SOURCE: “Adorno, Ellison, and the Critique of Jazz,” in Cultural Critique, Vol. 31, Fall, 1995, pp. 129-58.

[In the following essay, Harding finds similarities between Adorno's ideas about jazz and those of Ralph Ellison's narrator in Invisible Man.]

All totaled, Theodor Adorno wrote seven essays on jazz: three in the thirties, two in the forties, and two in the early fifties. His portrait of jazz was never flattering and was highly idiosyncratic. In the thirties, Adorno's criticisms of jazz functioned as the negative critical movement in what can be described as his dialectical embrace of Walter Benjamin's classic essay “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (Arato and Gebhardt 270; Daniel 41-42). For while a polemic against technology endures throughout Adorno's subsequent writing on jazz, extending well into the sixties and framing his discussion of jazz in Dissonanzen (1962), Thomas Levin has recently noted that even as far back as the thirties, Adorno was simultaneously calling for a reading of popular music that was “sensitive to both its reified and its utopian dimensions,” and he began to acknowledge the didactic and “decidedly progressive” advantages offered by phonographs and radio programs (Schönherr 85; Adorno, Dissonanzen 6; Levin 28, 47). Despite this call, Adorno lingered on the “reified” and never ventured into the “utopian dimensions” of jazz. Even Adorno's defenders concede that his criticisms are marked by an almost fanatical rigidity and that the criticisms tend to “flatten out the dynamic contradictions of popular culture” (Jay, “America” 122). Two comparable tendencies to “flatten out” surface in Adorno scholarship on jazz: those who criticize Adorno the strongest examine neither all of his essays on jazz nor the historical context of his arguments, and those who sympathize with Adorno ignore the vast amount of research on jazz that is at their disposal.¹ In both cases, jazz is handled as a homogeneous collective entity, which thus obscures the internal dynamics of jazz and attributes to it a privileged ahistorical status.

To understand Adorno's criticisms of jazz requires situating them in a social history that considers the internal (dynamic) tensions within the jazz tradition. One means of highlighting the socio-historical complexities of this tradition is to juxtapose Adorno's criticisms with the representations of jazz in Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man (1952). In his essays, Ellison has proven himself to be a formidable jazz critic in his own right. Bringing the two writers into the same discussion not only confronts Adorno's arguments with those of a critic who had first-hand experience of the formative years of jazz, but also, because of the important role that African-American musical traditions have in Ellison's novel, discussion of it side-by-side with discussion of Adorno places Adorno's criticisms within a context of the social complexities of the jazz tradition.² My goal in pursuing such considerations is to demonstrate Adorno's place in the history of jazz criticism and to give a much needed historical grounding to the debate on Adorno, jazz, and popular music. In particular, I want to focus on the pivotal position that Louis Armstrong plays in Invisible Man's prologue and epilogue. What emerges from this focus is a surprising correlation between the attitudes of the narrator in Ellison's novel and of Adorno in his criticisms of jazz.

During the thirty years that span Adorno's writings on jazz, his only major discursive shift resulted from his encounter with two books which, save for numerous earlier discussions in Frankfurt with the jazz critic Mátyás Seiber, were to become the intellectual sources of all his subsequent writing on jazz: Winthrop Sargeant's Jazz: Hot and Hybrid (1938) and Wilder Hobson's American Jazz Music (1938). In one respect, the review which Adorno wrote of these books in 1941, and which is marred by misquotations and misrepresentations of Sargeant's and Hobson's arguments, only widens Adorno's frame of reference for opinions he already had about classical music and about jazz. Written roughly two years after Adorno's arrival in America, the review, interestingly enough, criticizes the defenders of jazz not because they equate jazz with classical music, but rather because in doing so—to invert Jay's phrase—they “flatten out the dynamic contradictions of” classical music. By reaffirming the internal disparities of classical music, Adorno begins in his review to dismantle what two years earlier he argued was an obsolete distinction between classical and popular music. Adorno believed that the culture industry had long since appropriated the distinction and thus undermined the presumptions of both Sargeant's and Hobson's arguments.

Jazz: Hot and Hybrid and American Jazz Music became fixed diametrical points of reference for Adorno, and the arguments Adorno formulated for his review resurface in his last three essays. Though critical of Sargeant's “naive” defense of jazz, Adorno admired him as a fellow musician and critic. Sargeant was a Viennese trained violinist with the New York Philharmonic, and his book was, according to Adorno, of “much more serious scientific intentions and … much more adequate to the subject matter” than Hobson's (Adorno, “Review” 168). The fact that Adorno twists many of Sargeant's arguments against him did not stop Adorno from later frequently appealing to Sargeant as a “scientific” authority to substantiate his own arguments. The appeals span twenty years: from Adorno's short contribution to Runes' and Schrickel's Encyclopedia of the Arts (1946), to his article “Perennial Fashion” (1953) and his little-known published polemic with Joachim-Ernst Berendt (1953), to his Introduction to the Sociology of Music (1962).

Adorno's handling of Hobson, on the other hand, was curt if not abusive. He attacked Hobson's attempt to define jazz as America's classical music, reacted negatively to Hobson's understanding of how jazz had found its way into modern classical composition, and challenged Hobson's uncritical conception of modern classical music. In his equation of jazz and classical music, Hobson fails to distinguish between Viennese schools which understood themselves in terms of rivalry and opposition, and Adorno's disapproval derives in large part from the strong personal investment that he had in maintaining the clarity of these oppositions. By citing both Alban Berg's “Wozzeck” and Krenek's “Jonny Spielt Auf” (in the same sentence) as examples of jazz-influenced concert music, Hobson merges the avant-garde atonal school of Schönberg with the Gebrauchsmusik of composers like Hindemith, Krenek, and Weill (Hobson 82-83; Craig 475). Adorno associated Hindemith's circle with Neue Sachlichkeit, which was the subject of much of his aesthetic criticism and which was, temperamentally at least, incompatible with Schönberg's atonal philosophy.

It is safe to say that as far as Adorno was concerned, if jazz was associated with Neue Sachlichkeit or Gebrauchsmusik, so much the worse for jazz. Indeed, as early as his 1936 essay “On Jazz,” Adorno had rejected jazz because of its association with Neue Sachlichkeit and the movement's ideological undertones (49). It is no small coincidence then that after his review of American Jazz Music, Adorno subtly revises Hobson's argument in his contribution to Runes' and Schrickel's Encyclopedia of the Arts (1946). He cites all the examples given by Hobson, but replaces the reference to Berg with one to Stravinsky, who, in The Philosophy of Modern Music (1949), was to become the central figure of contrast which Adorno used in his praise of Schönberg. Four years later, in Adorno's published polemic with the German jazz critic Joachim-Ernst Berendt, “Für und Wider den Jazz” (1953), Adorno turns the tables on Berendt, who in defense of jazz notes the similarities it bears to the compositions of Stravinsky and Hindemith. Adorno responds that whoever believes Stravinsky and Hindemith to be the vanguard of the new and modern clearly is unfamiliar with Viennese atonality (Adorno and Berendt, “Wider” 892).

