Leadership Lessons From The Great Books

Because understanding great literature is better than trying to read and

understand yet another business book, on the Leadership Lessons from the Great

Books podcast, we commit to reading, dissecting, and analyzing the

great books of the Western canon. You know, those

books from Jane Austen to Shakespeare and everything else in

between that you might have fallen asleep trying to read in

high school. We do this for our listeners, the owner, the

entrepreneur, the manager, or the civic leader who doesn't have the time

to read, dissect, analyze, and leverage insights from

literature to execute leadership best practices in the

confusing and chaotic postmodern world we all now

inhabit. Welcome to the rescuing of Western civilization

at the intersection of literature and leadership.

Welcome to the leadership lessons from the great books podcast.

Hello. My name is Hazon Sorells and this is the

leadership lessons from the great books podcast episode

number one forty four

men of colones how was I evil

Oedipus cast his blind eye upon the men of

Athens and blamed the blamed them, not himself,

for the sins he committed. He blamed the city

state. He blamed the rulers. He blamed the

elders. He blamed everybody but himself.

Twenty five hundred years later, the French writer and political philosopher

Jean Jacques Rousseau declared mightily on the

cusp of the French Revolution that, quote,

man is born free, yet everywhere he is in

chains. From these two

philosophical and cultural traditions in the West springs the

idea in constant tension with its Apollonian

opposite that men in their natural organic

state are free, and society serves to shackle

them with needless conventions, arbitrary

rules meaningless traditions and

endless orders of course forcing

them into a state of rebellion against their

natural goodness

And then well, and then art comes along intertwined with

sexual mores and filled with innuendos

designed, as art always is, to channel men's natural

chthonic impulses into Apollonian order

without them really knowing or at the very least

to coax them to release so that

the act of sexual union itself

because art is at the bottom of it about sex

the sexual union itself can be more pleasurable

if this sounds weird for the opening of a literature and

leadership podcast today that's because well, that's because of

the book we are covering today.

Unusual for this show, it is a book that critiques, analyzes, and

examines the untidy and unpredictable nature of one of the

most unlikely genres of art, that is

music, to ever be created by modern

man. This book,

unblinkingly traces the history and the twists and the turns of

improvisation, chaos, and

its manifestation in earthy reality

in a place that can only exist that we in

The United States call, well,

jazz. Today, we will extract as

many leadership lessons as we can from a book written by a man whose

name tends to be intoned with the likes of Pauline

Kael or Toby Tobias.

Considering Genius Writings on Jazz

by Stanley Crouch. Leaders,

here at the end of the fourth turning, improvisation will be the

key to solving some of the hardest problems remaining

in what is left of our benighted twenty first

century.

And we are going to open our episode

today with the essay, the

Negro aesthetic of jazz, by

Stanley Crouch. And I quote,

jazz has always been a hybrid, a mix of African, European, Caribbean,

and Afro Hispanic elements, but the distinct results of that mix,

which distinguished jazz as one of the new arts of the twentieth century, are

now under assault by those who would love to make jazz no more than an,

quote, improvised music, unquote, free of definition.

They would like to remove those elements that are essential to jazz and that came

from the Negro, Troublesome person, that Negro.

Through the creation of blues and swing, the Negro discovered two invaluable things.

With the blues, a fresh melodic could be framed within a short form of three

chords that added a new feeling to Western music and inspired endless

variations. In swing, it was a unique way of

phrasing that provided an equally singular pulsation.

These two innovations were neither African nor European nor Asian nor Australian nor

Latin or South American. They were Negro American.

Though the through the grandsier, Louis Armstrong, swinging and playing the blues

moved to the high ground. After Armstrong straightened everyone out and indisputably

pointed to the way, there was a hierarchy in jazz and that hierarchy was

inarguably Negroid. So much so that many assumed Negro

genius came from the skin and the blood, not from the mind. That is

why one white musician brought a recording to the white New Orleans Rhythm

Kings to Bix Beider Cricker and excitedly told

him that they sounded, quote, unquote, like real niggers.

So the issue was one of aesthetic skill, not

color, not blood.

That white musician understood exactly what every black concert musician rely

realized upon truly meeting the criteria of instrumental or vocal performance.

