Television: Fascinating Rhythms

Hank Williams? He's on the juke box, singing about long country roads and broken hearts, and there is Charlie Parker, the man who turned jazz inside out as if he'd just pulled it through the sleeve of his coat, listening. Entranced. A bystander asks Bird to explain what he's doing paying such close attention to music that is so beyond--no, beneath--the jazz horizon. Parker has an easy answer. "Listen to the stories," he says, and keeps on listening.

The massive series Ken Burns and his associates have shaped into some 17 1/2 hours of Jazz is full of stories, this one and hundreds of others, all setting out with passionate deliberation, and occasional anger, the history of America's finest, proudest indigenous music. Its 75 interviews, 2,400 still photographs, more than 2,000 film excerpts and over 500 pieces of supernal music are spread across 10 episodes, which will take up a good deal of the primest time PBS can spare from Jan. 8, when the first segment will air, to the last day of the month, when the final chapter, an accounting of the music's past quarter-century, a hopeful peek into the future and a fond envoi, will close everything out in fine style. The mighty history Burns and writer Geoffrey C. Ward have wrested from all this material is many things, including imperfect. But on balance and at bottom, the series not only does jazz proud, it also rises to meet it. Jazz is great television about great music.

And, oh, the stories. The unlikely, implacable brilliance of Louis Armstrong, a genius raised on the streets of New Orleans whose mother hooked to survive. The resilience of Duke Ellington, born into comparative comfort, who would rise above race and dwell, as he liked to say, "beyond category," in a world of transcendent music. The bright, hard radiance of Bix Beiderbecke, dead too soon, and the huge spiritual yearning of John Coltrane, who died believing in the salvation his music could bring. Parker, the greatest and most lyrical and most forbidding pioneer of bop--a word he disliked--who exerted an irresistible force on the music and a more perilous influence on anyone around him. "Bird was like fire," says John Lewis of the Modern Jazz Quartet. "You couldn't get too close."

And there is Parker's pal Dizzy Gillespie, who said Bird was "the other half of my heartbeat," a formidable spirit and great artist who tried, and failed, to save Parker from the demons that drove and devoured him. Clifford Brown, dead in a car wreck, whose only vice was chess. Miles Davis, who beat back his inner darkness and took jazz to the peak of its last great popularity. Thelonious Monk, a generative spirit of compulsive genius, who applied a kind of circular geometry to the keyboard and gave jazz new contours. Billie Holiday, the beautiful desolation angel, the most ravishing and ravaged of jazz singers, whose rendition of Autumn in New York Burns allows to play out here as a threnody for jazz's last great era. Bird passes, and Billie passes, and Lester Young, and Louis, and Duke, and all of a sudden it seems there are no more giants, and there is only the hard number: jazz, which was responsible for something like 70% of record-company revenue during the swing era of the '30s, accounts for more like 3% today.