Aside from how the two books summon Adorno's investment in the rivalries of twentieth-century European music, Hobson's and Sargeant's books are important to an understanding of Adorno's views on jazz because, while both books trace the migration of jazz musicians from New Orleans to Chicago, they were published prior to the advent of bebop. This is a source of enlightening irony in “Perennial Fashion” and also in Introduction to the Sociology of Music, since in both instances Adorno appeals to the authority of Sargeant when he rejects both swing and bebop (“Perennial” 121; Sociology 33-34). Published when they were, Hobson's and Sargeant's books could provide no account of the period of musical innovation and philosophical redefinition that occurred in jazz during the forties. Hobson's and Sargeant's arguments precede the period which Adorno used them to reject, and Adorno's appeal to Sargeant in his rejection of bebop suggests that Adorno's opinions about jazz were already solidified before the rise of the movement he slights in passing reference. With the exception of his categorical rejections in 1953 and 1962, Adorno displays no knowledge of bebop whatsoever.

There is little question about the inexcusable disservice that Adorno did to jazz and to his own arguments by relying so heavily in the forties, fifties, and sixties on jazz histories published in the thirties. But what this disservice means for Adorno's critique is another question. His arguments precede what has often been called the second half of jazz history. If we can accept Miles Davis's claim that the history of jazz is summed up in four words, “Louis Armstrong Charlie Parker,” then it is worth considering the place and the significance that Adorno's opinions have in relation to the first half of that history. Despite his condemnation of bebop, Adorno's criticism focuses primarily on the early history of jazz, and philosophically, his criticism coincides frequently with the underpinnings of the first major movement in jazz history after Louis Armstrong's migration to Chicago.

Inasmuch as Adorno maintains that, in the aftermath of the culture industry's rise, a serious distinction can still be made in classical music between Gebrauchsmusik and Schönberg's avant-garde atonality, he concedes the possibility that other musical forms may sustain comparable critical disparities within the discourse of their own cultural traditions. Bebop's relation to swing, for example, can be understood in these terms, despite Adorno's having categorically rejected this interpretation. On this point, which is the logical baggage carried by Adorno's own arguments, it is helpful to apply to jazz Adorno's claim that works of art represent the last vestiges of critical resistance to social repression. Acknowledging the internal dynamics of the jazz tradition thus offers the possibility to heed Adorno's social and cultural critiques without succumbing to his penchant for totalizing concepts. Such an acknowledgment salvages Adorno's cultural theories by circumventing his monolithic conception of society and culture and by giving it a critical diversification and flexibility. To consider the dynamics of the jazz tradition facilitates an evaluation of jazz in terms of the “rigor,” to follow Adorno, with which it established itself within a vast diversity of cultural contexts which Adorno passes over. The question thus arises concerning the extent to which jazz too is marked by dynamic disparities comparable to those whose integrity Adorno so vociferously defended with regard to modern European music. Pursuing this question provides a clear avenue into the workings of Invisible Man because Ellison draws heavily upon the disparities of jazz when constructing the essential tensions of his novel.

When Ellison's novel begins, the story has already ended, and the invisible man has retreated into hibernation, which he defines as “a covert preparation for a more overt action” (13). As a source of solace and inspiration, the invisible man listens to records by Louis Armstrong, who he says has “made poetry out of being invisible” and who has already moved into a realm of “overt action” comparable to that for which the invisible man is preparing and which takes form in the poetic structure of the story he narrates (8). For the invisible man, Armstrong's significance derives from an ability to create poetic meaning out of a situation with which the invisible man is only beginning to come to terms. Of central importance is the invisible man's distinction between the “covert” and “overt,” because it is here that through literature he imitates Armstrong and develops what Deleuze and Guattari call a “minor literature” within the major cultural tradition which can afford him no visible recognition. In short, he begins to understand the revitalizing power of the vernacular amidst the dominant discourse which excludes him.

Briefly, Deleuze and Guattari argue that minorities (like the Czech/German Jews of Kafka's Prague) often construct a minor literature within a major language. Minor literatures emerge as a source of identity within an immediate political/cultural context. With regard to Adorno and the question of jazz, it is possible to modify Deleuze's and Guattari's arguments to accommodate a notion of a “minor culture” and to use this modification to examine two concurrent but disparate forms of cultural experience, what the invisible man calls the “overt” and “covert.” The first instance falls under the scrutiny of Adorno's claim that resistance to uniformity demands the most rigorous critical activity. But the second becomes the minor cultural locus of identity and resistance which Deleuze and Guattari describe. A sense for the “covert” and “overt,” or the “minor” and the “major,” is implicit in the invisible man's act of self-naming, i.e., in the identity that he assumes while in hibernation.

“Jack-the-Bear,” the name which the invisible man assumes for himself in his secluded basement room, belonged to an actual jazz musician and in the context of the invisible man's hibernation alludes to what in criticism has been acclaimed as the most vital element of jazz culture. Ostendorf recounts that Louis Armstrong learned his art in private sessions where jazz musicians gathered, competed with one another, and forged musical innovations in improvised “cutting contests” (Ostendorf 166). Jack-the-Bear was an avid participant in these sessions in Harlem during the thirties (Sales 74). In his own essays on jazz, Ellison describes the sessions as “a retreat, a homogeneous community where a collectivity of common experience could find continuity and meaningful expression” (Shadow 209). Even Sargeant notes in his revised edition of Jazz: Hot and Hybrid that jazz historians have frequently discussed the double life of jazz, that a covert or sub-cultural form of jazz existed “for the enjoyment of the players themselves” beneath the popular commercialized version criticized by Adorno (18). This duplicity in jazz culture is reflected in the name which the invisible man assumes for himself. Not only was Jack-the-Bear a legendary (covert) cutter, but his name later served as the title for one of Duke Ellington's greatest popular (overt) successes (Collier, Making 247).

