Jazz
Bing, bong, bang
Martin Gayford
In a way Hampton's talents epitomise jazz itself, with its fusion of African and European musical elements. He is able to perform with inspired rhythmic drive on any instrument you can hit: piano, drums — both of which he still plays — and origi- nally, xylophone, too. But he is also a mas- ter of melodic and harmonic invention, able to produce improvisations of diaphanous beauty and compelling logical structure. The vibraharp (also known as vibraphone, or more simply, vibes) was the perfect vehicle for his percussive and melodic gifts. It is a metal xylophone with a fan that enables notes to be sustained: a set of tuned, amplified drums.
But until that moment in 1930, Hampton had not seen the potential in the vibes. Indeed, nobody had. Like semi-musical instruments, they had apparently been dreamed up with no particular function in mind. And in a decade or so of existence, they had been used to play chimes in between early radio programmes. 'All that beautiful big instrument,' as Hampton remembers, 'and nobody could do anything with it.'
To this day the vibes remain a bit of an oddity — apart from Hampton, there have only been three or four other major expo- nents in jazz. But Hampton, astonishingly, managed to transform this unwieldy piece of ironmongery, over which the performer is obliged to hover like a waiter dispensing creme brul8e, into one of the great emblems of 20th-century showmanship, comparable with Armstrong's handkerchief and Astaire's top hat. Hampton goes back a long way in jazz — Jelly Roll Morton gave him piano lessons, his uncle Richard, a business associate of Al Capone's, was Bessie Smith's last lover. But he achieved the big time as much by showmanship and energy as by music.
His stamina beggars belief. At the Apol- lo Theatre, Harlem, where the Hampton band was a favourite in the Forties, they would do up to ten shows a day. Even in recent years it is unusual for a Hampton concert to end on time. Usually, there are a number of encores and perhaps an impromptu speech or two. On one occasion he complained to the local press after the management, anxious to get some rest, brought down the curtain on him.
He obviously loves making music accompanying himself, as he plays, with a stream of appreciative grunts and chuckles. On many of his finest recordings — for example the two albums made with Art Tatum and Stan Getz on one day in 1955 — he seems unwilling to allow each track to end, and when it finally does, he is determined to get in the final note: bong!
With this ebulliance has gone shameless hokum. Hampton is renowned for twirling drum-sticks, throwing them in the air, then jumping on the drums. Once, at the Apollo Theatre, Harlem, he arranged for the elec- trician to let off bangs and flashes as he did this, causing the audience to flee, thinking the building was under attack. Since the 1940s he has cheerfully hammered out countless performances of his theme, 'Fly- ing Home'.
All this goes down extremely well with audiences, and often badly with critics. On the sleeve-notes to one of his own albums recently he was described as the 'very image of jazz conservatism'. It probably does not help that Hampton is also the epitome of political conservatism, having been a prominent supporter of Republican presidents since the days of Eisenhower. Nor that he is immensely wealthy, as a result of the wise investments of his late wife Gladys, who kept an iron hand on Hampton's finances, and invested the money in real estate and oil-bearing land in Texas.
Personally I love all the hokum, and enjoy the 20,000th version of 'Flying Home'. Hampton — showmanship and all — is one of the treasures of music and deserves every bit of the applause he will certainly get at Brecon.
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