Covert Pedagogy: Ella at the Capital Rep

I hate to start with a cliché but here it goes: “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Right. And there is no beauty in being black if the beholder is racist. There are no two ways about it: the idea that Ella Fitzgerald was ugly, which is prominent in the musical play Ella, now playing at the Capital Rep in downtown Albany, starring Tina Fabrique, can only be the product of the racist eye of the beholder who, recoiling with prejudice at her sight, proclaimed that she was “the loveliest thing I ever…heard.” Don’t get me wrong, though. The play does not advance that idea. It simply offers it as part of the historical record.

The statement about better heard than seen is only one of many memorable lines in the play. I don’t know if anyone actually said those words to Ella. But they are worth singling out because they sum up the kind of racist put down that Ella Fitzgerald had to endure throughout her life and career. She was told that she was ugly, that were it not for her voice, she would have been nothing; nothing to be, nothing to have, nothing to look at.

What nonsense! I have looked at plenty of pictures of Ella and all I see is a beautiful woman who happened to be the most celebrated jazz singer of the twentieth century. But I have it backwards: she was the greatest female jazz singer of the twentieth century and she happened to be beautiful. Fabrique’s rendition is done from the vantage point of a physical resemblance to Ella. So, if Ella was ugly then Fabrique is ugly and this is simply not the case. It takes some courage to play a role that requires self-deprecation for being dark-skinned black with a flat nose and flaring nostrils. But maybe it does not take much courage to do so, today. Times have changed. In that sense, Fabrique has it easier than Ella did during her time. Fabrique reminds us that when Ella was coming along the standard for physical beauty was, to put it mildly, different. If anything is ugly, it is that period. The past never dies and the play unwittingly reminds us of that. There are still plenty of people around who would tell Ella, were she starting her career today, to try radio.

Why are we so hung up on this subjective thing called beauty when women are involved? Over the past six years I’ve brought dozens of Latin jazz musicians to play in the Capital Region and reviewers impressed with their musical virtuosity always add the adjective “lovely,” only when the musician is female. The reviewers have always been male, but I doubt that a female reviewer would write: “The piano player was in complete control of the 88s…and he was hot too!” When was the last time a critic wrote or said: “Fulano is ugly as hell, but he can really play!”? That Ella Fitzgerald had to cope with the distorted mentality of Jim Crow America, to the point of believing herself that she was no beauty, is disgraceful. No one should be led to believe that they have succeeded in spite of themselves. Did Ella succeed in spite of herself? What was her essence? Her body or her voice? Her looks or her sound? I for one could not care less. History is what it is. Ella was talented and beautiful. During her time, there were men who loved her, body and soul. Were they blind?

They say that imitation is the highest form of flattery. In Ella, the flattery is obvious and the imitation impossible. Fabrique does not imitate Ella; no one can re-create that unique voice. Fabrique sings with strength, vitality, amazing range, a polished tone, and virtuosic ability that is all her own. What happens is that we are reminded that Ella existed, that she had the voice, that she was fallible, that her beauty was not fully recognized. At the Capital Rep, Fabrique brings Ella’s all-encompassing allure to life in a mix of words, gestures, movements, and sounds that blows your mind.

In Ella, Tina Fabrique wins the audience over with her voice as well as her presence. The play is a well-crafted exercise in historical synthesis. It is an example of, I would say, covert pedagogy. We see the show not with the intent to learn something but we do. We are there mostly to be entertained but we are provoked to think about the circumstances of Ella’s career and life. The thing is that learning and reflection creep up on you subliminally because, most of all, we have fun.

The play is not entirely about Ella. In a way, Ella is bait. You go in, and you are hooked. You know that Fabrique is not Ella but you don’t mind because you are still getting a decent glimpse of “Miss Fitz,” while enjoying Fabrique, a fantastic vocalist, backed by a quartet of really sharp musicians with a lot of swing. In this play you will hear great music and great songs. The Capital Rep theater is the perfect setting: comfortable and intimate. The scenography is simple and elegant, the engineering flawless. I anticipated that the air conditioning would be set at full blast so I was prepared. When you go, make sure to wear long-sleeves and you’ll be alright. Ella will make you laugh and cry; it will move your body and your spirit and make you want to dance. This is more than worth the price of admission.

The Right Kind of Preface

It was a mistake to listen to the CD Chano y Dizzy! by Terence Blanchard and Poncho Sánchez  before Blanchard’s concert at the Zankel Music Center at Skidmore College, in Saratoga Springs on June 26. The 600-seat Helene Filene Ladd concert hall at the Center has made it unnecessary to get to Saratoga two or three hours before a free performance in order to get a seat. But I was early enough that I listened to the entire album, from the introductory Tin Tin Deo/Manteca/Guachi Guaro medley to the concluding Ariñañara. Why was this a mistake? Because the recording put me in a mood and gave me expectations that the performance ruined and could not meet, respectively.