The duplicity is also reflected in the structure of jazz music itself, and a momentary consideration of this structure suggests that the “covert” life of jazz is not merely a transitory respite to be discarded once the musician has prepared for “overt” action. The “covert” and “overt” exist concurrently, forming a social cultural parallel to the multilayered rhythms of jazz that are traceable to African influences and that are part of the religious cultural heritage of African Americans (Kofsky, “Folk Tradition” 3). In jazz a major beat in one line may simultaneously be a twelfth in another line, and thus jazz rhythm incorporates a notion of multiple meanings (Brown 117, 125-26).

Likewise, Amiri Baraka argues that in jazz improvisation the notes are not merely a departure from the score, but have multiple mediations and hence multiple meanings (Black Music 15). What in one setting constitutes the type of commercial exploitation for which Armstrong was later criticized by beboppers and Adorno alike, in another setting makes up the virtuosity upon which the legend of Armstrong firmly rests. Certainly, “the improvisatory skills of jazz musicians reflect the … flexibility and immediacy of response” which have been necessary for black American survival (Cowley 196). Later in the novel, this same type of flexibility enables the blues singer Trueblood, as Pancho Savery, Houston Baker, Jr., and Berndt Ostendorf have noted, to reaffirm “his [folk] identity” despite catastrophe, “translate his personal disaster into a code of blues,” and resist the “centralized [cultural] monologue” which would condemn him (Savery 69; Baker, Blues 190; Ostendorf 151). The covert thus functions as a strategy for dealing with the deficiencies of overt social experience. More importantly, however, in jazz a double cultural life emerges, and in its parallels to the multilayered rhythms of African music, the duplicity of the jazz social experience is a distinctly African contribution to American culture. The duplicity is as much a part of the structures of the music itself as it is reflective of the lives of jazz musicians.

Given that Hitler's stigmatization of jazz as non-Aryan belonged to the same ideology that forced Adorno, a German Jew, to flee Nazi Germany, one would think that Adorno might have developed a sensibility for the struggles for freedom within African American folk culture—or, to follow Deleuze and Guattari, that, as a member of one minor culture, Adorno might have felt strong affinities for the articulated struggles of another. In fact, Adorno claimed to have precisely such an affinity for black experience when, shortly after he published “Perennial Fashion,” Joachim-Ernst Berendt accused him of implicit racism and suggested that Langston Hughes would be a more appropriate spokesperson than Adorno on behalf of black struggles for civil and cultural equality. The tag of racism has plagued Adorno since his earliest writings on jazz. Adorno reminds Berendt quite accurately that he (Adorno) co-authored the most significant study of racism in America in recent times, The Authoritarian Personality (1950). Adorno explains to Berendt that he desires merely to point out where blacks are being exploited as “eccentric clowns” and where jazz subtly makes entertainment out of what has been done to African Americans (Adorno and Berendt, “Wider” 892-93). In this respect, Adorno's response to Berendt corresponds with criticisms voiced in the African American community itself. In fact, Adorno's argument coincides almost verbatim with Ellison's argument in “Change the Joke and Slip the Yoke,” where he claims that “the entertainment industry … [debases] all folk materials” and reduces blacks to grotesque comedy (Shadow 48). For Adorno, however, understanding of debasement and racism is inseparable from the forced experiential lessons he learned amidst the fascist rise to power in Weimar Germany. The seemingly racist undertones of his criticisms of jazz are a combination of abhorrence to both the culture or entertainment industry and the implementation of Nazi ideology.

Given the historical context of Nazi cultural politics, one can read, for example, the oft criticized grounds that Adorno uses for rejecting jazz in his first article on the subject, “Abschied vom Jazz” (1933), as a subtle defense of it. Adorno wrote this first article shortly after the Nazis outlawed the broadcasting of jazz on the radio. When one places Adorno's claims that jazz is “not Black, not powerful, not dangerous … [nor] emancipatory” in the context of fascist Germany, Adorno's arguments refute point by point the hysteria to which the Nazis appealed when they banned jazz music. As Marc Weiner has argued, it is thus “possible that [Adorno] intended … [his claims] to be read as a strategic response to the conservativism discernible in his contemporaries' reaction to the music” (Weiner 484).

The problem with Weiner's reading of “Abschied vom Jazz” is that, unless the article is placed within the general schema of Adorno's critique of fascist cultural ideology, it is equally possible to read “Abschied vom Jazz” as a defense of high culture, a reading which is encouraged by Adorno's scathing review of Wilder Hobson's book. This is the most frequent criticism of Adorno, typified by critics like Lorenzo Thomas, William Nye, or Peter Townsend who argue that, as a Eurocentric cultural elitist, Adorno had a deaf ear when it came to vernacular cultural expressions. Fredric Jameson subscribes to a similar position, although with a more apologetic tone, by simply redefining Adorno's writing on jazz as a critique not of “serious jazz” but of “Paul Whiteman” and by comparing Adorno's criticism with a rejection of a “standard Hollywood Grade-B genre film” (141). In Adorno's defense, Martin Jay, Ulrich Schönherr, and Jamie Owen Daniel have noted that Adorno's controversial opinions on jazz employ the identical dialectical methodology that, a year after he published “On Jazz,” Adorno used when criticizing Wagner in In Search of Wagner (Jay, Adorno 119; Schönherr 86; Daniel 40).³ Two years later in “On the Fetish-Character in Music and the Regression of Listening” (1938) Adorno suggested that the Nazis' banning of jazz was as disgusting as their subsequent programmatic attempt to “cultivate” the masses by broadcasting the greatest achievements of German classical music.

The importance of “On the Fetish-Character in Music and the Regression of Listening” to any understanding of Adorno's concerns in his criticism of jazz cannot be underestimated. It undercuts the charges that Adorno was defending a high cultural elitism, because in it he asserts that “the differences in the reception of official ‘classical’ music and light music no longer have any real significance” (276). For Adorno “the real dichotomy … was not between ‘light’ and ‘serious’ music—he was never a defender of traditional cultural standards for their own sake—but rather between music that was market-oriented and music that was not” (Jay, Imagination 182). According to Adorno, the culture industry (and fascism is implicated here as well) had gained control of both classical and folk or popular music and employed similar mechanisms in both cases to manipulate the market. Although Adorno's favorable comments on music always refer to European music, to argue that Adorno's criticisms of jazz are a defense of high culture is to ignore his focus on the socio-historical tendencies which have rendered “the organization of culture into ‘levels’ … patterned after low, middle and highbrow,” not only obsolete but also “reprehensible” (Adorno, “Perennial” 127).⁴ Adorno's general critique of the commodity character of music as it has evolved under late capitalism challenges the survival of both classical music and jazz as forms of entertainment.