At some point, perhaps even at the start, Leotyne Prince

learned that being black and from Laurel, Mississippi did not shut her

off from the art of Schubert, Wagner, or Puccini, no matter how far their

European social worlds were from hers in terms of history

and geography. Nor did Price's becoming a master change

those works, she's saying, into German Negro or Italian Negro vocal art.

They remain German and Italian and European, but were obviously available

to anyone who could meet the measure of the music.

Hierarchy has always given Americans trouble. We

believe that records are made to be broken or to be broken free of, which

is why, along with that pesky skin color, the Negroid elements central to

jazz were rebelled against as soon as possible. Martin Williams, the late great jazz

critic and himself a white southerner, told me once that there used to be a

group of white jazz musicians who would say when there were only white guys

around, quote, Louis Armstrong and those people had a nice little

primitive thing going, but we really didn't have what we now call jazz

until Jack Teagarden, Bix, Trumper, and their gang

gave it some sophistication. Bix is the one who introduced

introspection to jazz. Without him, you would have no Lester

Young and no Miles Davis, close

quote. In such instances, Beiderbecher

ceases to be a great musician and becomes a pawn in the ongoing attempt to

deny the blues its primary identity as Negro developed introspective

music, which is about coming to understand oneself

and the world through contemplation. To recognize that would

be to recognize the possibility of the Negro having a mind and one that could

conceive an aesthetic overview that distinguished the music as

a whole. Troublesome person, that

Negro, especially one

with an aesthetic.

Stanley Lawrence Crouch, born

12/14/1945, died

09/16/2020 just before the

launch of this podcast. He

was a American poet, music, and cultural critic, a

syndicated columnist who had a long running column, novelist,

and biographer, in particular, a jazz

biographer. Stanley was born in Los

Angeles, the son of James and Emma Bay Ford

Crouch. Crouch said that his father was a, quote, unquote, criminal

and that he once met the boxer, Jack Johnson.

As a child, Stanley was a voracious reader, having read the complete works of Ernest

Hemingway, Mark Twain, f Scott Fitzgerald, and many of the other

classics, many of which we have covered on this podcast, of American

literature by the time he finished high school.

Stanley came from a and was born in the

pre civil rights era of America.

During the time that he was in high school, Crouch was active as a jazz

drummer. And at the end of his high school career, together

with David Murray, he formed a musical group, the black music

infinity. During the

time he was wandering through his twenties

and into his thirties, Crouch befriended Ralph Ellison

and, of course, the great Albert Murray who influenced

his thinking in a direction less centered on race.

He stated regarding Murray's influence, quote, I

saw how important it is to free yourself from ideology. When you

look at things solely in terms of race or class, you miss what

is really going on.

As a writer for The Voice from 1980 to

1988, he was known for his blunt criticisms of his

targets and his tendency to excoriate their

participants. It was during this period that he became a

friend and intellectual mentor to the jazz great, Wynton

Marsalis, and became an advocate of the neotraditionalist

movement that he saw as reviving the core values

of jazz. Just like Pauline Kael in

film, it could be argued that Stanley Crouch

oh, and Toby Tobias, who I mentioned in the opening as well in dance,

was one of the great jazz critics

and music critics of the

last half of the twentieth century.

Speaking of Stanley Crouch and his understanding of jazz, we

have to look at, when we think about jazz music, one of

the greats of the twentieth century, Louis

Armstrong. And Stanley Crouch had quite a bit to

say about Louis Armstrong, and we're

going to take a look at some of those things that he had to say

as we head back to the book, Back to considering genius,

writings on jazz by Stanley Crouch. We're going to look at the essay,

Papa Dip, Crescent City Conquistador and

Sacrificial Hero. And I

quote, for all the grandeur,

mirth, and joy that Louis Armstrong, Papa Dip, gave

to the world, he was essentially a sacrificial hero.

Though he had contributed to the essential success that made jazz the most

sophisticated performing art in Western history. By the bebop era,

the middle aged innovator was frequently dismissed as no more than a wide

smiling entertainer and Uncle Tom, even a walking

aesthetic cadaver. But as long as an old lion has teeth

and claws, it isn't safe to stick an arm in his cage.

