF WKDW LV WKH FRQQRWDWLYHf FRGHV WKDW VWUXFWXUH UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI MD]] 1HYHUWKHOHVV DOWKRXJK WKH OLWHUDWXUH WUHDWLQJ MD]] FDQ FODLP QR HTXLYDOHQW RI %DUWKHVnV $ /RYHUnV 'LVFRXUVH RU 0\WKROn RJLHV QR PHWDPXVLFRORJLFDO WH[W VFKHPDWL]LQJ FRGHV RI PXVLFR ORJLFDO DQG HWKQRPXVLFRORJLFDO GLVFRXUVH ZH FRXOG LQLWLDWH VXFK D VWXG\ E\ REVHUYLQJ WKDW MD]]OLNH LWV ZULWWHQ UHSUHn VHQWDWLRQA FRQVLVWHQWO\ DSSUHKHQGHG DV D PRUH RU OHVV VSRQWDQHRXV SURFHVV ZKHUHE\ RQH HODERUDWHV RU SDOLPSVHVWLFDOO\ SOD\V RYHU WKDW ZKLFK LV FRQFHLYHG DV DOUHDG\ FRPSRVHG 7KLV SURFHVV ZKLFK HYHQ LQ LWV FRQFHSWLRQ LV DOUHDG\ D UHSUHVHQn WDWLRQ RI MD]]f LV DOZD\V DVVLJQHG D QDPH )RU H[DPSOH LQ WKLV FKDSWHU DQG HVSHFLDOO\ LQ WKH VHFWLRQ RQ (OOLVRQnV ,QYLVLEOH 0DQ GHVLJQDWH LW DV WKH REEOLJDWR ILJXUH 'HQLV +ROOLHU LQ KLV UHH[DPLQDWLRQ RI 6DUWUH OLQNV LW ZLWK YDULn DWLRQ FKDQJHV PDGH LQ D WXQH WKURXJK WKH DGGLWLRQ RI RUQDn PHQWV ZKLFK QHYHUWKHOHVV DOORZ WKH EDVLF PHORG\ DQG PRYHPHQW WR EH PDLQWDLQHGA ,W FRXOG DOVR EH UHIHUUHG WR DV WKH ILJXUH RI RUQDPHQWDWLRQ RU JUDFH D WHUP XVHG E\ HDUO\ (QJOLVK PXVLFLDQV IRU DQ\ PXVLFDO RUQDPHQW ZKHWKHU ZULWWHQ RXW LQ QRWHV LQGLFDWHG E\ VLJQ RU LPSURYLVHG E\ WKH SHUIRUPHU +&'0f

PAGE 84

%XW PRVW IUHTXHQWO\ LW LH WKH SURFHVV RI PDNLQJ MD]]f LV FDOOHG LPSURYLVDWLRQ D WHUP WKDW LQ DGGLWLRQ WR GHQRWLQJ D VSRQWDQHRXV RU H[WHPSRUL]HG FRPSRVLWLRQ VXJJHVWV D SUHYLn RXVO\ HVWDEOLVKHG WH[W HJ D PXVLFDO SKUDVH WKH FKRUG FKDQJHV WR D VRQJ D UK\WKP RU ULII RU SHUKDSV LQ WKH FDVH RI IUHH MD]] WKH FRQFHSW DFWXDOO\ WKH SUHVFULSWLRQ RI IUHHGRPf WKDW LV UHFDOOHG ZKHQ H[WHQGHG RU UHFRPSRVHG LQ DQRWKHU SLHFH 0DUMRULH 3HUORII LQ KHU VWXG\ RI WKH WH[WXDO VWUDWHJLHV RI WKH )XWXULVWV D PRYHPHQW FRWHUPLQRXV ZLWK DQG KDYLQJ GHHS DIILQLWLHV IRU WKH -D]] $JHf FDOOV LW DQ DUW WKDW GHSHQGV QRW RQ UHYLVLRQ LQ WKH LQWHUHVWV RI PDNLQJ WKH SDUWV FRKHUH LQ D XQLILHG IRUPDO VWUXFWXUH EXW RQ D SULRU UHDGLQHVV D SHUIRUPDWLYH VWDQFH WKDW OHDYHV URRP IRU DFFLGHQW DQG VXUSULVH )0 f +HU FRPPHQWV VXPPDUL]H D VWDWHPHQW E\ *HUDOG / %UXQV WKDW FDQ EH HDVLO\ DSSOLHG WR D VWXG\ RI MD]] WR LPSURYLVH LV WR EHJLQ ZLWKRXW VHFRQG WKRXJKW DQG XQGHU WKH UXOHV WKHUH LV QR WXUQLQJ EDFN ,PSURYn LVDWLRQ LV WKH SHUIRUPDQFH RI D FRPSRVLWLRQ DW WKH PRPHQW RI LWV FRPSRVLWLRQ 2QH SUHVHUYHV VXFK D PRPHQW E\ UHIXVLQJ WR UHYLVH LWV UHVXOWV LW LV GLVFRXUVH WKDW SURFHHGV LQGHSHQGHQWO\ RI UHIOHFWLRQ LW GRHV QRW VWRS WR FKHFN RQ LWVHOI ,W LV GHOLEHUDWH EXW XQGHOLEn HUDWHG A ,Q D ZRUG LPSURYLVDWLRQ GHIDPL LDUL]HV ERWK DQ RULJLQDO WH[W LQ 6KNORYVN\nV SKUDVH LW WUDQVIHUV WKH XVXDO SHUFHSWLRQ RI DQ REMHFW LQWR WKH VSKHUH RI D QHZ SHUFHSWLRQf DQG WKH YHU\ SURFHVV WKH WUXVWHG FRQYHQWLRQV RI LQYHQWLRQ DQG FRPSRVLn WLRQ A LW LV GHVLJQHG RQFH DJDLQ GUDZLQJ RQ %UXQV WR RXWZLW WKH UHDGHU WR GLVUXSW UHDGHUO\ H[SHFWDWLRQV )0 f

