Nate Chinen writes about jazz for The New York Times, JazzTimes, the Village Voice, and he also has a thriving blog, “The Gig”:

Until this year, I would have perceived him as living on the other side of the Jazz Divide, because we clearly loved very different — even irreconcilable — music.  But my opinion changed last January when Nate sent me a friendly email:

I don’t believe we’ve met, but I wanted to get in touch. I’m working on a JazzTimes column about the “new” strain of jazz traditionalism, and the ways in which the culture(s) of swing and bebop have continued to thrive, often well out of the reach of mainstream-media coverage. You struck me as an ideal person to sound off on such matters, so I’m wondering whether you might have some spare time this afternoon or evening. We could speak by phone or I could shoot you a few questions over email. Please let me know, in any case. I’ll look forward to making your acquaintance.

I was delighted — someone was graciously asking whether I would like to discuss my favorite subject!  So we spent an hour on the phone.  Nate asked pertinent questions, listened closely, and let me talk.  I told him that this “new traditionalism” was deep and inventive.  It wasn’t simply young people copying old records. 

I spoke at length about the performances I had seen in New York and elsewhere — musicians comfortable with many approaches to improvising, able to encompass Bud Powell, Art Tatum, and James P. Johnson in a single solo without seeming exhibitionistic or synthetic.  I told Nate about nights at The Ear Inn, where musicians of different “schools” found a common language  — connecting George Mitchell and Don Cherry — that was communal, genuine, and satisfying.  (I also urged him to join me there some Sunday, and he said he would.) 

Of course, I mentioned the names of my living heroes (my readers will be able to name a dozen) throughout the conversation, in hopes that he would understand that jazz — the religion of JAZZ — was very much alive here and now. 

As our conversation progressed, Nate was enthusiastic about his inventing a new name for the old — derisive — term for people who loved older jazz players and styles.  In the ideological wars of the Forties, they were “moldy figs,” defending their territory against the interlopers Bird and Dizzy.  Nate had come up with “mossy stones,” and his coinage made me think of a quotation from W.B. Yeats’s “Easter 1916.”  If I had been worried at the start that Nate was uncomprehending or hostile to my sensibilities, this phone conversation had given me reason to relax.

Yesterday, Nate informed me that the article had been published:   

Figs & Stones

Some time ago Michael Steinman, a professor of English at Nassau Community College, was out to dinner on vacation when the conversation turned to jazz. Hearing of his love for the music, someone at another table proudly claimed that he had been at Carnegie Hall in the early ’60s, for a concert that included tenor titans John Coltrane and Sonny Rollins. “I told him my taste in jazz went back a bit further than that,” Steinman recalls. “He looked at me and said, ‘Wait a minute. Are you a moldy fig?’”

The fact that you’re here, dear reader, probably means you know that them’s fightin’ words. To be seen as a moldy fig, at this point in jazz’s post-history, is to be lumped together with the loonies and curmudgeons, hopelessly out of step, terminally uncool. Like Renaissance faire habitués and Civil War reenactors, the moldy fig longs for some receding point on the timeline, striving to transplant its bygone values to an inhospitable soil. Jazz, for such a creature, is a firm ideal, lovingly and narrowly circumscribed.

What’s funny is the fact that “moldy fig” connotes two distinct jazz factions that should be fundamentally at odds. The term originally referred to the early jazz traditionalists who saw the music as having peaked in the 1920s. Soon it was also leveled at swing adherents who decried the advancing tide of bebop. Both meanings were in circulation in the 1940s, reflecting a pair of schisms in jazz at the time. As Bernard Gendron once put it, in a definitive essay on the subject: “The first of these conflicts pitted swing against the newly revitalized New Orleans jazz that it had previously supplanted, and the second against the bebop avant-garde movement that threatened to make it obsolescent.”

Pluck in the face of obsolescence is what unites the moldy figs of both persuasions today: the Benny Goodman fan club, say, with members of the Sidney Bechet Society. The term has even become a badge of honor among some listeners—though not for Steinman, who runs a blog called Jazz Lives. “Traditionalism to me is not tuba and banjo,” he writes in an explanatory note, distancing himself from the moldiest of fig trappings. But he’s clear about the music he loves—“[My] heroes include Bobby Hackett, Vic Dickenson, Ruby Braff, Eddie Condon,” he writes—and he uses his platform to champion it.

Lately I’ve been thinking about the moldy-fig legacy as it applies to the next wave of jazz traditionalists. While the music has advanced (I’ll refrain from writing “evolved”), the shadow of obsolescence has been lengthening. It no longer stops at the breakthroughs of bebop, or the refinement of modal jazz. So even though jazz’s mid-century modern constituency still has a lot to be thankful for—the Jazz Icons DVD series, for one, and present-day paragons like tenor saxophonist Eric Alexander—the center of the music no longer reflects that reality.

Perhaps you can identify. Depending on your tastes, you might be among the jazz diehards disillusioned with what’s become of the jazz media, with its fetish for newness. You nod your head when you hear of the death of jazz, as it’s commonly understood. Well, don’t look now, but you might be a mossy stone.

