A Real Golden Age of Jazz
Mention of a so-called “golden age” is nothing new in the arts. As a creed it says, in brief, that at some time in the remembered recent past things seemed good, even better in every way than they are now. It satisfies the longing that seems to live in every breast, for a simpler time when basic rules were clear and everybody worked comfortably within them. Imagine, a Wednesday afternoon call at the 802 union floor, with Coleman Hawkins, Ben Webster or Illinois Jacquet among the available tenor players. No stars, these, at least not to bandleaders. Just guys available to do gigs, needing the money — some things, naturally, never change — and happy for the work. Now all three are gone. But that was New York in the late ’50s, in every important respect a golden age, when just about everyone was available, and could be hired with a phone call. Performers were at their best, audiences numerous and avid, for what they did, with money to be earned. Opportunities to record, additionally, came up frequently, with producers who invariably understood their music and allowed them lots of leeway, muscle room, for stretching