PAGE 85

$Q HVSHFLDOO\ YLYLG LOOXVWUDWLRQ RI WKLV ILQDO SRLQW LV IRXQG LQ :LOOLDP =LQVVHUnV ELRJUDSK\ RI :LOOLH 5XII DQG 'ZLNH 0LWFKHOO WKH ILUVW MD]] PXVLFLDQV WR JR WR &KLQD f ,Q LW DFFRUGLQJ WR WKH DXWKRUnV RZQ DFFRXQW
PAGE 86

RQH JLYHV WXUQV RQ WKH QDUUDWLYH SRVLWLRQ RQH WDNHV XS RU UHIXVHV WR WDNH XSf 2Q WKH RQH KDQG WKH SUHVXSSRVLWLRQV RQ ZKLFK WKH &KLQHVH EDVH WKH FUHDWLRQ DQG SHUIRUPDQFH RI PXVLF KDYH MXVW EHHQ FRQWHVWHG EXW DW OHDVW DW WKH FORVH RI WKH QDUUDWLYH WKH\ DQG HVSHFLDOO\ WKHLU PDNHUV VHHP KDUGO\ VKDNHQ 2Q WKH RWKHU KDQG WKH SUHVXSSRVLWLRQV RI MD]] KDYH DOVR EHHQ FRQWHVWHG WKH YDOXH RI LPSURYLVDWLRQ KDV EHHQ DWWDFNHG 5XII GRHV QRW DQVZHU RU UDWKHU LI KH GLG KLV DQVZHU LV QRW JLYHQf ,Q DQ\ HYHQW ZH DUH OHIW ZLWK WZR REVHUYDWLRQV )LUVW LPSURYLVDWLRQ KDV PHDQLQJ RQO\ ZLWKLQ FHUWDLQ FRQWH[WV ,W LV D VLJQ RSHUDWLYH LQ D WH[WXDO HIIHFW RIf FHUWDLQ VHPLRWLF V\VWHPV 7R EH DEUXSW =LQVVHU LV ZURQJ -D]] LV QRW D WRWDOO\ RUDO WUDGLWLRQ IRU LQ VXFK DQ LPDJLQDU\ ]RQH LPSURYLVDWLRQ ZRXOG KDYH DEVRn OXWHO\ QR PHDQLQJ ,W GUDZ D ODUJH ; RYHU WKLV SURQRXQf ZRXOG VLPSO\ EH 0XVLF 3LHUUH %RXOH] SXWV LW WKLV ZD\ ,W LV QHFHVVDU\ WR GHQ\ DOO LQYHQWLRQ WKDW WDNHV SODFH LQ WKH IUDPHZRUN RI ZULWLQJ )LQDOO\ LPSURYLVDWLRQ LV QRW SRVVLEOH LQ 1RLVH f 6HFRQG LPSURYLVDWLRQ FDQ EH UHDG DV D UHIOHFWLRQ RI :HVWHUQ LGHRORJ\ 7KH ROG SURIHVVRU WR SUHVV D OLWWOH RQ KLV FRPPHQW VHHV LPSURYLVDWLRQ DV FRQn JUXHQW ZLWK ZKDW KDV EHHQ UHSHDWHGO\ FDOOHG D WKURZDZD\ VRFLHW\ %DUWKHV ZDUQV GLVWUXVW VSRQWDQHLW\ ZKLFK LV GLUHFWO\ GHSHQGHQW RQ KDELWV DQG VWHUHRW\SHVA 7KLV LV FHUWDLQO\ FORVH WR $GRUQRnV YLHZ RI MD]] +H UHIHUV WR LW DV HPEHOOLVKPHQW DQG KH SRUWUD\V LWD FRPPRGLW\