Allow me to explain. A mossy stone is a jazz adherent whose core stylistic allegiance is to the music pioneered in the 1940s, streamlined in the ’50s and diversified in the ’60s. This region of inquiry begins with bebop and ends with free jazz, cutting off at the early stirrings of fusion. Wynton Marsalis, once disparaged by critic Gene Santoro as a “latter-day moldy fig,” actually fits this bill: Though vocal in his advocacy of swing and earlier jazz, he’s a modernist at heart, as his own track record proves. (Listen again to his last few albums on Blue Note.) But you could despise Marsalis and still be a mossy stone. All it takes is a tacit understanding that jazz innovation peaked by about 1967, and that nothing of real, lasting value has changed in the music since.

Right about now you’re wondering why you’ve never heard of a mossy stone. Simple: I made the term up, while pondering the distance between results in critics’ polls and readers’ polls. Obviously I’m riffing on the aphorism “a rolling stone gathers no moss,” with its valorization of forward motion. I’m also invoking the Rolling Stones, and rock, with its progressive connotations. A mossy stone finds no traction in the straight-eighth groove and fusionlike flow of so many jazz albums today. He or she appreciates the Monkish aspects of a pianist like Robert Glasper or Jason Moran, but not so much the hip-hop inflections. You can be a mossy stone at any age—I bet there are more than a few working at the high school level—as long as you possess the same stubbornness exhibited by the moldy figs all those years ago.

As someone sympathetic to the mossy stone agenda—I too have wondered why young musicians can’t occasionally carve up a standard, or just swing a little—let me offer a reassurance. Moss may be disconcertingly similar to mold, but that’s fine. As Gendron observed, regarding the two schisms in 1940s jazz: “Both contests were fought on much of the same discursive terrain.” Likewise, the mossy stone and the moldy fig have two very different record collections, but they’re cousins in many respects.

Of course moldy figs have had a longer time to refine their contrarianism, honing an admirable combination of staunch defiance and pragmatic resignation. When I mentioned my new bit of jazz taxonomy to Steinman, he picked up on this right away, despite his reflexive wariness about labels, especially those dreamt up by jazz critics.

“Have you read ‘Easter, 1916,’ the Yeats poem?” he asked. Yes, but it had been a while. When I consulted the text, I found its vivid image of a stone planted in a stream. The water moves, as do the reflections of clouds along its surface. A horse and rider splash along. “Minute by minute they live,” Yeats writes. “The stone’s in the midst of all.”

Anyone who’s been interviewed dreads being misquoted, so I was thrilled to find that Nate had paid me the great compliment of accuracy.  And he had given me a short solo at the start, middle, and end — generous journalism.   But the piece does raise a few issues for me, and since Nate invited me to address them here, I will take him up on it. 

I am delighted that he gives such serious attention to this “new traditionalism.”  It would be very easy to depict this phenomena as more evidence of The Death of Jazz: “See, all we have left is these shrinking audiences on cruise ships and jazz parties listening to stale perfomances of jazz-by-rote.  People who are almost dead listening to music that certainly is.” 

Although I am not ready for Medicare, it would also have been easy to satirize or stereotype me: an eager chronicler of a moribund art, recording its final wheezes.  I am pleased that neither of these approaches color Nate’s essay in the slightest.    

But I find it curious that the musicians whose names I utter in his essay are all dead.  It suggests that my “new traditionalism” is entirely antiquarian, as if I did not delight in current performances by players very much alive.  Yes, my iPod is full of now-dead players, but I’ll bet Nate listens to some dead folks, too.  He even writes obituaries of them, as in the case of John Bunch. 

Was it that Nate didn’t want to turn his essay into a list of names?  Or was it that he did not want to offen worthy players by omitting their names?  I admire tact, but Nate’s editing makes me and the Mossy Stones (who share my initials) seem to be the Emily Griersons or Miss Havishams of Dixieland, if you will.

At first glance, changing Figs into Stones sounds wonderful.  But “moldy fig” is such an archaic term that only those deeply involved in jazz history (“Jazz Battle” or “Squabblin,” if you like) would even recognize it.  True, I am pleased to no longer be compared to rotting produce.  And Nate does generously praise the “mossy stones” for their insistent devotion to the art they love. 

But do these names really matter? 

Given the minute notice jazz gets in the larger media, is this meditation on nomenclature the most profound way to bring attention to rewarding music?  And, given the divisive nature of much of the writing purportedly about jazz, is setting up a new sub-category of listeners a good thing?  Perhaps we should be attempting to bring the “schools” and “allegiances” together, so everyone could be open to music that could go back to ragtime and forward to hard bop and beyond. 

But this is the beginning of a deeper conversation — an optimistic one, not mourning the death of jazz but celebrating the life around us.  Nate and I agree that there is astonishing music to be heard and loved, now and in the future. 

And my invitation to dinner at The Ear Inn is still open!

10 responses to “NATE CHINEN: “FIGS AND STONES”

  1. Excellent article and you are the flag bearer of we mossy stones (of which I am a proud member).

  2. Jazz musicians have constantly been categorized, usually against their will. I despair on reading an article devoted to categorizing their audience members as well.