Blanchard was recently described in The New Yorker as a “stunning trumpeter and an attentive bandleader ever alert for burgeoning talent.” This is indisputable. But the performance left me thinking that technical virtuosity without musicality is meaningless. The music was outstanding and yet I felt like a stone. The quintet performed with a clear and distinct anchoring in the jazz tradition, even if it is somewhat dubious to refer to the plural offerings that fit under the jazz umbrella, even as early as the 1940s, and to an ever-changing genre, as having a “tradition.” But when Blanchard said that Fabian Almazan, the pianist, was from Cuba, I thought to myself: “Where is his tradition? A little montuno during one of the solos would have been nice!” Maybe he does evoke Lecuona, or Lilí Martínez, or Peruchín sometimes; I don’t know. But in that moment, and with a great a sense of irony, I remembered David Brooks’ column, published the day of the concert, about the experience of listening to Bruce Springsteen live in Spain. He wrote: “if you embody a distinct musical tradition, if your concerns are expressed through a specific paracosm, you are going to have more depth and definition than you are if you grew up in the far-flung networks of pluralism and eclecticism…Don’t try to be citizens of some artificial globalized community. Go deeper into your own tradition. Call more upon the geography of your own past. Be distinct and credible.”

I am critical of the performance with trepidation because almost everyone in the audience seemed so pleased and taken by the musicians. I noticed some significant early departures but I can’t say they meant dissatisfaction. The people around me appeared to be excited and the standing ovation at the end lasted long enough to bring the band back on stage for one more song. During a brief moment of silence just before the encore, while Blanchard set his computer for a reverb effect on the trumpet, someone shouted: “We can’t let you leave yet!” On my way to the parking lot, I overheard someone say that the piano introduction to the second song in the set was “gorgeous.” All the comments I overheard were positive. There were many smiling faces.

Only once, during the first song, did the ritual applause following a solo was not given to Blanchard. He winced and stood silent for a short while, perhaps thinking he had stopped too soon, or that the solo did not have the flow whose resolution leads to a deserved, as opposed to mechanic ovation. Then he resumed soloing. It is not clear to me whether the pause was part of the solo or a second try. After that, applause followed every solo. Were the ovations ritualistic or deserved? All I can say with certainty is that the musicianship was out of this world and yet I was not moved to applaud once. Everyone was extremely good and no one, not even Blanchard, stood out. This was reflected in the applause for each musician: clapping was evenly pitched for everyone.

Laurent De Wilde has said that jazz musicians play first for themselves, second for the other members of the band, and third for the audience. I would describe the concert the same way, but I’m not sure that De Wilde’s caveat about the audience applies. He suggests that, despite coming third in the ranking, the attention of the audience “is vital for [the jazz musician] to reach the right degree of concentration, and their enthusiasm is the only true index of shared pleasure.” Except for that singular wince at the beginning, I am not sure that the quintet really cared about what the audience felt. I may be projecting my own lack of “shared pleasure,” but they all appeared remote, lost in their own inner, musical world. Blanchard even said that the backdrop view was so gorgeous (the stage is backed by a glass-window that opens up to a pond surrounded by trees) that he wanted to play facing the window, with his back to the audience. He said it tongue-in-cheek, of course, and he meant it as a compliment…to the auditorium.

Unlike many outstanding musicians who can’t put two words together coherently, Blanchard was very articulate and funny during his introduction of the members of the band. He shared a good and humorous story for each one of his mates. This was my introduction to his music in a live setting so I don’t know if it was all impromptu or rehearsed. In fact, it actually pains me to say that the introductions and the theme song at the end of the performance, a straight-ahead tune, were the best moments of the show. When they came back for the encore and I heard the “We can’t let you leave yet!” shout, all I could say to myself was “Ay, Ay, Ay.”

I can’t wait to read the enthusiastic and positive reviews by others of this performance so I can find out what I missed. Blanchard said that, typically, when people come up to him after a show, they do so to say they enjoyed it very much. “The ones who hate it simply leave,” he added. No one laughed at this; not even a chuckle. I’m not sure why leaving right away after a concert would be a sign of displeasure. Maybe he meant leaving in the middle of a show? I didn’t hate the performance and I certainly did not walk out while they were playing or after the first song, which set the tone for the whole set. I just made a mistake.

I admit freely that my sentiments are probably an instance of the “it’s not you, it’s me” syndrome.  For better of for worse, there’s only one point of view I can write from: my own. Is there a lesson here? I think so. Before you go to a post-bop concert, do not listen to swinging, poly-rhythmic, Afro-Cuban jazz. That kind of preface will not set you up right and you’ll end up with a headache. I love Be-Bop, Post-Bop, even Cool jazz (Miles only, though). Blanchard’s concert just didn’t do it for me. On the drive back home I listened to El Gran Combo’s Sin Salsa No Hay Paraíso. By the time I got to Albany my headache was gone.