PAGE 87

RI PDVV FXOWXUHDV D YHQHHU RI LQGLYLGXDO nHIIHFWVn SDVWHG RQ WKH VWDQGDUGL]HG IRUP RI SRSXODU VRQJA +H ZULWHV ,Q VHULRXV PXVLF HDFK PXVLFDO HOHPHQW HYHQ WKH VLPSOHVW RQH LV LWVHOI DQG WKH PRUH KLJKO\ RUJDQL]HG WKH ZRUN LV WKH OHVV SRVVLELOLW\ WKHUH LV RI VXEVWLWXWLRQ DPRQJ WKH GHWDLOV ,Q KLW PXVLF KRZHYHU WKH VWUXFWXUH XQGHUO\LQJ WKH SLHFH LV DEVWUDFW H[LVWLQJ LQGHSHQGHQW RI WKH VSHFLILF FRXUVH RI WKH PXVLF )RU WKH FRPn SOLFDWHG LQ SRSXODU PXVLF QHYHU IXQFWLRQV DV LWVHOI EXW RQO\ DV D GLVJXLVH RU HPEHOOLVKPHQW EHKLQG ZKLFK WKH VFKHPH FDQ DOZD\V EH SHUFHLYHG ,Q MD]] WKH DPDWHXU OLVWHQHU LV FDSDEOH RI UHSODFLQJ FRPSOLFDWHG UK\WKPLFDO RU KDUPRQLF IRUPXODV E\ WKH VFKHPDWLF RQHV ZKLFK WKH\ UHSUHVHQW DQG ZKLFK WKH\ VWLOO VXJJHVW KRZHYHU DGYHQn WXURXV WKH\ DSSHDU 7KH HDU GHDOV ZLWK WKH GLIILFXOWLHV RI KLW PXVLF E\ DFKLHYLQJ VOLJKW VXEVWLWXWLRQV GHULYHG IURP WKH NQRZOHGJH RI WKH SDWWHUQV 7KH OLVWHQHU ZKHQ IDFHG ZLWK WKH FRPSOLFDWHG DFWXDOO\ KHDUV RQO\ WKH VLPSOH ZKLFK LW UHSUHVHQWV DQG SHUFHLYHV WKH FRPSOLFDWHG RQO\ DV D SDURGLVWLF GLVWRUWLRQ RI WKH VLPSOH S f $GRUQR GLVSDUDJHV WKH HPSKDVLV MD]] IDQV SODFH RQ WKH PXVLFnV LPSURYL VDW RQDO IHDW XUHV PHUH I ULO OVPDVN WKH PXVLF VWD QGDUGL]DWL RQ SDVVHV IRU LPSURYLVD W L RQ RI EDVL F I RUPXODV UHDO PDLQWDLQLQJ WKDW VXFK IHDWXUHV IXQGDPHQWDO FKDUDFWHULVWLF RI SRSXODU $FFRUGLQJ WR KLP WKDW ZKLFK QRUPDOO\ PRUH RU OHVV IHHEOH UHKDVKLQJ UHDO LPSURYLVDWLRQ ZKHQ LW GRHV RFFXU LQ RSSRVLWLRQDO JURXSV ZKLFK SHUKDSV HYHQ WRGD\ VWLOO LQGXOJH LQ VXFK WKLQJV RXW RI VKHHU SOHDVXUH LV LPSRYHULVKHG E\ LWV GHSHQGHQFH RQ SRSXODU VRQJ IRUP LH D VWDQGDUGf DQG WKH FKRUG SURJUHVVLRQ RI WKH WZHOYHEDU EOXHV EHFDXVH ERWK PXVLFDO VWUXFWXUHV DUH SURGXFWV RI PDVV FXOWXUH DV VWDQn GDUGL]HG DV DXWRPRELOHV PDVV SURGXFHG E\ )RUG 7KXV ZH VHH WKDW LQ FRPLQJ WR JULSV ZLWK MD]] DQG SRSXODU PXVLF KH UHJDUGV WKH WZR DV V\QRQ\PVf $GRUQR VXEVWLWXWHV WKH FRQFHSW RI WKH HPEHOOLVKHG VWDQGDUGL]HG SURGXFW IRU ZKDW 6FKXOOHU FDOOV WKH PXVLF LWVHOI