In Adorno's Aesthetic Theory Lambert Zuidervaart argues that in the early stages of capitalism “music was produced to be purchased, and it was purchased to be enjoyed.” Adorno's objection was not against enjoyment, but rather that at the hands of the late-capitalist culture industry the use value of enjoyment had been supplanted and exchange value was now presented as “as an enjoyable use value” (Zuidervaart 77-78). When Adorno speaks about the necessity of jazz's constantly promising “its listeners something different [to] excite their attention,” Adorno is not so much talking about jazz itself as the industry that props it up (“Perennial” 126). But as a consequence, this industry seriously compromises the possibility for critical assessments of the quality of the entertainment provided by the music, whether jazz or classical. On this point Adorno is no voice in the wilderness. In Black Nationalism and the Revolution in Music (1970), Frank Kofsky notes the conflict of interest resulting from the fact that the critics of jazz are by and large “dependent on the recording industry for their livelihood” (75). They cannot afford to be critical because they are the same people who earn their living by writing record jackets. More recently, John Gennari has explained that early jazz critics would have had trouble avoiding these conflicts, that anyone “trying to make a living as a jazz critic in the 1930s … would have had a hard time not looking for the most remunerative possibilities available in the practice of his craft” (475). To say that “Jazz, like everything else in the culture industry, gratifies desires only to frustrate them at the same time” refers to the advertising hype which redirects “enjoyment” to the actual purchase and the often misleading thought that one is getting something “new” and “innovative” (Adorno, “Perennial” 126).⁵

Although Adorno's criticisms of modern music hinge on a dichotomy between market orientation and resistance to commodification, his reservations about jazz folk culture as a locus of struggle and liberation cannot entirely be linked to the abuses of the entertainment or culture industry. They are also “tied … to his revulsion with Nazi pseudo-folk culture” (Jay, Adorno 120). Martin Jay has noted that for Adorno:

Folk music was no longer alive, because the spontaneous Volk had been consumed in a process that left popular music, like all popular culture, the creature of manipulation and imposition from above.

(Imagination 185)

Inasmuch as the manipulations “from above” can be associated with the entertainment industry, so too are Adorno's criticisms of jazz inseparable from an intellectual opposition to the conditions which he believes led to the election of Hitler (Daniel 40). Adorno's apprehensions about jazz culture stem from his having observed the Nazis manipulate folklore to their own propagandistic ends.

Adorno's concern that jazz culture lends itself to appropriation does not appear to have been groundless. Scott DeVeaux observes in “Constructing the Jazz Tradition” that the history of jazz is a “struggle for possession of that history and the legitimacy that it confers” (DeVeaux 528-29). The struggle is often waged through definition by exclusion. Jazz has so frequently been coopted by groups with contradictory agendas that Amiri Baraka complained that white critics who seek to define “jazz as an art (or folk art)” often do so without giving consideration to the intelligent “sociocultural philosophy” from which it stems (Black Music 14). During different periods, jazz has been embraced across the political spectrum. Cold Warriors and the State Department have used it as an avatar of American cultural values (Kofsky, Revolution 31, 111; DeVeaux 526; Gennari 478). In the twenties and thirties, the left too vied for possession of the jazz tradition in accordance with Lenin's general wishes that all branches of the party render “direct aid to all the revolutionary movements among the dependent and underprivileged nations (for example, Ireland, the American Negroes, etc.) and in the colonies” (Berry and Blassingame 416). Citing S. Frederick Starr's Red and Hot, James Lincoln Collier has noted that in 1928 “the Comintern decided … to treat American blacks as a ‘colonized nation’” and that consequently critics like John Hammond, Otis Ferguson, Charles Edward Smith and B. H. Haggin represented jazz in left-oriented presses “as the ‘folk music’ of … [a] colonized race” (“Faking” 37; Reception 70-71). Incidentally, Collier himself has been the subject of much deserved criticism for his own selective revision of the jazz tradition.⁶ But his argument on the subtleties of the left's interest in jazz offers some provocative insights into how Invisible Man questions the substantial theoretical support that black nationalists historically received from the Communist party. Lenin's insistence on “the right of subjugated peoples to self-determination” takes the ironic form of the Brotherhood's concern that the invisible man might not be black enough to represent their interests in Harlem and in the invisible man's being given “freedom of action” while remaining “under strict discipline to the committee” (Berry and Blassingame 416; Ellison, IM 351). Here, the irony emerges as it becomes increasingly evident to the invisible man that the Brotherhood will tolerate only its own limited preconception of what is black and what constitutes legitimate ethnic expression.

In his recent article “The Signifying Modernist,” William Lyne observes that when the invisible man is asked by another member of the Brotherhood to sing a “Negro work song,” the invisible man's mentor Jack rifles his ability to respond, subsumes it beneath the monologic interests of the Brotherhood, and thus disarms the “double-voiced tools [in jazz] that are supposed to undermine and transform … official hierarchies.” In short, Jack, whose own expressions occasionally regress into a European tongue, appropriates “one of the most important parts of African American expressive culture” (Ellison, IM 304; Lyne 328). He can only understand enjoyment of African American musical traditions as degrading and as a remnant of racist attitudes. Collier's arguments suggest that a similar procedure marks the left's manipulation of jazz for its own political ends. On this point, he is in agreement with other historians, except that it is euphemistic to describe their view of jazz merely “as the ‘folk music’ of … [a] colonized race.” Jack's disapproving retort, “the brother does not sing!,” differs from the left's provisional embrace of jazz only in its frank rejection of the value of jazz traditions.

Scott DeVeaux has argued that Starr and Collier misperceive jazz and see it as a crippled articulation of a repressed people. Yet the same can be said of the left whose appreciation of jazz in the thirties was as often scurrilous as it was supportive (534). Examples abound. John Hammond was subjected to severe criticism in the Daily Worker when, after his “Spirituals to Swing” concert (1939), he claimed that “jazz music is uniquely American, the most important cultural exhibit we have given to the world” (Naison 22). Following the benefit given the next year for the Spaniards who were fighting against fascism, Hammond was so infuriated with the party's patronizing response to Fats Waller and Cab Calloway that “he demanded and received an apology from the Daily Worker” (Naison 3-4, 15). The source of the left's criticism of Hammond and of their patronizing attitudes toward jazz musicians lies in their assessment of jazz itself, an assessment which treated black folklore and jazz not as “important cultural exhibits” but rather as Eugene Gordon depicted them at the American Writers' Congress in 1935: “as a ‘national psychosis’ resulting from repression” (Strout 82). In this respect, Jack's blunt rejection of the request that the invisible man sing “a Negro work song” parallels the left's view of jazz: that it needed to be overcome.

