I listened a lot to the Sirius/XM jazz channel, the definition of middling. It is, for the most part, a 24-hour mix of hard bop by old masters, mid-career vets, and newcomers with aggressive publicists. I also had the presence of mind to grab a couple of unlistened-to CDs before I hit the road.

At a certain point I was once again struck by how often two artists of similar ability and level of creative accomplishment can have wildly different careers–how one will make it big while the other resides on the margins.

I’m not talking about why free jazz cats get fewer and less prestigious gigs than smooth jazz and straight-ahead guys. I’m talking about any two given straight-ahead musicians: neither innovative, both heavily indebted to their favorite jazz great, yet one receiving an inordinate amount of recognition while the other remaining obscure.

I thought of this as I listened to a track by trumpeter Wallace Roney on Sirius, followed immediately by the CD Get Happy (Delmark) by saxophonist Rich Corpolongo’s trio. Both men draw heavily on primary models—Miles Davis in the case of Roney, Sonny Rollins in the case of Corpolongo. Neither artist is literally imitative. Rather, both sound at times as if they’re extrapolating on work done by their idols. Their improvisations often sound something like solos Miles and Sonny could’ve played, but didn’t.

To my ears, there’s almost nothing to separate Roney’s and Corpolongo’s work in terms of creative accomplishment. They’re both equally fine musicians. Yet the former records for major labels and plays the big jazz fests, while the latter records for an indie (Delmark), teaches, writes jazz method books, plays small clubs in-and-around his hometown, and generally does whatever else it takes to make ends meet.

The reasons are many and obvious. I’ll let you suss-out the details for yourself (check out Roney’s Wikipedia entry for help). In short, however, it can be boiled quite simply down to one thing: luck. One guy was dealt a royal flush, while the other got a pair of twos.

It goes to show: fellow musicians, don’t fret and don’t question. It’s wholly likely that your degree of material success has less to do with the quality of your work and everything to do with being in the right place at the right time. The number of Roneys is tiny, dwarfed by the number of Corpolongos. There’s no shame in being one of the latter. Indeed, to persevere and attain such artistry in the face of almost certain indifference is a pretty heroic act, something to sustain you during the time you spend doing one thing for a living, when you’d rather be doing something else.

(Anyone know where i can find a copy of Worker and Parasite?)

The soundtrack is Bix and Tram’s “Singin’ the Blues,” though I’m not sure anyone would recognize it as such if they weren’t told. I used a bit of laptop magic, principally Audio Mulch, which is my favorite music software ever.

I thought it would be interesting to cut-and-paste some random pieces by other jazz writers and see how they came out. The results …

Stanley Crouch: Mario Puzo (my wife got Puzo also—she’s an art director, but a pretty good writer, too, much better than Stanley)

Gary Giddins: David Foster Wallace (I never got past the first chapter of any of Wallace’s books, but I enjoyed Gary’s work in my youth)

Howard Mandel: also David Foster Wallace (see above)

Nate Chinen: James Joyce (see above re: David Foster Wallace)

Doug Ramsey: Stephen King (I read every King book through Christine, none since [except On Writing, which I loved … and which the I Write Like site plugs, incidentally)

Chris Rich: also Stephen King (ahem)

Derek Taylor: H.P. Lovecraft (Stephen King’s spiritual daddy … other than that, I know nothing about him, yet somehow I think Derek would be pleased)

Me: William Shakespeare (I consider this an insult, but will henceforth use it on my resume [I undoubtedly drew Will because I use words like ‘henceforth’])

Dick Twardzik

Louis Armstrong: “Abandoned child from New Orleans, born on the 4^th of July, showed a genius for trumpet at an early age, invented the jazz solo, became a world-renowned entertainer famous for his radiant smile and eternal good nature.”

Charlie Parker: “Raised by a single mother in Kansas City, roamed the city’s streets as a kid, absorbing its jazz culture and picking up a drug habit, took up alto saxophone and—inspired by Lester Young—invented a new way of playing jazz, all the while living as a semi-bum and sociopath before dying prematurely of self-abuse.”