PAGE 88

$OWKRXJK LW FDQ EH GLVPLVVHG DV ZURQJKHDGHG KLV NQRZOHGJH RI MD]] VHHPV WR KDYH VWDOOHG VRPHZKHUH DURXQG WKH WLPH RI KLV HVVD\ RQ SRSXODU PXVLF RU LI RQH SUHIHUV D MD]] ODQGPDUN VRPHZKHUH DURXQG WKH WLPH RI %HQQ\ *RRGPDQnV &DUQHJLH +DOO &RQFHUWf GHFODUHG D IDFLOH UHGXFWLR DG DEVXUGXP DUJXPHQW HTXDOO\ DSSOLFDEOH WR WKH VHULRXV PXVLF KH ODXGHG RU W\SLn ILHG DV LWVHOI DQ HPEHOOLVKPHQW RI WKH VLQJOH QRWH DQWLn PDVV FXOWXUH WKHPH KH KDUSHG RQ DOO RI KLV OLIH $GRUQRnV FKDUDFWHUL]DWLRQ RI MD]] GRHV HPSOR\ D IDYRUHG WURSH RI MD]] ZULWLQJ ,QGHHG KLV DUJXPHQW KRQHV LQ RQ DQG DWWDFNV QRW WKH PXVLF LWVHOI DOWKRXJK WKDW LV SUREDEO\ LQWHQGHGf EXW DQ LPDJH VXSSRUWHUV DQG GHWUDFWRUV DOLNH HQOLVW WR FRQFHSWXn DOL]H RU JLYH YRLFH WR WKH PXVLF )RU H[DPSOH QRWLFH KRZ WKH IROORZLQJ SDVVDJH IURP D MD]] DSSUHFLDWLRQ WH[WERRN ZRUNV RII H[DFWO\ WKH VDPH LPDJH $GRUQR HPSOR\V (DUO\ MD]] PXVLFLDQV RIWHQ EHJDQ LPSURYLVLQJ VLPSO\ E\ HPEHOOLVKLQJ WKH PHORGLHV RI SRS WXQHV (YHQWXDOO\ WKH HPEHOOLVKPHQWV EHFDPH DV JRRG DV DQG PRUH LPSRUWDQW WR D SHUIRUPDQFH WKDQ WKH WXQHV WKHPVHOYHV ,Q VRPH SHUn IRUPDQFHV DOO WKDW UHPDLQHG ZDV WKH RULJLQDO WXQHnV VSLULW DQG FKRUG SURJUHVVLRQV :KDW LV WRGD\ FDOOHG LPSURYLVLQJ ZDV UHIHUUHG WR E\ HDUO\ MD]] PXVLFLDQV DV PHVVLQn DURXQG HPEHOOLVKLQJ MDVVLQJ MD]]LQJ XS &RQYHQWLRQ GLFWDWHV WKDW LI ZH ZRXOG KDYH RXU GLVFRXUVH FRXQW DV VSHHFK RU ZULWLQJ DERXW MD]] ZH PXVW VSHDN RI HPEHOn OLVKPHQW YDULDWLRQ JUDFH QRWHV LPSURYLVDWLRQ DGOLEELQJ RU RUQDPHQWDWLRQ LPDJHV WKDW KDYH FRPH WR VWDQG PHWRQ\PLFDOO\ RU PHWDSKRULFDOO\f IRU MD]] LWVHOI 7KH LVVXH WKHQ LV QRW ZKLFK WURSH WR XVH LQ UHSUHVHQWLQJ MD]] EXW ZKDW YDOHQFH WR DVVLJQ WR WKDW WURSH

