A Jazz Thing

At ten-years old, hip-hop production remained a total enigma to me. I couldn’t figure out what hidden reserve supplied this mystic brew of tectonic-rupturing bass lines, filthy drum fills, and empyrean brass horns. Did live musicians stuff themselves into the recording booths with the rappers? Did the beatmakers play every note themselves like funky red-eyed sorcerers? And wouldn’t these creative tributaries eventually run dry?Commercial rap was barely a decade old. If you didn’t live in New York City, information was still esoteric and hard to access. My father told me that it was just a fad – the new version of disco. But on the album that rarely left my CD player, Q-Tip’s father offered a dharmic rejoinder: things move in cycles.To Q-Tip’s dad, hip-hop reminded him of bebop. Or so he was quoted on “Excursions,” the first song and spiritual heartbeat of the ‘90s masterpiece, Low End Theory. I knew nothing about bebop. Jazz was something that my grandfather listened to in his glassed-off den filled with World War II books, Pacino VHS tapes, and thousands of CDs. Oscar Petersen, Duke Ellington, Charlie Parker, Count Basie, Dexter Gordon. I’d eventually inherit them all. At the time, it just seemed like the dull music of out-of-touch AARP members.It’s hard to remember when I realized that almost everything I loved borrowed directly from the past. I eventually learned that hip-hop producers were sampling old records, but never had the budget to seek out the originals. Besides, hip-hop felt so exciting and vibrant that it never occurred to dig much deeper than what was on the radio and cable. The G-Funk era led into the glory days of the East Coast underground and no one bothered to explain to teenagers that actually Biggie’s sample from “Hypnotize” came from the trumpet player Herb Alpert – who actually went to Fairfax High with my grandmother.

Brother Jack McDuff’s “Obligetto” became Tribe Called Quest’s “Check the Rhime.” Donald Byrd’s “Flight Time” became Nas’ “New York State of Mind.” This is the pinnacle of post-modern art, taking coruscating artifacts from the past, isolating a drum beat or a bass groove and turning them into a canvas for a rapper to spit fire over. That’s why ‘90s rap is so great: it’s the fossil fuel refined from the sounds of some of the best music ever conceived.As for me, I eventually got really into jazz about a dozen years ago. After my grandfather died, I inherited his collection, which contained hundreds of Blue Note recordings. I simultaneously learned about the art form and became connected to his memory – a way of keeping his spirit close to me. I just wish he hadn’t gotten a little ahead of himself and traded in his vinyl collection for CDs in the ‘90s.Understanding the connections between old music and now slightly less old music, is a way of seeing our strange human existence as part of a broader continuum. A way of processing how the past directly influences every moment of modern life and a reminder that Q-Tip’s dad was right about things moving in cycles.I never played Low End Theory for my grandfather, so I have no idea if it would’ve been common ground for us. But if there’s an offhand chance that there’s an afterlife, he’d probably ask me to turn it up loud and bring him something to roll up. And then afterwards, he’d ask me why I didn’t bring any of his Charlie Parker records to play, too.