At first glance Adorno's own position on jazz would appear to coincide with that expressed by Eugene Gordon and by the character Jack in Ellison's novel. In “Perennial Fashion,” he argued that a “real unadulterated jazz” could not be distinguished from “the abuse of jazz” because abuse was an innate dimension of jazz itself. Negro spirituals, he argued, “were slave songs and as such combined the lament of unfreedom with its oppressed confirmation” (“Perennial” 122). To celebrate “Negro spirituals” now was also to celebrate the unfreedom that they confirm. However, Adorno's position differs from the left's provisional support of jazz specifically with regard to the question of abuse. Gordon's reservations about the aesthetic virtue of jazz did not hinder the left's appropriation of it as a tool for its own agenda.

Of particular interest to the left was the desire to dampen rivalries with black nationalists who had described themselves “as a nation within a nation” some seventy years prior to the Comintern's decision to adopt a similar line (Berry and Blassingame 397). In terms of improving the living standards of the African American community, the gains brought about by the left's activism in the 1930s had weakened support for black nationalist ideologies of Garveyism. Ellison portrays this competition in the Brotherhood's rivalry with the black nationalist Ras the Exhorter (Naison 2; Strout 82). Jazz fell within the scope of this agenda, in part, because the Nazi denouncement of it as degenerate galvanized black civil rights activists and the left in a common fight against the racist attitudes of fascism (Naison 3). But Jazz was not supported for jazz's sake. Rather the left's embrace of jazz further undermined black nationalism by coopting what Mary Berry and John Blassingame have called its cultural nationalistic program (388).

Ellison's novel parallels the left's use of jazz when, on the advice of the invisible man, the Brotherhood attempts to gain a consensus for its overall agenda by forging one on a specific community issue, the resistance to evictions. The strategy is to force Ras and his black nationalist followers into a position where the only way for them to keep from contradicting their own rhetoric is to give their support to the Brotherhood. Having gained community support for this specific goal, Jack then shifts focus from local issues to international ones (IM 355, 418). Likewise, specific support by the left for jazz music in the thirties was an attempt to gain consensus for a larger political agenda. Insofar as the left capitalized on the opportunity presented by the Nazi denouncement of jazz, their interest in jazz was as “unadulterated” as the Brotherhood's interest in pushing the issue of unjust evictions in Harlem; both serve to divert support from black nationalism and build consensus for their own program; both are part diversion and ploy.

In contrast to such political stratagems, Adorno's criticisms evince an unwillingness to pay disingenuous lip service, i.e., to abuse jazz, as a political strategy for forging consensus. Having witnessed how easy it was for the Nazis to manipulate folklore in a similar manner, Adorno approached jazz with apprehension and caution, recognizing that out of their element the artifacts of folk culture can become powerfully dangerous rhetorical tools. In this regard, Adorno's apprehensions have a subtle correspondence with the arguments of those whose defense of jazz emphasizes a cultural nationalism over the celebrated double life of jazz. Like Adorno, jazz critics who tend toward cultural separatism are most vehemently critical of the degrading abuse that jazz and jazz musicians have suffered and are skeptical of programmatic attempts to integrate them into a larger communal system.

Unlike Adorno, however, separatist critics attempt to circumvent the abusable dimensions of jazz by asserting its purity and value vis-à-vis environments that are prone toward abuse. Jazz becomes a music of “doing,” whose vitality is lost in the recordings that document it (Williams 251). Or the vitality of jazz diminishes “the further jazz move[s] away from the stark blue reality of the blues continuum and the collective realities of Afro-American and American life” (Baraka, Daggers 271). In a new context, jazz becomes recoded, vitiated, reified. The vital literally becomes an object, manipulable and marketable. The separatist project, then, is to shelter jazz from abusive environments—except the problem with blaming abuse entirely on socio-historical mediations (i.e., the social context), exempting jazz itself, is that the two cannot be neatly separated. The fact that jazz readily glides from one context to next would suggest that it is fundamentally not as separatist as those who would “protect” it.

In reply to the unsympathetic analyses of black cultural nationalism that have dominated scholarship, Mary Berry and John Blassingame counter that, given the abysmal failures of integration, black separatism is no more “pathological,” fantastic, or “unrealistic” as an idea than is integration (396). Yet neither is it any less problematic. If it were possible for jazz to thrive within a social vacuum, then perhaps apprehension would not have dominated Adorno's critique—and it is here that he parts ways with the majority of separatists. Whereas separatist critics often attack the abusers of jazz, Adorno pursues a radical critique aimed at eliminating the potential for abuse within cultural artifacts. His arguments presume that the potential for abuse (not just of jazz but of any cultural artifact) is one of the few areas of potential whose realization is virtually inevitable. This is no less true of jazz in the hands of the white jazz establishment than it is of communism in the hands of Stalin. The same is true of the Enlightenment philosophies which underlie the Brotherhood's ideology in Ellison's novel and which Adorno and Horkheimer subjected to a rigorous critique in Dialectic of Enlightenment precisely because, like jazz, the potential for abuse was part of their structure. For Adorno, the project of cultural criticism—however dubious its prospects might be—is to develop a discourse at whatever cultural level (high or low, aesthetic or philosophical) that cannot be appropriated, that cannot be abused. Not only does Adorno use the same dialectical method in his criticisms of Wagner and of jazz; but, insofar as jazz purports to be a voice of liberation (separatist or otherwise), it also falls within the scope of Adorno's dialectical critique of Enlightenment philosophy. In both cases the issue for Adorno is to point out where discourses of liberation perpetuate the domination that they ostensibly eliminate, to show where they generate the abuse they are supposed to prevent. To criticize jazz is simultaneously to criticize the social structures from which it seeks (or purports) to disentangle itself, structures which inevitably absorb, appropriate, and alter jazz almost as quickly as it appears.

Unlike those paying lip service, the invisible man's interest in jazz is not a strategy for building consensus. He turns to jazz and the recordings of Armstrong in disillusionment with the Brotherhood, once he realizes that their “words [can] no longer teach him anything” (de Romanet 113). At first one might argue that the turn coincides with sentiments of many jazzmen who, “unable to convey … [their] deepest emotions in the received idiom …, invented terms of … [their] own” (Leonard 152). The correspondence between Armstrong's voice and his horn would suggest that in Armstrong's musical riffs the invisible man seeks what the “Brotherhood's” idiom precludes (Schuller 100). Or along these same lines, the invisible man's shift from the Brotherhood to Armstrong coincides with Larry Neal's classic argument that Ellison is a counter-Marxian black nationalist, who develops, as Baker has added, “a theory of culture able to lend clarity to the quest for Afro-American liberation” (Baker, Afro-American Poets 153). But in Ellison's novel the recordings of Louis Armstrong are not merely a reinstatement of the “double-voiced” tools repressed by those whose interest in the black community was never more than a calculated ploy in a larger struggle for power. The invisible man's relation to Armstrong is far more ambivalent and coincides with Adorno's own apprehensions about jazz—particularly with regard to the critique of jazz as a discourse of liberation.