Armstrong was such a lion. His technique was pared down by the

time and by his fantastic exhibitions of stamina and

bravura playing in the nineteen thirties when nothing was too

difficult or too dangerous to try. Consequently, would

be hip listeners and musicians who focused on obvious virtuosity

missed the new things that he had to offer. The wisdom and depth of

experience of his later years was vastly different from the rebellious

longing and the exhilaration of conquest heard when he was a

young innovator. One reason Armstrong's best

late work is often overlooked is that his early achievements were so monumental.

A quintessential twentieth century man, Armstrong created a body of work that

interacted perfectly with the technology of the age when human motion

was literally reproduced rather than described. Through the

phonograph, the radio, and film, his artistic

action was captured as he took on convention and won a well

documented battle. He defeated the greatest gift, the ultimate

measure, and the inevitable enemy, time.

A character of Jean Luc Godard's The Mired Woman states

an understandable European vision when she says in a discussion about memory,

the past, and discerning truth, quote, I prefer the present because I

have no control over it, close quote. That

woman would have been shocked to realize what Louis Armstrong had been doing all

those years ordering the present in the context of

ensemble improvisation. As

Albert Murray has pointed out, the phonograph record gave musical artists the

opportunity to leave truly accurate scores. We don't have to surmise

intent. We could hear coherence and achievement or confusion and

failure. In that respect, technology transcended the written manuscript in the

same way the jazz that the jazz musician transcended the present. When

Papa Dip was a youth, a flame with fresh musical with a fresh musical

world in his very cells, his recordings provided a master

class. Aspiring jazzmen and songwriters played Armstrong's

discs over and over in order to learn how artistic expression

worked on the hoof and what the particulars of his

transforming logic were.

Then we're going to move forward a little bit. As

maturity increases the speed of perception and experience becomes

denser, fewer details are needed to recognize essential meanings. While

the younger person is still contemplating, the old master has moved on to the next

point, digesting through the shorthand made possible by the passage of many

moons. In art, that law allows the individual

gesture to take on greater resonance. The best of Louis

Armstrong's work after 50 proves that his expressive ideas

didn't reach their peak until he was nearly 60. By the middle nineteen fifties,

Armstrong could shade a single pitch with a greater swell of nobility, a

deeper sense of tragedy, a stoic nostalgia shaped by the facts, and

a bittersweet richness born of the lessons he had learned about victory,

ambivalence, and loss. Four collections

that prove my point are Louis Armstrong plays WC Handy, nineteen fifty

four, Satch plays Fats, nineteen fifty five, Satchmo, a

musical autobiography, 1956, '50 '7, and Echoes of an Era, the

Duke Ellington Louis Armstrong years, 1961. He

was then like Escudero, the Spaniard who Ralph Ellison described as

growing to a point that he could reduce the entire vocabulary of

his tradition to a few compelling twists

of his fingers.

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Now back to the show.

In the book of Deuteronomy in the Old Testament in the

Bible, Louis Armstrong would have appreciated this.

It states, and I quote, Moses

was a hundred and 20 years old when he died. His eye

was not dimmed nor his natural force

abated. Close quote. Louis

Armstrong was quite possibly the greatest jazz

musician, the greatest jazz improviser of

the twentieth century, as Stanley Crouch makes his

argument here in his essay in Writings

on Jazz. He was different than

Duke Ellington, who was more of a

classically inclined man, who

took jazz in the direction higher

than it started in nor was he Miles Davis who

eventually, became

the very thing that

he fought against. Louis

Armstrong was not John Coltrane or Charlie Parker,

both of whom struggled with drugs.

Louis Armstrong just was a force that

rolled on and on. He was the Moses of

twentieth century jazz. His

emotional force came through his music, his desire

not only to love and to be loved, but to also make a

dent in the world not by dent of who he

was, but by dent of what his talent

could achieve. Where does power

and influence really come from? Does it come from the well of the

emotional force that a person brings to it?