PAGE 89

5HWXUQLQJ WR $GRUQRnV DUJXPHQW ZH PD\ REVHUYH WKDW LW ZLOO EH WDNHQ DV WUXWKDV D EORZ DJDLQVW MD]] DQG E\ H[WHQn VLRQ DV D EORZ DJDLQVW PDVV FXOWXUHSUHFLVHO\ WR WKH H[WHQW WKDW LW VFRUHV D EORZ DJDLQVW D WURSH RUJDQL]LQJ RXU FRQFHSWLRQ RI D MD]] LH WR WKH H[WHQW WKDW LW GLVFUHGLWVQHJDWHV RU SUREOHPDWL]HVWKH YHUEDO FRQVWUXFW LPSURYLVDWLRQ E\ FRQn YLQFLQJ WKH UHDGHU WKDW UHDO LPSURYLVDWLRQ UDUHO\ RFFXUV RU WKDW LW LV LQ IDFW PHUH HPEHOOLVKPHQWf 7KH SRLQW LV WKH WDUJHW RI $GRUQRnV YLUXOHQFH PD\ EH MD]] RU PDVV FXOWXUH EXW KLV UKHWRULFDO VWUDWHJ\ LQYROYHV DQ DWWDFN RQ D SULYLOHJHG PHWDSKRU ZKLFK KH ULJKWO\ DVVXPHV WKLV FXOWXUH ZLOO LGHQWLI\ ZLWK WKH REMHFW RI KLV VFRUQ )RU KLV DUJXPHQW WR IXQFWLRQ KH PXVW FUHDWH WKH HIIHFW RI DWWDFNLQJ MD]] LPDJLQHG DV HLWKHU D UHIHUHQW RU VLJQLILHGf E\ LQYRNLQJDFWXDOO\ DFFHSWLQJ DQG WKHQ FRQWHVWLQJ RU GHYDOXLQJDQ LPDJH LGHQWLILHG ZLWK MD]] RQH ZKLFK KH WKH HYHUUHDG\ LFRQRFODVW KRSHV DQG ULJKWO\ NQRZVf ZLOO EH WDNHQ DV DQ LFRQ RI MD]] $W WKLV MXQFWXUH ZH ZRXOG GR ZHOO WR DVN D TXHVWLRQ :KDW PXVW D ZULWWHQ SLHFH ORRN OLNH EHIRUH LW ZLOO EH DFFHSWHG DV GHDOLQJ ZLWK ZKDW 6FKXOOHU UHIHUV WR DV PXVLF LWVHOI" 2U VWDWHG GLIIHUHQWO\ LQ RUGHU WR PDNH WKH FODLP KROGWKDW RQH ZULWHV DERXW MD]] LWV HVVHQFH VWULSSHG RI DOO LPSHGLn PHQWDKRZ PXVW RQH ZULWH" %HIRUH WKLV TXHVWLRQ FDQ EH DGHn TXDWHO\ HQJDJHG KRZHYHU RQH PXVW VSHFXODWH RQ DQRWKHU TXHVn WLRQ :KDW PXVW SDWWHUQV RI VRXQGV GR KRZ PXVW WKH\ DIIHFW WKH KXPDQ HDUf EHIRUH WKH VWDWHPHQW 7KLV LV MD]] FDQ EH VDLG WR PDNH VHQVH" 0\ DQVZHU WR WKLV ODVW TXHVWLRQ DOWKRXJK

