Duke Ellington
Afrique

The year is 1971.

Not an easy year, for anyone. A year of turning points, of changes. A year of chaos. Of long hair, unkempt beards, bell-bottom pants. Of struggles, of blood, of violence.

The year is 1971.

And you don't expect to find someone like Duke Ellington there - in that year. Because, I don't know about you, but what drives me crazy about jazz (or at least one of the things that drives me crazy) is its disregard for chronology. This ability to reinvent time.

In 1971, Miles, bewildered by Jimi's death, had already released Bitches Brew. Think of the masterpieces (at least for me) On the Corner and Jack Johnson. He roams the stages with his electric trumpet, his clown clothes, with his back to the audience. Free Jazz, with its plastic saxophone and its two orchestras scattered across two channels, in two ears, has been a reality for at least ten years. And it is, for everyone. For Mingus, who as usual doesn’t care about what's happening around him. He is the primal scream, the root, the voice of the earth; he sings and plays it, and always has. Coltrane is already gone. He's already written, he's already played his earth. He did it many years ago, in a piece perhaps little known, but for me wonderful, called kulu se mama.

What the heck is Duke Ellington doing in that year? He belongs to an earlier time. He is classical jazz. He is - more than anything else - at least for me, a smile. Not a silly smile. He will never be. Not the smile of someone who is happy for nothing. No, the Duke lives in reality. Yet he always finds something in it. The swing, as he would say, something that words can't express. Something that can't be said but makes him unmistakable. He will spend his life, his long life, giving it to us. Giving us this smile of his, this grace, never banal, never stupid. Playing with everyone, composing, keeping his orchestra running, his soul, his voice. Infecting everyone with his smile. I believe you have in mind his album with Coltrane. Which already - the first time I saw it - impressed me. But how on earth do two like them play together? They do.

As if the Duke managed, even there, to take by the hand a certainly troubled soul, like that of Trane, and say okay, don't worry, let's do it, let what you are come out. And maybe you don't even know who you are.

In 1971 the Duke was 72 years old. An age where maybe even we would manage to enjoy retirement. An age where he certainly had success, money, fame. And he could go to Florida, like Americans do. To think about everything he's done. To enjoy it. What he has left.

But no. Instead, he releases an album. Or tries to release it. Because even someone like him is told no. No, too difficult. The album is called The Afro Eurasian Eclipse. In the end, he will succeed. He will fight and prevail. It's his last masterpiece. And it's difficult not to place it in the free jazz category. And it's hard, listening to it, not to think of the roots.

To a man who, at 72 years old, wants to say, quietly, without raising his voice, his piece. Without overdoing it, without stopping to smile. Without denying his style. As if to take you by the hand. And to tell you - smiling - hi, it's 1971, it's a difficult year, it's difficult music. I'm here, and I'll help you. I'll help you understand...