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Rating: Keith Jarrett is a genius.
A genius of contemporary music. A genius of jazz, of the rigor of self-discipline and professionalism. A musician, and a worker, out of time and times. A man without descents into commercial infernos or banal compromises, not even and especially those which are usually so easy to make with oneself. In short: a man who follows to the letter the golden teaching of “never being self-sufficient.” Thus, even at La Scala, in this 2007 of a fake autumn, Jarrett gave the usual lesson of music, of seriousness and, said with strong and intentional rhetoric, of life. It was, essentially, a perfect “Jarrettian synthesis” in which one heard what Keith Jarrett has been in his forty-year career, becoming what he has become today.
We heard the well-known melodic openings, concentrated and absolutely perfect, the obsessive left hand on a single chord, with very few harmonic variations and left-hand improvisations, an interestingly obsessive finale made of notes so fast (sixteenth notes... beyond...?) that they seemed a long trill, this time of the right hand, leaving improvisation to the left, often crossed; then a standard among the encores and a couple of blues, one of which was exclusively harmony and improvisation (theme-less, so to speak), a blues that can be everything and nothing, so beautiful in its statuesque and apparent banality. Then we saw the hysterical Jarrett, for some unbearable and for others (including myself) divine, who vainly attempts the impossible task in which even the duce failed (let alone everyone afterward...), that is, to succeed in disciplining the Italians. Essentially, in a perfect pause of the slow melody of the beginning of the second part of the concert, a friendly old lady (judging by the high pitch and slight phlegmy vibrato) thought, with timing that not even the absent DeJohnette could achieve, to cough loudly. He made an eloquent “no” with his head, broke the enchantment and no longer placed his hands on the keyboard, thus interrupting the best piece of the evening which, if we know the character, will consequently be excluded from the likely (and beautiful) disc. Usual debate (including among ourselves on the way back...): is he right, is he wrong? Is he hysterical, isn't he? Elsewhere, is he like this, isn't he like this? And so on doubting, for the pleasure of ours (arguing is always fun) and of conversation itself.
One doubt/question, however, I throw out there, and then let it be discussed: but does the Italian man, if he has to cough at a Jarrett concert, try (I say, at least, try) not to do it...? (Of course, assuming if he has the flu, he won't give up the concert, not even thinking about it, totally unconcerned with how many people will have their concert ruined because of him, according to the usual Italian-egotistic scheme of “to me it rains outside”...). Italian people and La Scala crowd forgiven, the Maestro continued, initially a bit angry (and, as it is always spontaneous improvisation, the thing reflected in the first pieces of the “post-telling off,” especially the first, almost punitive...), then more relaxed, then again splendidly melodic and perfect, as always. Standing ovation and four encores, confirming that the evening was liked by both sides of the stage. Perfect acoustics and charismatic theater. The doubt that assailed me even there, looking around: but can an immobile object be charismatic? La Scala can. Probably (indeed: certainly) self-suggestion, knowing what has passed through there, the timeless Milanese and Italiano chic criteria, the fact that it never got messed up, etc. Everything contributes, but the fact is certain: there was not a single moment in which I, like everyone, did not realize that we were among the noble thighs of La Scala, and not among the (equally loved, at least by me) sturdy legs of a fine village working society. And Jarrett, he too, knew it: he had passed through there once before, and a difficult, beautiful album came out of it, which divided the critics as almost every one of his records has done since that evening in Cologne.
In short: about Keith Jarrett, as about everything, in Italy, you hear everything and the opposite of everything. But there are some objective facts, on which it is very difficult to argue...: in Jarrett, there's pure jazz, modern jazz, and classical appeal, there is a superior technique that requires hours of daily study, passion, dedication, discipline, and soul. In him, there is our history and the indispensable musical history of 20th-century America. Listening to him, especially live, all of this is felt at a skin level, and there is no doubt: he is a man who lives for his work and from his work. And his work is music. And it is beautiful to see that where his fingers end, a piano must inevitably begin.
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