PAGE 90

KLJKO\ VFKHPDWLF DQG XOWLPDWHO\ LQFRPSOHWH ZLOO UHLQIRUFH DQG HODERUDWH ZKDW ZH KDYH DOUHDG\ VHHQ )RU D JLYHQ DFRXVWLF SDWWHUQ WR EH WDNHQ DV MD]] LW KDV WR EH SHUFHLYHG DV DQ LQGLYLGXDO SHUIRUPDQFHD PXVLFDO HTXLYDOHQW RI SDUROHGHULYLQJ IURP DQG FRQWULEXWLQJ WR D IXQGDPHQWDO VWUXFWXUHD PXVLFDO HTXLYDOHQW RI 0RUHn RYHU WKH IXQGDPHQWDO VWUXFWXUH ZKLFK DOORZV DQG GHWHUPLQHV D SDUWLFXODU SHUIRUPDQFH LV WR DGRSW DQG SDUDSKUDVH 6DXVVXUH ERWK D VRFLDO SURGXFW RI WKH DELOLW\ WR PDNH VRXQGV ZLWK YRLFHV DQG PXVLFDO LQVWUXPHQWVf DQG D JURXS RI QHFHVVDU\ FRQYHQWLRQV HJ LPSURYLVDWLRQf FROOHFWLYHO\ ODEHOHG MD]] WKDW KDYH EHHQ DGRSWHG E\ D VRFLDO ERG\ WR SHUPLW LQGLYLGXDOV WR H[HUFLVH WKDW DELOLW\ )RU H[DPSOH VRXQGV PD\ DULVH QDWXUDOO\ REMHFWVDQLPDWH DQG LQDQLPDWHYLEUDWH LQ DLU DQG UHFHLYH YLEUDWLRQVf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

PAGE 91

GLVWULEXWHG WKDW PXVLF 1RLVH f 7KLV LV ZK\ $GRUQR FDQ GHFODUH 7R GLVOLNH D VRQJ LV QR ORQJHU DQ H[SUHVVLRQ RI VXEMHFWLYH WDVWH EXW UDWKHU D UHEHOOLRQ DJDLQVW WKH ZLVGRP RI D SXEOLF XWLOLW\ 3RS 0XVLF f ,Q OLVWHQLQJ DV LQ ZDWFKLQJ D PRYLH RU UHDGLQJ D ERRN RQH LV VLWXDWHG E\ LGHRORJ\ 7KXV WKH WZR TXHVWLRQV DVNHG DERYH:KDW PXVW D ZULWWHQ SLHFH ORRN OLNH EHIRUH LW ZLOO EH DFFHSWHG DV GHDOLQJ ZLWK PXVLF LWVHOI" DQG :KDW IHDWXUHV PXVW SDWWHUQV RI VRXQG PDQLIHVW EHIRUH WKH\ ZLOO EH FRXQWHG DV MD]]"DUH LQH[WULFn DEO\ LQWHUWZLQHG 7KH VWXG\ RI MD]] LWVHOI LV SDUW RI WKH SROLWLFDO V\VWHP WKDW GHWHUPLQHV ZKDW ZLOO EH FRQVWUXHGf§ LQFOXGHG DQG H[FOXGHGDV MD]] LWVHOI :KHQ RQH OLVWHQV WR MD]] RU ZULWHV DERXW LWUHFRJQL]LQJ RQH SDWWHUQ RI VRXQG DV MD]] H[FOXGLQJ DQRWKHUGHHPLQJ RQH WH[W DV UHSUHVHQWLQJ PXVLF LWVHOI H[FOXGLQJ DQRWKHURQH QHFHVVDULO\ WDNHV SDUW LQ D V\VWHP RI GHWHUPLQDWLRQV WKDW FRQVWUDLQ WKH SURGXFWLRQ DQG SHUFHSWLRQ RI MD]] LQ WKLV HSLVWHPH 6R WKHQ WKH WURSHV ZKLFK UHSUHVHQW MD]] PDWFK XS ZLWK RXU SHUFHSWLRQ RI MD]] WKH PXVLF LWVHOIIRU JRRG UHDVRQ ,Q WKLV VHFWLRQ KDYH DUJXHG WKDW MD]] LV DOZD\V UHSUHn VHQWHG DV D VHW RI XQZULWWHQ DJUPHQWV ZKLFK DUH GLVVHPLQDWHG RUDOO\ E\ ZRUG RI PRXWKf DQG HOHFWURQLFDOO\ E\ PHDQV RI UDGLR DQG UHFRUGLQJVf DQG WKDW WKH JRDO RI PXVLFRORJ\ LV WR V\VWHPDWLFDOO\ ZULWH RXW WKH RUQDPHQWV WKDW RUJDQL]H MD]] DV D PXVLFDO ODQJXDJH WKHUHE\ WKURXJK PHDQV RI D IXQGDPHQWDO WDXWRORJ\ UDWLI\LQJ WKH LPDJH RU PRGHO RI MD]] DV D VHW RI