Does it come from our internal forces or does it come from our

external circumstances? Is a

leader's locus of control internal or

external? Is it what comes out

of a man that is more influential, or is it what

goes into a man? Louis

Armstrong was a sacrificial hero as all

heroes are. He placed himself on

the altar of jazz. He placed himself on the altar

of the twentieth century and allowed himself to

be, to be the thing

that would be fought against, to the thing that would

be contended against, to the thing

that would be pushed against, the rock

such as it were that the later water of all

jazz musicians and all jazz of the twentieth century

would break itself against.

There's a lesson for leaders in the life of Louis Armstrong. And

the lesson is this. Do you wanna go out with eyes

undimmed and force unabated? Or do you wanna go

out leaving everything on the

floor?

Speaking of Miles Davis, let's get back to the book.

Back to Considering Genius, the

collected writings on jazz by Stanley Crouch.

We're gonna pick up here with a little commentary on

Miles Davis from On the Corner, the sellout of

Miles Davis. And I quote,

the contemporary Miles Davis, when one hears his music or watches him perform,

deserves the description that Nietzsche gave of Wagner, the greatest

example of self violation in the history of art. Davis made

much fine music for the first half of his professional life and represented for

many the uncompromising Afro American artist contemptuous of

Uncle Tom, but he has fallen from grace and been celebrated for

it. As usual, the fall from grace has been a form of success.

Desperate to maintain his position at the forefront of the modern music scene

to sustain his financial position to be admired for the hipness of

his purported innovations, Davis turned butt to the beautiful in

order to genuflect before the commercial.

Once given to exquisite dress, Davis now comes on the bandstand draped in the

expensive bad taste of rock and roll. He walks about the

stage, touches foreheads with the saxophonist as they play a duet, bends over and

remains in that ridiculous position for long stretches as he blows at the floor,

invites his white female percussionist to come midriff bare down a ramp and

do a jungle movie dance as she accompanies herself with a talking

drum, sticks out his tongue at his photographer's, leads to the

din of electronic cliches with arm signals, and trumpets the

many facets of his own force with amplification that blurts forth the sound so

decadent that it can no longer disguise the shriveling of its

maker's soul. Beyond the terrible

performances and the terrible recordings, Davis has also become the most remarkable liquor

of money boots in the music business, willing now to pimp himself as he once

pimped women when he was a drug addict. He could be seen on television

talking about the greatness of Prince or claiming in his new autobiography,

Miles, that the Minneapolis, Bulgarian, and borderline dragon

drag queen, quote, can be the new Duke Ellington of our time if he just

keeps at it, close quote. Once nicknamed

Inky for his dark complexion, Davis now hides behind the murky fluid of

his octopus fear of being old hat and claims

that he is now only doing what he has always done, moving ahead,

taking music forward, submitting to the personal curse that is his need

for change, the same need that brought him to New York from

Saint Louis in 1944 in search

of Charlie Parker. Before he

was intimidated into mining the fool's gold of rock and roll, Davis's

achievements was large and complex as a trumpet player and an

improvisor. Though he was never of the order of Armstrong, Young,

Parker, or Monk, the sound that came to identify him was as

original as any in the history of jazz. His technical limitations were

never as great as commonly assumed, except when he was strung out on

drugs and didn't practice. By January 1949, when he recorded

overtime with Dizzy Gillespie and Fats Navarro, he was taking a back

seat to nobody in execution. By May 1949, when he traveled to

France and was recorded in performance, he was muscling his way

across the horn in molten homage to Navarro and

Gillespie, the two leading technicians of the bebop era. He was three weeks

short of his 20 birthday and already had benefited from big hand

experience and big band experience with Billy Eckstein and

Gillespie, already had stood next to Charlie Parker night after night

on bandstands and in studios.

The conventional idea that Davis discovered that he couldn't play like Gillespie and

proceeded to develop a style of of stark, hesitant, even blushing lyricism

that provided a contrast to Parker's flood of virtuosic

inventions is only partially true. A methodical

musician, Davis systematically worked through the things that were of interest to

him. Eventually, he personalized the levels of declamation,

nuance, melodic fury, and pathos that are heard, for example, in

Parker's bird of paradise. But first, he examined

Gillespie's fleet approach and harmonic intricacy, which shaped the dominant approach

to bebop trumpet. From Gillespie, he learned bebop

harmony and was also encouraged to use the keyboard to solve problems. He

even took from Gillespie an aspect of timbral piquancy that settled

beneath the surface of his sound, but Davis rejected the basic nature of

Gillespie's tone, which few found as rich or as attractive as the

idiomatic achievements of the deejoid race brass vocabulary

that had preceded the innovations of bebop. Davis grasped

musical power that comes from having a sound that

is itself a musical expression.

