The subject of this welcome biography, of course, would tell us that a book about him would interest scarcely anyone, and that his playing left much to be desired, although he might have written one or two worthwhile compositions. Kenny Wheeler’s habit of self-deprecation was as deep as his talent.
Yet in spite of the Canadian trumpeter’s introversion, he forged a towering reputation, and a far-reaching influence. His individual sound achieved the often sought but rarely realised state of being instantly recognisable. Family, friends and some other important musicians insisted his prowess on the horn and his composing compared with the greatest jazz artists.
One of those was Nick Smart, head of jazz at the Royal Academy of Music, who immediately after Wheeler’s death suggested on behalf of the Academy that he had been “a genius walking amongst us”. Now Smart, along with transatlantic collaborator Brian Shaw, has produced a formidably well-researched account of Wheeler’s life and times that goes some way to justifying such a large claim.
It has taken a decade, and is clearly a labour of love. The result is not revelatory, but if the story fleshed out here is largely familiar to jazz listeners who remember that gorgeous sound, it is certainly told in as much detail – 500 pages and over 2000 endnotes – as anyone could wish. Moreover, it goes beyond the limitations of individual musician biographies to enlarge on important parts of UK jazz history.
Wheeler came to this country in 1952 when he was just 22, a big leap for a shy kid from a troubled home in Canada. Before long he had his first gig, in the Gerard Street basement that would one day host the first incarnation of Ronnie Scott’s club, and met his wife to be, Doreen, who underpinned his career by taking care of all possible domestic business for the rest of his life.
The career progressed from dance bands to jazz bands to tours, and by the end of the 1950s to the leading band of the day, led by John Dankworth. Then came the reliably brilliant work with Wheeler’s own groups, often with the same core set of close collaborators, and increasing opportunities to compose for larger ensembles.
The authors’ account sheds interesting light on the musical life of the 1950s and 1960s. Making a living for London-based players was often a matter of studio sessions in the daytime, and jazz – if you were lucky – in the evenings. Both kinds of work gave rise to tight-knit groups of colleagues, and the book emphasises how this fed into writing, which Wheeler not only composed (in classic jazz fashion) for the qualities of specific players, but also to express “the way he feels about the people he is with”. Sessions for BBC radio were the best opportunity to try out much new writing, though the copying and rehearsing for those was done for love, not money.
As Wheeler was consolidating his personal style in the ‘60s, he got to know the work of Booker Little. The American’s way of straining at the confines of bebop encouraged Wheeler not to play like Little, but to believe that he must cultivate his own style. He still found this frustrating as often as fulfilling, and in pursuit of new possibilities Wheeler the dedicated composer also took up with the pioneers of free improvisation in London, in outfits like the Spontaneous Music Ensemble. The book emphasises the development of this particular jazz career – like most, perhaps – as an endeavour of sustaining a network of collaborators. The trumpeter’s network made him an important bridging point between free-playing and more conventionally-minded scenes, in the UK and, later, internationally.
The international work took a spectacular turn with membership of Anthony Braxton’s group, then with close friend and fellow Braxton alumnus Dave Holland in the bass player’s first great quintet. By now Wheeler, like Holland, was recording for ECM, and the book offers plenty of vignettes of what it was like to work with Manfred Eicher. Prize among them is the occasion when the trumpeter actually once lost his temper and put the phone down on Eicher, apparently leading the usually immovable producer to agree to record a big-band of Wheeler’s own choosing in London. That green-lit the sessions that produced Music for Large and Small Ensembles, often cited as perhaps Wheeler’s finest work.
There was work for other labels, and with other bands, most often – as with many UK players of the time – in Europe. Multiple collaborations with Holland, John Taylor, Norma Winstone, Evan Parker, Chris Laurence and more are chronicled exhaustively here, and there are details of a startling number of large-scale compositions for big ensembles, many of them destined for just one or at most a handful of outings. We learn about all the recordings and not just all the gigs, but sometimes every tune on a gig.
The book probably gets as near the heart of the music as writing can. There is some interesting professional evaluation of Wheeler’s trumpet sound: very strong, centred, and able to find the target area “where the tone takes on the fullest resonance possible for the least amount of work”. That gave him conspicuous stamina, unwaveringly exact pitch and unusually good projection. This does account for part of the experience of hearing him play. The timbre is always burnished, but not over-bright, incisive but never harsh. It’s a voice that commands the ear without apparent effort.
As Shaw and Smart put it, “Kenny never ‘blasted’ to the point where his tone became forced or unattractive. It was just that the core of the sound was so resonant and full of overtones that it seemed loud in a way that could fill a room.”
In this fashion, the book does all that a biography can do. If it aspires, perhaps, to do more, that leads to questions that may not be answerable through reading or writing. Why did someone compose and play the way they did? You might want to find out more about the player to understand the music better. But it is probably more in keeping with their art to turn that round: listen to more of the music, more closely, to better understand the player.
For Wheeler’s technical mastery was allied to other qualities that are harder to describe. The melodies in the compositions and the improvised lines typically had that emotional flavour most readily summed up as bittersweet. His writing and playing returned to this zone again and again. As he said, “beautiful sad melodies make me very happy”. His alternative formulation was also apt, describing his sweet spot as a blend of melancholy and chaos. The title of poet Peter Gizzi’s collection that won the T.S. Eliot prize last month also comes to mind: Fierce Elegies seems to fit quite a few Wheeler compositions. One might go further. At its most affecting, it is some of the best work ever in that area where music makes an existential statement: human life is essentially tragic, but we can choose to create and appreciate beauty.
Wheeler’s final recording for ECM, Songs for Quintet, laid down with care when his health was in terminal decline and his playing often faltering, is a striking evocation of that spirit, but it is as strongly present in much of the work that went before. That, for me, is why Wheeler’s music is so appealing, and why it is worth reading this book, which will almost certainly allow you to track down a good deal more of it than you know.