    Why not write about some music?

    P.S. Your words are illuminating as always, Michael.

  3. After a quick look at Nate Chinen’s blog, I see that he does often write (very well) about music itself and specific performers.

    But I’d still prefer read an article about Jon-Erik Kellso’s music than a discussion of how we might label his audience.

  4. I love your response and certainly share your “wariness of labels, especially those dreamt up by jazz critics.”

    I especially appreciate your tone of optimism and hope that I have some time to engage with this a little more deeply soon …

  5. The original Moldy Figs tended to be obsessed record collectors who sniffed around in attics, closets, and grandma’s home. Sure, they loved the old sounds, but many of them were equally fond of rare matrix numbers.

    They could be ever so pesky, but we all owe them a heap of thanks for preserving history, some of which might otherwise have ended up as piles of shellac.

    I never was much for the tags—although I have used them—but, were I to have one to identify me, it would probably be “Snowball.” Not because I was born in Iceland, but because I have spent over sixty years rolling through and absorbing it all. Actually, there is very little that I dislike and nothing that I dismiss.

    Of course, the old/new, hot/cool polarization was largely the work of people like Leonard Feather. If musicians went along with it, the attraction was the gig. Moldy gig? Nah!

    Thank you Nate and Michael

  6. Stompy Jones

    Just wondering: Has Mr. Chinen listened to “mainstream” musicians, such as Kellso, Kilgore, Sportiello, et al, who are alive and at the peak of their powers? If so, what does he think of them? If not, is he curious about them? Just wondering.

  7. In the world of European symphonic/chamber music it is not at all unusual to have a group play something “modern” (eg, Bartok) along with something “old” (eg, Haydn) in the same concert.

    Has jazz reached a point of maturity and self-confidence — sociological considerations notwithstanding — that it might do the same and dispense with over-labeling and stereotyping?

    I asked my dog this question and she assures me it has, which is indeed good news!

  8. “Dancing With “Words”” — Whew!!!!! What to say about all this chit-chat… (“Here we go ’round the mulberry bush so early in the morning.”)… as if it were something vitally important and/or NEW. “Figs, stones, mold.” Good lord! What it IS (imo) is someone’s opinion bordering on prejudices or lack of acceptance of period american music (composers incl.) with an inflection of self importance. When will we ever progress to the understanding that ARTISTS (whether in text, prose, paint, marble, bronze, or music of any sort) are human beings only endeavoring to express themselves based on what, or who, made an impact on their lives…Who they might have been influenced by… yes… or even having been priviledged to obtain a formal education from an important university. Let’s see… Pres went to Indiana U, right?… Make your own list of history’s jazz players! The best ed. comes when it comes via the school of “hard* knocks”… on the street. Benny Morton, God rest his soul, whom I had the priv. to play many, many gigs with, told me of the wonderful, kind and simple world he lived in before critics began suggesting(?)— NO, TELLING people what or who to listen to (and to stop dancing… and just sit and listen!)… “Listen to this… or listen to that” as if intelligent people couldn’t make a determination for themselves based on their own reasonings/taste appealing processes. Said Bobby Hackett… “We loved playing for dancers.” Michael… thank god YOU follow Thumper’s mother’s advice… “If you can’t say something nice… don’t say anything at all!” (Walt’s “Bambi.”) Cranking up and perpetuating this ancient “moldy fig” crap (and any sort of put-down) is retrogressing. Trying to find a NEW name/slot/shelf, to slide the up-and-coming players into/onto (just for ha ha’s) is pure horse poop**. Just leave them alone and let them play their hearts out on their intruments. Impurities/slag always floats to the surface and will eventually be skimmed off. Whatever is left in the pot is pure gold. Babe Thomas (a gold bar) may not have been an Ella but she loved singing jazz and lifting the spirits of people who were down and out with the blues from life’s problems! It had nothing to do with figs, swing, mold, jump, stones or even “greatness”… it had/has everything to do with living and let live and blowing your axe, just as Tamar Korn does. So this crapola/unimportance of “figs” and “stones” is really a waste of time and energy! Goodbye Nathan! Have a nice trip! Bassface52 says it ALL and we know damn well what he and his dog agreed upon is the dog gone truth, don’t we? His comment is like paint remover, stripping away years of crusty surfaces and getting down to the life’s woodgrain and honesty. Wingy would say… “C’mon in and hear the truth.” That’s about all we or JAZZ needs… The truth… and not another soothsayer who’s looking for a place in the sun. When anything is done creatively out of great effort and love by an artist… and endures the test of time to remain of value to some-one or many… it defies catagorizing and contrivances. Bless George Wettling for punching that critic in the kisser! Good night- mb

    *Omit f—–g
    **Omit s–t

  9. In Azerbaijani Rhythm Club are owning just two records of jazz – is one of Bunk Johnson, one of Serge Chaloff – but enjoying arguments of factions more than enjoying music! Am belonging to faction appellated заплесневелые гранаты (in approximate translated to “mildewed pomegranates”). Is owing N. Chinen congratulations for expert analysing of most serious issue in jazz.


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