Kimberly Benston argues that in his plight for recognition the invisible man “is drawn into … the Marxian (or more accurately, Hegelian) historical myth of progress through linear, spiralling development,” in short, progress toward a teleological goal (“Historicism” 91). According to Benston, the invisible man's movement toward freedom necessitates a recognition that teleological history is a myth (“Historicism” 91; “Performing” 170). Yet this myth is precisely what the invisible man finds repeated in Armstrong's music. In “The Poetics of Jazz,” Ajay Heble explores how early jazz musicians, like Armstrong, relied on a diatonic scale. Structurally, the music resembles the “linear, spiralling development” cited by Benston. Armstrong's music drives toward resolution. Always evolving toward a goal, viz. the tonic, the music “begs for completion,” fosters the illusion of telos and “produce[s] a semblance of [the] sociality” that has been denied the invisible man in his own experiences (Heble 53; Hullot-Kentor 100).

The telos reflected in Armstrong's music may explain why the invisible man listens to “What Did I Do To Be So Black And Blue,” rather than to Armstrong's legendary “West End Blues” or “Weather Bird.” Like Adorno himself, the invisible man recognizes that “in music, the concept of representation or imitation as a way of correlating art and reality is not particularly fruitful” (Hohendahl 66). Adorno is as apprehensive about jazz culture as he is about Enlightenment philosophy—so too is the invisible man as ambivalent with Armstrong's teleological diatonic music as he is with the Brotherhood's teleological, dialectical ideology.

The myth of progress has beaten and excluded the invisible man. In the novel's epilogue, he says he is uncertain whether his disillusionment “has placed him in the rear or in the avant-garde” (IM 599). This question of historical position, whether he is behind or ahead, reiterates the invisible man's relation to Armstrong. The position that he develops in relation to Armstrong not only resembles the ambivalence to jazz that Adorno expresses in his rejection of folk culture. It also expresses an attitude that only in retrospect has been called part of jazz history.

As is the case with Charlie Parker and bebop, the invisible man's personal history begins with his ambivalent relation to the diatonic music of Armstrong. When the invisible man says that he likes Louis Armstrong because “he's made poetry out of being invisible,” his subsequent explanation of his “own grasp of invisibility” is a paraphrase of Charlie Parker. The invisible man explains: “Invisibility … gives one a slightly different sense of time, you're never quite on the beat. Sometimes you're ahead and sometimes behind” (IM 8). This is an explanation of the musical structure that Parker developed and that became the signature of bebop (Collier, Making 350, 353-54). Upon its arrival, bebop was called everything but jazz. The musical dimension of bebop responded to a long history of repression and the rejection of bebop by contemporary jazz critics fueled its momentum as a sub-cultural phenomenon. The subsequent placement of bebop in the jazz tradition was possible only by an improvised concept of history which, like the music of bebop itself, “denies system, closure, purity, abstract design” (Ostendorf 154). Like Schönberg's own rejection of late romanticism's organic development, continuity, and closure, bebop marks a departure from the organic musical structures that Adorno observed in the early forms of jazz. Insofar as the invisible man aligns himself with bebop's temporal and rhythmic revisions of Armstrong's music, he is also shifting conceptual modes of history. He shifts from a repressive systematic teleology to the unsystematic and also to un-totalizing historical improvisation.

Critics have argued that, viewed from its social aspect, bebop was a “manifesto of rebellious black musicians unwilling to submit to further exploitation” and “was a deliberate attempt to avoid playing the role of the flamboyant black entertainer, which whites had come to expect” (Kofsky, Revolution 57; Collier, Jazz 360). In this regard, Adorno's most vociferous attacks on the commercial jazz industry are contemporaneously as well as philosophically in harmony with the temperament of bebop. His criticisms coincided with a growing self-consciousness that occurred within African American communities as bebop was on the rise. Baraka argues that during the forties African Americans began to “consciously analyze and evaluate American society in many of that society's own terms.” The crucial realization was that being black was not the only liability but rather that the society itself was also lacking. As the African American community grew increasingly self-conscious and confident, the general deficiencies of American society became more apparent (Baraka, Blues People 184-85). Like Adorno during his exile in the United States, black artists began to recognize the presence of these deficiencies specifically in entertainment, and they sought art forms in which they could distance themselves “from a cultural tradition that … [had] been integrated into the culture industry” (Hohendahl 65). Bebop was actively engaged in this search. So was Ellison.

For all its emphasis on racial identity and on resistance to exploitation, bebop still succumbed to the debasement which it tried to avoid. The reasons for this are complex; bebop succumbs not, as Frank Kofsky has argued, solely because whites controlled the “jazz establishment,” and forced jazz musicians to conform because they found bebop's black nationalist undertones incompatible with their business interests (“Forerunners” 2). Rather the debasement resulted from dialectical tendencies in American society which were able to blunt “the sharp, ugly lines of … [the bebop] rebellion” (Ellison, Shadow 204). In short, black nationalist or anti-capitalist sentiment has proven to be a lucrative product in the marketplace. “The culture industry can diffuse … rebellious sentiment … by repeating the same ideas and themes, even if they speak to the deepest contradictions of capitalism, until they lack all meaning” (Koval 2-3). Just as the invisible man turns to jazz when the Brotherhood's words of liberation and freedom prove to be the contrary, so too does the revolutionary promise of the jazz idiom accommodate, indeed contain, its opposite.