The life and career of Miles Davis proves

the maxim that one, well,

not even one, that everybody, right, wants to rule the

world, but once everybody has it,

no one, or at least very few, can keep

it. Stanley Crouch seems to

have objected to Miles Davis selling out,

and there's something to be said, I guess, for

not selling out, whatever that may mean.

But the slam or the critique that artists sell

out has been leveled ever since

artists began getting paid for their work

in more than just claps and maybe a few scraps

of bread. Improvisation

and selling out in the world of jazz seem to be at odds with

each other, but this is because

Pache, Stanley Crouch, the audience gets to determine

what is, quote, unquote, selling out and not the critic.

Sure. The critic can point the way, and

the critic can point out

the spots along the road to selling

out, but the critic the critic does not get the

final word word. The market does, and the market got the final

word on miles Davis

being a critical darling, and eschewing the audience

or not leading the audience, doesn't lead to market

wealth. But on the plus side, it does lead to less

confusion When you're a critical darling, that means you're

on purpose difficult for the audience to

maintain or for the audience to even get a hold of or for the audience

to even appreciate. I see this in the writing

of my books, and I see this in content and

things that we see on the Internet. Should

books as the final best end of

technology to transmit wisdom across time be

difficult? Should they be easy? Should their covers

be inviting or should their covers be closed off?

Should the content be invigorating and uplifting? Does it

really matter if it's self published or traditionally published?

Does it have more weight, more gravitas, more meaning

if I spent five years trying to

get a book deal for an idea that expired ten

minutes ago that I could have blogged about two days

ago? Being a critical darling

doesn't lead to market wealth, but it does lead to less

confusion. These are the kinds of decisions that talent

has to make, and talent is the other part of the dynamic here.

Miles Davis had talent. Even Stanley Crouch will admit that. Everybody

would admit that. Heck, I was just in a conversation the other day with

somebody and I mentioned to them, when they were asking me

about my music preferences, what I thought of

jazz, and I said, well, Miles Davis in Kind of Blue is quite

possibly the best jazz album of the twentieth

century. Miles Davis had

talent. Talent is mercurial

and transitory, the muse, such as it were,

particularly if it's not appropriately sacrificed to on the part

of human beings. No one really can describe

what the particular sacrifices are that must be made in

order to honor talent. Those are too individualistic and

gossamer like based on your talent and your abilities.

The sacrifices that a carpenter will have to make aren't the same as

the sacrifices that a jazz musician will have to make. The

sacrifices that a business person or an entrepreneur will have to make aren't the

same as the sacrifices that a civic leader will have to make, and,

of course, the sacrifices that a mother or a

father, a parent, or even a grandparent will have to make

aren't the same as the types of sacrifices that a person who has

no children will have to make.

But talent does require sacrifice.

We all know this, by the way. And in the case of art, the sacrifice

always involves the artist making decisions, some of

them intentional, most of them intuitive

about improvisation, about what is selling out and what is

not, and about how to lead the audience.

And this is the big lesson that leaders can take from the life and times

of Miles Davis. The sacrifice

always involves making decisions,

especially if you want the rule of the world, and

you want to keep it.

As we round the corner here today, I want to

quote from Albert Murray in his great

essay, the Omni Americans, talking about the

blues idiom and the mainstream.

I'm gonna read a couple of passages here for you. The creation of

an art style is, as most anthropologists would no doubt agree, a major

cultural achievement. In fact, it is perhaps the highest as well

as the most comprehensive fulfillment of culture. For an art style,

after all, reflects nothing so much as the ultimate synthesis and refinement

of a lifestyle. Art

is by definition a process of stylization and what it stylizes is

experience. What it objectifies, embodies,

abstracts, expresses, and symbolizes is a sense of life.

