ADULATION WITHOUT LIMIT

I admire certain artists wholly, unreservedly. But that admiration has certain boundaries. When the creator of beautiful melodies is cruel to his daughter’s dog (it was making dog-noise in the hall while he was practicing) my admiration can no longer be whole. This is not to launch into the philosophical quandary, “Can bad people, however you define the term, create great art?” I no longer have the desire or energy to grapple with that one beyond individual cases.

All this is preface to a story about the fabled New Orleans trumpeter Bunk Johnson, who enjoyed incredible fame in the last decade of his life. The story was printed in the collection EDDIE CONDON’S TREASURY OF JAZZ, which I bought in a New York City bookstore (a discount chain called Marboro Books) for $1.98. I was a high school student, which dates my reading of it, and the pages have darkened, but the story has stuck in my mind for decades. Richard Gehman, Eddie’s co-author and perhaps true organizer of the book, shared it as a postscript to Ernest Borneman’s 1947 essay, “The Jazzz Cult.” I don’t know when Gehman wrote it, but the book was first printed in 1957, eight years after Bunk’s death.

I should point out that this post is not anti-Bunk, nor is it anti-enthusiasm.

Before we begin, here’s a live performance of WHEN THE MOON COMES OVER THE MOUNTAIN by Bunk, pianist Don Ewell, drummer Warren Thewis, and perhaps others, in Minnesota, May 1947:

Just after the war, a friend of mine bummed a ride to the west coast with a young man I’ll call The Critic, a Bunkster of the most rabid kind. The Critic’s father also rode along in the car. All the way across the country, The Critic brought Bunk into the conversation whenever possible. If politics came up, The Critic would say, “You know what Bunk says about that?” and then quote one of the old man’s dubious pontifications. If the party stopped for a bowl of chili, The Critic invariably remarked that it was not as good as Bunk’s recipe for red beans and rice. Bunk’s views on theology, philosophy, mathematics, physics, and whorehouses were exhaustively and exhaustingly aired. Meanwhile my friend and The Critic’s father, an old gentleman of about seventy, endured all the Bunk in the back seat, the old gentleman fortifying himself with occasional nips at a pint and reminiscences of the days when there was a racetrack at Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn. By the time the party reached the west coast my friend was thoroughly sick and tired of The Critic, not to say of Bunk, but common courtesy demanded that he express his appreciation for the ride. He did. The Critic acccepted the thanks rather abstractedly, and my friend felt called upon to add something. He said, “Also, R—–, I wanted to tell you that I enjoyed making the trip with your father. He’s a very nice old guy, and I enjoyed meeting him.” The Critic nodded. “Yes,” he said, “Dad is a nice guy. I never realized it for a long time. And you know how I knew what a nice guy he is? Bunk liked him.”

I am sure we can all quietly draw our own conclusions from that.

May your happiness increase!