Jack DeJohnette is the kind of percussionist who might appear on any given night behind a major artist and, by so doing, raise the level of group interplay about seven notches. Such was the case at Newport ’74 when he showed up quite unexpectedly behind Freddie Hubbard at Carnegie Hall. All of a sudden a formerly ho-hum rhythm section was transformed into one of high excitement, distinctive originality, and exquisite empathy.
But Jack DeJohnette is far more than just a drummer who sits in someone else’s band, or even someone who is a regular member of another’s group, performing another’s music and following another’s directions. Besides being a talented composer and group leader in his own right, he is also a frustrated pianist—piano was his first instrument. (DeJohnette is beginning to work this problem out as he gets more of an opportunity to sit at the keyboards rather than merely behind the traps.)
Throughout his musical career, DeJohnette has demonstrated unusual melodic sensitivity for a drummer. Perhaps this has to do with his keyboard training. Perhaps it is the result of his experiences with Muhal Richard Abrams’ Experimental Band of the early ‘60s, a wildly free big band in which he played an initial role. Whatever the reason, DeJohnette has been able to capture this melodic empathy on record. His Milestone recordings of the turn of the decade are strong examples of a young musical mind in the process of development. His interplay with reedist Bennie Maupin foreshadows his incredibly telepathic duet sessions with bassist Dave Holland (Time And Space) and pianist Keith Jarrett (Ruta And Daitya).
DeJohnette has never been willing to sit still long enough to be categorized. The result has been an eclectic series of musical rest stops—a stint with Miles during his Bitches Brew and post-Bitches Brew phases and an unfortunately brief experiment with the collective Compost, a jazz-rock amalgamation that was ahead of its time. Today, Jack DeJohnette is again creating music that is literally ahead of its time (if that is at all possible). The following, you could say, is an updating, part two, of an article he wrote for DownBeat in 1971, entitled "Introducing His New Group, Compost." The discomfiting and often bitter experiences that he has weathered since then are here sifted and analyzed, with the hope that his new-found awareness can lead to a more positive future. (Charles Suber)
After years of playing and listening to every sort of music and having put out my own albums, I find myself suddenly faced with making a big decision over my future, musically and otherwise. In the past, I have put out albums with not much thought to their selling potential, as well as albums specifically designed to sell, all the time feeling very honest about myself and the music. I have never put out albums of my own that I didn’t enjoy doing. But no matter what direction I took, the end results were always the same—none of the albums sold particularly well. This was all very confusing to me. I could play commercial music as well, if not better, than most of the commercial stuff that is selling—my music was good; the feeling on the albums was beautiful; we all had a lot of fun recording them. We didn’t play at the music, we played it. After a while, it finally dawned on me what was wrong and it had nothing to do with the music: it was BUSINESS. Outside of the music, none of us were able to fit the role required to go along with that whole image—the looks, saying the right things at the right times, the socializing required, etc., etc.
It put me through a whole lot of changes. I had always fought labels and categories. I realized my image was one of an "individual," but the question was an "individual what!" So I put together some of what I felt to be my finest music and went around the jazz record companies, because "jazz" to me had always meant individuality. I went to<