Accordingly, what is represented in the music, dance, painting, sculpture, literature, and

architecture of a given group of people in a particular time, place, and

circumstance is a conception of the essential nature and purpose of human

existence itself. More specifically, an art style is the

assimilation in terms of which a given community,

folk, or communion of faith embodies its basic

attitudes towards experience. Then I'm gonna

skip down a little bit and go to this. Kenneth Burke has equated

stylization with a strat with strategy. To extend the military

metaphor, one can say stylization is the is the estimate

become maneuver. In such a frame of reference, style is

not only insight but disposition and gesture. Not only

calculation and estimation become execution as in engineering,

but also motive and estimation become method and occupation.

It is a way of sizing up the world and so ultimately and beyond all

else, a mode and medium of survival.

And then a little bit later on, he notes this,

indeed the blues idiom represents a major American innovation of

universal significance and potential because it fulfills,

among other things, precisely that fundamental function that

Constance Rourke describes to the comedy. The irreverent

wisdom, the sudden changes, and adroit adaptations she found in the folk

genre of the Yankee backwoodsman Negro of the era of Andrew

Jackson. It provokes it provides,

quote, emblems for pioneer people who require resilience

as a prime trait, close quote from Albert Murray in his

essay, The Omni Americans. As we close here today, I

wanna get to the core of why we're here in

this short episode about well, about jazz. I

don't have to talk about music on this podcast, and it doesn't frequently

show up as a genre that we do talk about because

music is so emotional, so personal, so

specific to the individual that

the notions and the ideas that I might have about music can

very rarely successfully be scaled up to leadership.

But there's something there in what Albert Murray is getting at and there's something here

in what Stanley Crouch is getting at in his writings on jazz and

there's something here I think that is beneficial for leaders in the jazz

medium as it comes out of America in and of itself

here at the end of the fourth turning.

At the end of chaos, how do you move

into building for the future?

I used to, way back when I first started my first business, I used to

have a hashtag that I would post everything on and you could find it still,

I'm sure, on the Internet and on social media platforms unless it's been

scrubbed or retconned or just forgotten by the Internet.

And the hashtag was buildingforthefuture because I

believed that with every blog post, with every training, with every social

media post, I was somehow building for the future. I was somehow building

for a better tomorrow today.

There's many, many reasons why I stopped using that hashtag, but one of

the big ones is that improvisation didn't

factor in to how I thought about building for the

future. Jazz shows the

way towards improvisation. Jazz is the

way towards improvisation. Jazz is improvisation in and

of itself, and it's the uniquely Yankee backwoodsman

Negro version of jazz that will guide

us out of the chaos of the

fourth turning and into a new, I hesitate to say this,

but a new golden age.

On this one third of the continent, as leaders,

we must encourage people to continue the process of

mixing and mingling our unique natures, perspectives,

humanities, and experiences, and pouring out the gumbo

onto the ground that comes out of that.

By the way, in every first turning, the unresolved

chaos is the unresolved problems, the unresolved

conflicts and tensions that were

present and evident in that fourth turning. In a first

turning, typically, those things are subsumed. Those

things lay fallow. Now they may have some

flare ups here and there, but in general, over the next twenty five

years, what will be

prioritized will be leaders who will have the resolve

and who will be able to resolve the conflicts of the first

turning. Those conflicts will be more Louis Armstrong

than Miles Davis. But either way, they

are going to need they are going to require, they are going

to demand the unique perspective

that the unique well, the most unique form of

music on the planet provides.

They are going to need the perspective of those who think,

who act, and who feel, well,

feel like jazz.

I know this one was tenuous and so I would encourage you

to go and listen to your favorite jazz album. If you've never

listened to jazz before, I would encourage you to start with

Louis Armstrong and move yourself into Charlie Parker,

then take on Thelonious Monk, and finally end with

Davis and Coltrane.

That's my only advice to you as a leader on this episode

today, because that will allow you to

stay on the path in a much more intuitive

and improvisational way. And,

well, that's it for me.

Thank you for listening to the Leadership Lessons from the Great Books podcast today.

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I've heard. Alright. Well,

that's it for me.