The presence of this opposite is most immediately apparent in bebop's point of departure, i.e., its attempted break from the traditions that Armstrong was said to embody. Through the figure of Armstrong in his novel, Ellison exposes the delusory, even contradictory, idealism that seethed beneath the beboppers' “rejection of the traditional entertainer's role” (Ellison, Shadow 225). In his essays Ellison expresses understanding for the desire of Parker's contemporaries to move beyond the “heritage from the minstrel tradition,” viz. the tradition carried on by Armstrong, but at the same time he notes that the beboppers were caught up in the contradiction of trying to get “rid of the role they demanded, [striving] in the name of their racial identity … [for] a purity of status which by definition is impossible for the performing artist” (Shadow 225). Against the backdrop of “the thrust toward respectability exhibited by the Negro jazzmen of Parker's generation,” the invisible man points out that Armstrong has not been superseded (Ellison, Shadow 225). The breakup of a linear teleological history has preserved him. Armstrong, the invisible man says, “is still around with his music and his dancing and his diversity, and I'll be up and around with mine” (Ellison, Shadow 225; IM 568). Though clearly not Armstrong's, neither is the invisible man's diversity that of the beboppers.

An awareness of these contradictory tendencies—or deficiencies—pervades the writings of both Adorno and Ellison, and it is the search for a form in which to critically articulate the awareness of them that finally places the two writers dialectically at odds with both the deficiencies in American society to which bebop responded and to bebop itself. While Ellison's novel alludes sympathetically to bebop, the novel is no mere apology for it—any more than the unflattering portrayal of the Brotherhood is merely a criticism of the deficiencies of the communist party. First of all, inasmuch as bebop carries either a revolutionary or black nationalist agenda, it too falls within the scope of Ellison's critical presentation of the Brotherhood and of Ras. The invisible man does after all spear the black nationalist in the jaw. Secondly, to argue that bebop has superseded the pitfalls into which Armstrong fell is to grant to jazz the teleological history with which the invisible man is at odds. Correspondingly, the more one examines where and how Adorno's arguments diverge from the general similarities that they bear to bebop, the more Adorno's arguments converge with the attitude that Ellison develops toward jazz and bebop in his novel.

In particular, the beboppers were “resentful of Louis Armstrong,” as Ellison was later to argue, “confusing the spirit of his music with his clowning” (Shadow 211). If Ellison's depiction of the beboppers is accurate, then Adorno's association of jazz with the antics of an “eccentric clown” at first appears to have fallen into the same trap (Adorno, “Jazz” 512). In terms of general disposition, Adorno certainly had more in common with beboppers than he either realized or was willing to admit. How far this convergence extends beyond general disposition is another matter. Recently, Ulrich Schönherr has suggested implicitly that the convergence extends a great deal. Although Schönherr does not pursue the historical similarities between Adorno's arguments and those of bebop, he does argue that the contributions of musicians who followed in the wake of bebop have “largely fulfilled what Adorno had not seen realized in jazz” (93). But Schönherr has not gone unchallenged.

In the introduction to the volume in which Schönherr's article appears, Russell Berman and Robert D'Amico challenge Schönherr on the grounds that “to continue to defend jazz … through its later exponents and more ‘artsy’ performances vastly underestimates the force of Adorno's suspicion of emancipatory appearances” (73). Although it sounds as if Berman and D'Amico are addressing one issue and Schönherr another (i.e., as if Berman and D'Amico are reaffirming Adorno's dismissal of the notion that jazz is a source of liberation and Schönherr is merely concerned with musical innovations), the two are in fact intimately related, because the area in which jazz's most significant innovations have occurred is also the area in which jazz has traditionally expressed its emancipation: improvisation.

Schönherr's claim presupposes the position of critics like Bruce Baugh, who argues that Adorno relies too heavily on musical notation and thus fails to recognize the significance of the unscorable subtleties of jazz and blues improvisation (73-74). Yet, such assertions, which are standard criticism of Adorno, are premised upon a fundamental mis-perception about musical scores. Adorno points out that rather than producing mechanical acts, classical score establishes a sophisticated context for interpretation, the subtleties of which scoreless improvisations cannot provide and which are not part of notation anyway. Indeed, Adorno argues that “a performance of a Beethoven quartet that conveyed exclusively what was prescribed in the music would not make sense” (“Review” 168). “Inner transfiguration” and “paraphrases,” traits which André Hodeir cites as hallmarks of improvisation, occur in every act of playing from the score (158-81). The point is this: reading a musical score is already an improvisatory act, just as reading a text is an act of construction. The inevitable improvisatory movements within the context established by the score may in fact be the only prospects of liberation which music offers. For Adorno, the exploitative, abusive wherewithal of the culture industry is so pervasive that only the most concerted effort can circumvent it (in this case only the musician's interpretative response to an already orchestrated context of resistance).

Adorno's defense of scored music coincides with his general views on the critical function of art and culture as a whole. Each genuine cultural artifact facilitates an interaction that in turn cultivates critical resistance. This is not to say that, collectively, cultural artifacts lead to a unified concept of resistance or even of liberation. Rather they comprise a diverse array of critical contexts, the individual mastery of which impedes abuse and appropriation in specific repressive situations. Nor is this to say that jazz music has never achieved the level of critical sophistication to which Adorno refers; it is merely the false dichotomy of “free” improvisation and “constrictive” musical notation that is reductive.

Adorno's position on context, resistance, and cultural artifacts helps to explain the disparate cultural repertoire that the invisible man employs in order to break the rhetorical bind that Jack places him in with the contradictory statement: “You will have freedom of action—and you will be under strict discipline to the committee” (Ellison, IM 351). The diverse field of reference in Ellison's novel provides “the resources of consciousness and imagination … [which the invisible man] brings to bear against the pressures of a changing environment” (Tanner 49). For the invisible man, the “changing environment” is reflected in the evolution of Jack's sentence, in the casual (almost un-observable) glide from “freedom” to “strictness.” Perhaps the invisible man's single most significant accomplishment lies in marshaling his diverse interaction with cultural artifacts in a grand unmasking of the latent “strict” repression in each of the discourses of liberation in the novel.

Armstrong belongs to the invisible man's cultural repertoire and to his process of unmasking repressive “strictness” masquerading as liberation. Insofar as the invisible man is able to use Armstrong in this regard, Ellison provides a positive dialectical compliment to Adorno's claim in “Perennial Fashion” that “the organization of culture” in levels of high, middle, and lowbrow is anachronistic and “reprehensible.” Most importantly, Ellison uses Armstrong to read bebop against the grain. He uses what Adorno describes as the obsolescence of high and lowbrow distinctions in order to undercut bebop's attempt to obtain liberation through a recognition by “high” culture. To undercut this appeal to high culture, Ellison embraces Armstrong and places improvisation in the most debasing light (Shadow 225). The most explicit example of this is to be found in the factory hospital attendants who, while trying to give the invisible man an electronic lobotomy, tell him—like fans encouraging a jazz player to improvise—to “Get hot, boy! Get hot!” (IM 232). The hotter he gets the more effect the lobotomy will have. Ellison thereby creates a position sensitive to the criticisms Parker and his contemporaries levied against Armstrong while at the same time subjecting bebop to critical scrutiny. In this respect, the invisible man is able to transform his original ambivalence for Armstrong into a critical negative dialectic.