PAGE 92

DJUPHQWV DQG RSSRVLQJ ZKDW 3HUOPDQ DQG *UHHQEODWW FDOO WKH FRPPRQO\KHOG DVVXPSWLRQ DPRQJ SHRSOH ZKRVH DFTXDLQWDQFH ZLWK MD]] LV FDVXDO RU LQIRUPDO WKDW WKH PXVLF LV PDGH XS RXW RI QRWKLQJ LQYHQWHG RXW RI WKLQ DLU MQ VKRUW KDYH DUJXHG WKDW DOWKRXJK P\ ODQJXDJH LQHYLWDEO\ FRQWLQXHV WR WUHDW LW DV VXFK MD]] PXVLF LV OHVV D ORFDWDEOH WKLQJ WKDQ D RVFLOn ODWLQJ VHW RI DXGLWRU\ VLJQV DQG VLPLOLDUO\ WKDW ZULWWHQ UHSUHVHQWDWLRQV RI MD]] PD\ EH UHJDUGHG DV GHILQHG DVf VLWHV ZKHUH FHUWDLQ SULYLOHJHG VLJQV DUH VHW RYHU DQG DJDLQVW RWKHU VLJQV ,PSURYLVDWLRQ WKHQ LV EHVW FRQFHSWXDOL]HG DV D WH[WXDO SUDFWLFHD ILJXUH RI GHEDWH RU FRQWHVWDWLRQUDLVHG PRVW QRWDEO\ E\ WKH VLJQ MD]] ,Q WKHLU HVVD\ 0LOHV 'DYLV 0HHWV 1RDP &KRPVN\ 3HUOPDQ DQG *UHHQEODWW H[SODLQ WKH MD]] VROR WKURXJK DQ DQDORJ\ WKDW OLNHQV LPSURYLVDWLRQ WR OLQJXLVWLF SHUIRUPDQFH 7KHLU GHVFULSWLRQ ZKLFK UHFDOOV 3DUU\ /RUG DQG +DYHORFNnV H[SODQDn WLRQV RI +RPHUnV PQHPRQLFV VXPPDUL]HV P\ GLVFXVVLRQ RI D PDMRU HQDEOLQJ WURSH RI MD]] E\ RQFH DJDLQ LOOXVWUDWLQJ WKH FRQYHQWLRQ RI FRQFHSWXDOL]LQJ MD]] DV VSRQWDQHRXV RUQDPHQn WDWLRQ ,W XQGHUVFRUHV WKH QHFHVVLW\ RI PDSSLQJ PXVLF RQWR ODQJXDJH PDSSLQJ RQH VHPLRWLF V\VWHP RQWR DQRWKHU JHQHUDWHV WKH HIIHFW RI LQWHOOLJLELOLW\f DQG WKH H[SODQDWRU\ SRZHU WKDW UHVXOWV IURP VXFK D PDSSLQJ WKDW LV ZKHQ WKURXJK DQ HQDEOLQJ WURSH RQH WUDQVODWHV MD]] LQWR ODQJXDJH -XVW DV WKH VSHDNHU RI D ODQJXDJH PDNHV LQVWLQFWLYH XVH RI WKH OH[LFRQ DQG VWUXFWXUH RI KLVKHU ODQJXDJH ZKHQ VKH VSHDNV RU ZULWHV WKH PXVLFLDQ DFFRPSOLVKHV KLVKHU DLPV WKURXJK PDVWHU\ RI DQG VSRQWDQHRXV UHVRUW WR D EDVLF YRFDEXODU\ RI PXVLFDO ILJXUHV LQWHUVSHUVHG ZLWK TXRWHV DQG FRQQHFWHG E\ VFDOHV DQG DUSHJJLRV ,W LV WKH PXVLFDO