Miles Davis: “The privileged son of a St. Louis dentist, played trumpet in his home town before moving to New York as a teenager where he attended Julliard and stalked Charlie Parker who hired him for his band; became a junkie, kicked the habit, led a couple of classic bands, was obsessed with staying on the music’s cutting edge, became known as jazz’s ‘Prince of Darkness,’ mainly for his ultra-cool persona.”

So much of what we know about famous jazz musicians stems from the narrative that’s handed down by writers and historians. Many narratives can be pared to something not much longer than a Tweet and remain at least superficially compelling, so engrained are the stories in the collective jazz consciousness.

But what of the others? What about he players who surrounded Pops in New Orleans or Bird in Kansas City? What of the many players who were merely excellent or even great, but not “The Greatest?” What are their stories, and why weren’t they written? What about the musicians Rudi Blesh ignored, or John Hammond overlooked?

Fame in the arts is a winner-take-all proposition. Musicians like Armstrong or Parker or Miles receive a disproportionate amount of recognition compared to those just slightly below them in the pecking order. If we can reduce what we know about Freddie Keppard or Buster Smith to a Tweet-length description, it’s mostly because we don’t know much about them.

For example: Was Bill Evans a better pianist than Dick Twardzik? He was different, and certainly more influential. But better? I’d say, if anything, he was mostly luckier … lucky not to die at an excruciatingly young age of his heroin habit, as Twardzik did. Lucky to land a gig with jazz’s most famous bandleader and ride it to jazz stardom.

Ascribe what qualities you will to Evans’ work—he was infinitely sensitive; he imbued his music with abundant feeling. But who’s to say Twardzik wasn’t as sensitive or as feeling? Evans possessed an distinct personal style, as did Twardzik, but to say one was better than the other is an exercise in subjectivity.

Still, Evans’ style became the template for a school of jazz pianists, while Twardzik’s remains virtually unknown and unrecognized some 55 years after his death. Both were great players. One took off, the other didn’t. One died before his influence could be felt, the other lived to become something like a legend. One is a footnote, the other a head on jazz’s Mt. Rushmore. Why? Chance has more than a little to do with it.

Don’t underestimate the influence of luck and/or randomness when considering the careers of jazz musicians. History is written by the winners (or the winners’ amenuenses), and the winners often prevail thanks to factors beyond their level of ability and creativity. The great thing about music is that it has a life independent of the narrative. It lives in sound, and sound doesn’t need a story. Or better: It is its own story.

Think about that the next time you extol the virtues of one musician over another, or when some self-styled expert tries to tell you how to think.

The last-minute cancellation of this year’s Calgary Jazz Festival

I’m no expert on Canadian (or any other kind of) law, but it seems to me that by cancelling the entire festival on just a couple of days’ notice, the Calgary folks are liable for a significant amount of money in ticket refunds and artists’ fees. That they’d cancel the event anyway must mean the cupboard is completely and permanently bare.

At first glance, it looks like Calgary was doomed by its predilection for booking expensive, internationally renowned artists, not just this year, but in past years, as well. Chick Corea and Ben E. King were among the bigger names for 2010. Folks like that don’t come cheap.

Mightn’t Calgary have been better off if they’d forsaken big names and concentrated their efforts on promoting the many local and regional musicians who make up the majority of the festival? Of course, the local cats don’t put as many fannies in the seats, but they don’t cost as much as the Coreas and Kings, either. As it is, it looks like big payouts to famous players year after year put the festival in a hole it can’t get out of. Who suffers? Lesser-known players who end up missing out on a rare and cherished opportunity, and local jazz fans.

Smaller can be better; it sure as heck beats zilch, which is what many Calgary jazz fans–and musicians–are getting for their jazz dollar this week.

Of course, that’s easy to say in retrospect. We can’t know what he would’ve created had he lived longer; last year’s Tapestries for Small Orchestra was a masterpiece, so there’s every reason to expect he would’ve continued to produce great art. But we needn’t be greedy. As it stands, Dixon’s body of work is of sufficient quantity and quality to reward for as long as the idea of improvised music exists.

Chris Rich says we won’t see another of his like again, and that’s true enough. However, part of Dixon’s contribution was to point out directions for others to explore. There were many to heed his call, meaning his impact on the present and future course of improvised music will continue to be felt. It’s corny to say, I know, but while Dixon may be dead, his music lives on. More than that: his influence lives on, and always will. That’s something to rejoice, I think.