This dialectic is manifest in the hospital scene as well because the scene can also be read as an allusion to the degrading side of the jazz tradition that Parker and his contemporaries were trying to circumvent. They sought to avoid not merely the entertainer's role but also the association of this role with the tradition of minstrelsy. Adorno shared this sentiment, repeatedly drawing attention to the continued presence of minstrelsy in modern jazz. In 1938 he echoed the stock leftist interpretation of jazz and argued that “the European-American entertainment business” had such control over jazz that its “triumph[s]” were “merely a confusing parody of colonial imperialism” (“On Jazz” 53). Nowhere was this colonial attitude more played out than in minstrelsy. Baker has noted that in minstrelsy white Americans “conceptualized a degraded, subhuman animal as a substitute for the actual African” (Blues 193).

The only way out of this degrading role is for Baker, like Ellison, to maintain that the private session of jazz and blues singers—when the white oppressor is absent—is where the real playing occurs (Baker, Blues 193-94). Baker's argument is compelling so long as one is of the opinion that there are adequate opportunities for the mask to be cast aside and so long as earlier role playing does not impair or constrain the player when he or she is alone. In these presumptions, Baker follows the arguments previously articulated by Robert B. Stepto in From Behind the Veil (1979). Both critics rely on an idealistic conception of the self whose integrity is immune from impairment despite the repeated “self-humiliation” and the “symbolic self-maiming,” which according to Ellison is enacted by the minstrel (Shadow 49). Stepto, for example, claims that one of the great achievements of Invisible Man is “its brave assertion that there is a self and form to be discovered beyond the lockstep of linear movement within imposed definitions of reality” (168). Not merely the advent of poststructural theories of the self challenges Stepto's and Baker's claims. So too does the invisible man's relation to minstrelsy. His “improvisation” at the factory hospital questions the extent to which the formation of a vernacular theory compensates for the “maiming.”

In “On the Fetish-Character in Music …,” Adorno begins his critique with an argument on the dissolution of the subject, a dissolution which arguably takes “humiliation” and “symbolic self-maiming” seriously and interprets such tendencies as having lasting debilitating consequences (276). According to these arguments, vernacular theory is purchased at great cost. More recently, Eric Lott has explored how Blackface Minstrelsy enacted a complex symbolic castration of black males (33-37). An allusion to this disturbing aspect of the jazz tradition occurs in the invisible man's dream when he is in the coal pit at the novel's end. Not only does he dream of castration, but he does so sleeping atop the material used to blacken faces in minstrelsy (IM 557). While Lott's exploration provides historical documentation for Adorno's infamous assertion that jazz has a “eunuchlike sound,” the invisible man's dream graphically depicts what for Adorno were the most disturbing aspects of the blackfaced minstrelsy out of which jazz emerged. Indeed, Adorno was never able to see a function of jazz beyond the minstrelsy which he criticized in 1936 and 1938.

That the legacy of minstrelsy lies at the foundation of the jazz tradition is hardly subject to debate, but whether one can equate the colonialistic prejudices embodied in the figure of the minstrel with the late-capitalist enterprise embodied in the jazz musician is another question. What Adorno does in his reading of jazz is to presume that the interest of capital in culture is tantamount to the gross sub-human parodies of African Americans in minstrelsy. While the two are historically related, they are not the same, and to imply that they are succumbs to a blinding ahistoricism—with regard to minstrelsy but more significantly with regard to the historical consequences of late industrial capitalism. To undo this conflation is simultaneously to place Adorno in historical context and to uncover the dialectic at play in Ellison's novel. It is to apply the invisible man's break with the teleological historicism of the Brotherhood, his break with Armstrong's diatonic music, and his break with bebop's supposed evolution beyond swing; it is to apply all of these ruptures to the supposed continuity between minstrelsy and jazz. The question that jazz raises with regard to Adorno is whether the interest of the culture industry can really be reduced to a kiss of death for all cultural expression.

Scott DeVeaux has argued that jazz implicitly challenges traditional agoraphobia, the fear of the marketplace, which in cultural issues has manifested itself within an inflexible dialectic between “commercial” versus “artistic.” Jazz challenges this dialectic because it “developed largely within the framework of modern mass market capitalism” (DeVeaux 530). Insofar as jazz has maintained a double life, this is perhaps where it is most readily to be found: in the forging of a space which is simultaneously commercial and aesthetically interesting. In fact, Adorno provides the basis for this argument in the peripheries of “On Jazz,” where he concedes the need for quality jazz in order to promote mass consumption and to “allow the upper class to maintain a clear conscience about its taste” (51). In his novel, Ellison moves Adorno's argument from periphery to center and explores the history of jazz as a securing and expanding of the parameters of the limited space for the quality (jazz or hibernation) that Adorno allows for marketing purposes.

Instead of merely dismissing Adorno as a cultural elitist, it is far more fruitful to address the evolution of his own terms—in other words, to consider whether the encroachment of technology and the culture industry is a process which halts once uniformity is supposedly reached. Florindo Volpacchio has argued that technical advances in market machinery were in direct response to the need to accommodate an increasingly diverse and fragmented consumer public. For its own survival the entertainment industry has had to accommodate heterogeneity (Volpacchio 120). Given Adorno's own pessimistic concerns regarding the momentum behind the culture industry, it is difficult to imagine how it would come to a standstill or avoid diversification in its own interest. There is an inkling of this awareness in a peripheral reference to jazz late in Aesthetic Theory, but whether the covert spaces of jazz would have attained visibility in the final version of Adorno's unfinished manuscript is a matter of speculation.

Notes

1. The reasons for this neglect derive in part from the fact that until 1991 there had been no adequate critical examination of the socio-historical and ideological dimensions of jazz criticisms. This lack led Gary Carner, in the introduction to the special issue on jazz that Black American Literature Forum (25.3) published in 1991, to argue that after seventy years of jazz literature, it is finally time for some serious attempt to examine it (443). As an illustration of the state of scholarship on the question of Adorno and jazz, it is worth noting that in the same year Telos published a special issue on Adorno, jazz, and popular music (87.1). While Adorno receives only a passing swipe in Black American Literature Forum, Telos examines Adorno's views without a single reference to the array of scholarship Black American Literature Forum was exploring at the same time.

2. The importance of African American music to this novel has often been cited, most notably by Houston Baker, