The massive series Ken Burns and his associates have shaped into some 17 1/2 hours of Jazz is full of stories, this one and hundreds of others, all setting out with passionate deliberation, and occasional anger, the history of America's finest, proudest indigenous music. Its 75 interviews, 2,400 still photographs, more than 2,000 film excerpts and over 500 pieces of supernal music are spread across 10 episodes, which will take up a good deal of the primest time PBS can spare from Jan. 8, when the first segment will air, to the last day of the month, when the final chapter, an accounting of the music's past quarter-century, a hopeful peek into the future and a fond envoi, will close everything out in fine style. The mighty history Burns and writer Geoffrey C. Ward have wrested from all this material is many things, including imperfect. But on balance and at bottom, the series not only does jazz proud, it also rises to meet it. Jazz is great television about great music.
And, oh, the stories. The unlikely, implacable brilliance of Louis Armstrong, a genius raised on the streets of New Orleans whose mother hooked to survive. The resilience of Duke Ellington, born into comparative comfort, who would rise above race and dwell, as he liked to say, "beyond category," in a world of transcendent music. The bright, hard radiance of Bix Beiderbecke, dead too soon, and the huge spiritual yearning of John Coltrane, who died believing in the salvation his music could bring. Parker, the greatest and most lyrical and most forbidding pioneer of bop--a word he disliked--who exerted an irresistible force on the music and a more perilous influence on anyone around him. "Bird was like fire," says John Lewis of the Modern Jazz Quartet. "You couldn't get too close."
And there is Parker's pal Dizzy Gillespie, who said Bird was "the other half of my heartbeat," a formidable spirit and great artist who tried, and failed, to save Parker from the demons that drove and devoured him. Clifford Brown, dead in a car wreck, whose only vice was chess. Miles Davis, who beat back his inner darkness and took jazz to the peak of its last great popularity. Thelonious Monk, a generative spirit of compulsive genius, who applied a kind of circular geometry to the keyboard and gave jazz new contours. Billie Holiday, the beautiful desolation angel, the most ravishing and ravaged of jazz singers, whose rendition of Autumn in New York Burns allows to play out here as a threnody for jazz's last great era. Bird passes, and Billie passes, and Lester Young, and Louis, and Duke, and all of a sudden it seems there are no more giants, and there is only the hard number: jazz, which was responsible for something like 70% of record-company revenue during the swing era of the '30s, accounts for more like 3% today.
It is a vast and complex saga. Burns may be the only documentary filmmaker at work today who would be entrusted with the time and resources to reckon with it, but he is also one of the least likely to have brought it off. Whatever the considerable merits of his previous epic undertakings like The Civil War and Baseball, they did not have the rich vein of recklessness, the abandon and the humor, the rhapsodic beauty or deep darkness, that are all so much a part of jazz. They may have been terrific, but they sure didn't swing.
Neither does Jazz. This is the work of someone taking a long look in from the outside, and this, paradoxically, is its greatest strength. The whole series practically reels from the excitement of discovery. The history is fresh, the music is new to Burns, who, he has said, knew almost nothing about jazz until an offhand remark by a baseball player being interviewed for his previous series set him to thinking and got him listening. The rest of us can hear Ellington play The Single Petal of a Rose or Parker lay into Cherokee and be stirred by mute wonder. Burns doesn't have to go the mute route. He gets to extend and explore all those feelings, amplify them and put them all onto what may be the longest documentary PBS, or any other network, has ever shown. Lucky him. Lucky us.
Lucky too because, even at this daunting size, Burns can't take everything in. The music is just so vast and its bounty so prodigious that Burns can't cover all the great ones, even glancingly, which leaves lots still to explore, along with some bad feelings. There has already been griping about who doesn't get enough screen time (Bill Evans, Ornette Coleman, Charles Mingus, Stan Getz) and who hardly shows up at all (many--no, most--vocalists, Stan Kenton, Nat King Cole and his trio, Erroll Garner, Johnny Hodges), which is an inadvertent tribute to the immensity of the legacy that Burns mines broadly, but beautifully. There has also been loud dissatisfaction within the ranks of some jazz players and fans about the orthodoxy of Burns' taste, the safe selectivity of his classicism, the fact that he kisses off jazz's past quarter-century rather quickly in the last episode and only suggests where jazz might be heading in a brisk final montage that closes the series out.