Rhapsody in Blue

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to tonight’s match.

In one corner, weighing 120 pounds, meet the master of the light touch and melodies that whisper your name, please welcome Smoooooooth Jazz!

And in the opposite corner, weighing 240 pounds, with the burden of tradition firmly clamped to his shoulders and the clout of legitimacy in his left hook, say hello to Every Other Type of Jazz!

Who will win this impossible battle?

Keep reading as I attempt to settle the match by reviewing Death by Saxophone (2022) a new murder-mystery by Debbie Burke.

I remember it well.

My eyes and ears were absolutely glued to the screen as I watched Penny Lane’s documentary Listening to Kenny G (2021). Like many saxophone players, I’ve been fascinated with the enigma that is Kenny Gorelick for a long time. From our corner he seems so wrong. But for many others he’s just so right. How to explain this divergence of opinion?

La tristesse

By the end of the film I felt incredibly sad for Kenny. Had creating this “musical wallpaper” made him a happy man? He seemed so alone and cut off from the profession at large.

These sentiments were rekindled when I read the opening pages of Death By Saxophone. Alone and unhappy describes Jerry Z, the smooth jazz saxophonist of this story. He meets an untimely end. Curiously, he doesn’t die from unimaginative chord changes, simplistic and repetitive rhythm patterns or a total absence of dynamics. These sins are shockingly overlooked in lieu of other shortcomings.

Still alive, but down and out, Jerry decides that he needs to revive his career by purchasing a bone record.

Bone record?

Yes. Otherwise known as ribs. And not the kind you slather with BBQ sauce!

(In the 1950s and 60s, the USSR banned American rock and roll and jazz music from the airwaves. American albums were pressed onto old x-rays and sold on the black market.)

Oh, those Russians…

Will obtaining this curio boost his career prospects? Sadly not. Instead,

“Jerry’s newfound object of desire was a way to bury the issues in his life: fears about his career, for sure, but an even deeper pain, a baseline loneliness. He could barely look in the mirror and confront himself because it would be a hopeless, vacant stare looking back at him, a depressing and perpetual Möbius strip of aloneness.” (page 20)

Geez.

This description of a sad man is just one of many imagined—and I do mean imagined—parallels between the world’s most famous smooth jazz saxophonist and our ill-fated protagonist, Jerry Z. I’m sure Kenny G would assure us he is a happy man. But one wonders all the same.

Both Lane and Burke paint interesting portraits and offer insightful perspectives on the topic of smooth jazz. And both are adept at brokering a rapprochement between the views of intellectuals and the general public.

Fingers on the Pulse

After Jerry, the next most important character in the book is Rebecca Rifkin, lab technician and amateur accordion player. We learn a lot about smooth jazz through Becka’s eyes:

“Becka had been a jazz fan since about third grade. Before he died, her dad played lots of Wayne Shorter and Johnny Hodges and Sinatra at home. He never got to hear what became known as smooth jazz, and good thing; he would have dismissed it out of hand. Only the originals for him; he could be a bit of a snob that way.” (page 11)

In another teachable moment we get some analysis of the scene:

“Not only was the industry starting to change (more streaming events, online master classes and individual instruction), but the genre itself was experiencing growing pains. While “smooth jazz” on its own terms initially found a happy niche, taking pieces from New Age, R&B and “real” jazz, his genre’s heyday was short. As jazz bloomed into fusion, world music and classic contemporary, smooth jazz was seen as a less exciting alternative.” (pages 17, 18)

Finally, a synopsis:

“It was jazz for the masses; you didn’t have to be an intellectual to “get” smooth jazz. There was no requirement to notice key changes or complex rhythms or harmonies that teetered on dissonance like in traditional jazz.” (page 60)

Insider

A particular treat is that author Debbie Burke is herself a saxophonist. She writes of what she knows. She’s a player AND a fan. She includes details that we serious players understand and appreciate. The everyday realities of being a musician find their way into the text. As one sleepy saxophonist drifts off during a cab ride, “She kept her sax case between her feet on the floor. A pro through and through.” (page 31)

Becka plans a trip to St. Petersburg where she hopes to play with some local musicians. After acquiring a second-hand concertina at a garage sale, “…she saw a few things that needed to be fixed before the trip, like replacing two of the internal reeds, unsticking a few buttons and getting a sturdy case for travelling.” (page 93)

Her eventual jam session with the Russian klezmer musicians at the dry cleaners—yes—is a blast. One of the best scenes in the book, we get a play-by-play of the gig through Becka’s internal monologue. Mercifully, there’s no smooth jazz. Delightfully, there is a theremin solo!

This pivotal scene nicely settles the boxing match, at least for the participating musicians: Quality tunes that have stood the test of time allow for maximum interaction and full engagement with the process. So while smooth jazz might be great for the listener, it’s traditional music that strikes the final winning punch for those who play.

Ambiguity Alert

Details matter. I kept wondering—how old is Becka? She came across as unconventional, young and old at the same time. At first it seems like she might have been 18 or 19 in the 1970s; a young college student, old enough to enter bars: “In the ‘70s, when her college friends were heading to the clubs…Becka was scouring the subterranean holes-in-the-wall for jazz…” (page 11) Later we learn that Becka enjoyed playing handball games with her friends who are described as kids, and that, “Handball was a big deal in the 1980s.” (page 80) Alas, it’s impossible to be a kid in the 80s if you were already a young adult in the 70s. Not being able to pin down her age left my mind unsettled. This, plus a couple of other inconsistencies made me wish for more clarity in the narrative, especially in flashback passages.

Summertime… And the livin’ is easy…

Musician—relax thyself! At the beach, in the hammock, between students or on the tour bus. Death by Saxophone by Debbie Burke is an entertaining read for people like you. The language is spicy and contemporary. Each chapter ends with a you-must-turn-the-page-and-keep-reading anecdote. Like a Nora Roberts novel, it’s smart and light at the same time, packed with with obscure minutiae that titillates the mind.

Finalement: A pleasure read for people devoted to the art of making music. This one’s for you, kid.

Available for purchase here.