When Less Is Much, Much More

There are times I wish I knew nothing about Chet Baker’s life. The sorrowful, often stomach turning, tales of his longtime drug addiction; his selfishness to family, lovers, and bandmates; his run-ins with both the law and with criminal elements; and, in the end, his basic indifference to life itself. It’s just a terrible story that too often colors the way we receive his extraordinary musicianship.

A recording I turn to when I seek comfort and, yes, life affirmation is Diane, a duo project that the trumpeter-vocalist made with the pianist Paul Bey in 1985. Not that this recital of slow ballads and mid-tempo renditions of, mainly, standards is a cheery romp. It’s inward and ruminative, most often asking you to cautiously peer into the cloistered world of these two ever-so-thoughtful improvisers rather than offering up unalloyed joy.

Yet, for me, it’s this near concealment that I find most soothing. After listening to this album I feel I’ve gotten to know these men, not as personalities but as true artists. Diane is one of those special jazz recordings where you can hear the players think. You hear each make decisions, turn away from cliches, dig deeper into the guts of a tune. And in hearing this, you come to connect with their humanity, always the most thrilling of aesthetic experiences.

One of the things I love most about Baker is, in the last few decades of his life, his desire and ability to record with just about anybody. How did he find himself making a record with Paul Bley, a pianist who leaned towards the avant garde and free improvisation for much of his career? No matter the actual circumstances of their encounter, a love of standards and pure melody binds the two. As well as a mutual distain for grandstanding. Here, nobody has to prove a thing.

Diane is so lean. Baker selects his notes with a jewel cutter’s precision, yet never makes it sound the least self conscious. It’s just instinctual with him. (And yes, he did have the technique to go big if he wanted to. There are many examples of his exuberant and expert uptempo blowing on recordings from his last two decades to disprove any doubters.)

Bley could also be a man of few words when he wanted to, and here he reacts in kind to Baker, reducing his notes to essentials. His accompaniments are mot juste, his improvisations pared to the bone and better for it.

Diane isn’t pretty. It’s too real, too revealing of its maker’s artistic personalities and temperaments. But it reminds you that sometimes the less uttered, the more is really said.