PAGE 93

ILJXUHV RU OLFNV SOD\HG RI FRXUVH RQ WKH FRUUHFW VFDOH DQG FKRUGWRQHVf WKDW JLYH D MD]] VROR LWV GLVn WLQFWLYH MD]] VRXQG LQ WKH VDPH ZD\ WKDW VSHDNLQJ (QJOLVK LPSOLHV WKH XVH RI WKH DYDLODEOH ZRUG VWRFN RI WKH ODQn JXDJH LQFOXGLQJ ERQD ILGH ORDQ ZRUGV DQG UHFRJQL]DEOH QHRORJLVPV 7KH EDVLF OH[LFRQ RI MD]] OLFNV LV QRW ODUJHWKHUH DUH SHUKDSV WZR RU WKUHH GR]HQ WKDW PRVW SOD\HUV UHO\ RQEXW VLQFH DQ\ OLFN FDQ EH SOD\HG RYHU DQ\ FKRUG EHJLQQLQJ ZLWK DQ\ VFDOHFKRUGWRQH DQG UHSHDWHG LQGHILQLWHO\ XS DQG GRZQ WKH HQWLUH UDQJH RI WKH LQVWUXPHQW WKH QXPEHU RI LPSURYLVDWLRQDO SRVVLELOn LWLHV EHFRPHV HQRUPRXV SS f 7KLV SDVVDJH DOVR PDNHV D FRXSOH RI ILQDO SRLQWV ,W UHPLQGV XV WKDW D UHOLDQFH PXVLF RU ZULWLQJf GRHV QRW QHFHVVDULO\ H[FOXGH FRPSOH[LW\ %XW PRUH WKDQ WKDW LW VXJJHVWV LQ LWV DUJXPHQW IRU WKH YDOXH RI LPSURYLVDWLRQ QR RQH LV ZULWLQJ DUWLFOHV DUJXLQJ IRU WKH YDOXH RI FRPSRVLWLRQ RU WKH FRPSOH[LW\ RI FODVVLFDO PXVLFf WKDW WKH LPDJH ZKLFK EULQJV MD]] LQWR GLVFRXUVH LV RQFH DJDLQ WKH VLWH RI LGHRORJLFDO FRQWHVWDWLRQ DQG VWUXJJOH ,PSURYLVDWLRQ HPEHOOLVKPHQW RUQDPHQWDWLRQ DQG DG OLEELQJWHUPV LQ D VHULHV RI ELQDU\ RSSRVLWLRQVDUH WKLQNDEOH RQO\ LQ D SDUDGLJP RU WKURXJK D FRQVWUXFWf WKDW KDV HVWDEn OLVKHG D FRQFHSW WH[W ,Q RXU FXOWXUH SHUKDSV LQ RXU HSLVWHPHf WKH\ PDUN WKDW ZKLFK LV DX[LOLDU\ DQG HSKHPHUDO WKDW ZKLFK LV DUWIXOO\ DUWLILFLDOO\f WDFNHG RQ WR WKH UHDO LWHP WKH RULJLQDO WH[W 0RVW LPSRUWDQWO\ WKHVH WHUPV DUH DOUHDG\ LQ SODFHWKH\ DUH SUHJQDQW ZLWK PHDQLQJZKHQ MD]] DULVHV GLDFKURQLFDOO\ LQ KLVWRU\ RU V\QFKURQLFDOO\ LQ SHUIRUPDQFHf -D]] HQWHUHG WKLV FXOWXUH SUHUHSUHVHQWHG 7KH FRGHV ZKLFK VSRNH LW LPEXHG LW ZLWK PHDQLQJ ZHUH VR WR VSHDN

PAGE 94

DOUHDG\ VLWXDWHG ZKHQ LW DUULYHG 2U DV WKH +RUDFLR 2OLYHLUD WKH QDUUDWRU RI +RSVFRWFK SXWV LW %HVVLHnV VLQJLQJ &ROHPDQ +DZNLQVnV FRRLQJ ZHUHQnW WKH\ LOOXVLRQV RU VRPHWKLQJ HYHQ ZRUVH WKH LOOXVLRQ RI RWKHU LOOXVLRQV D GL]]\ FKDLQ JRLQJ EDFNZDUGV EDFN WR D PRQNH\ ORRNLQJ DW KLPVHOI LQ WKH ZDWHU RQ WKDW ILUVW GD\" S f -D]] OLQNHG XS ZLWK ZKDW 1LHW]VFKH FDOOHG D PRELOH DUP\ RI PHWDSKRUV PHWRQ\PLHV DQWKURSRPRUSKLVPV ZKLFK LV WR VD\ WKRVH ZKR UHSUHVHQWHG LW HQOLVWHG DOUHDG\ DYDLODEOH VLJQLILHUV RI FRQQRWDWLRQ ZKLFK WKH\ LQ WXUQ PRELOL]HG IRU WKHLU RZQ HQGV +LVWRULFDOO\ WKH RSSRQHQWV RI MD]] GHFODUHG WKDW LW HTXDOHG HPEHOOLVKPHQW RUQDPHQWDWLRQ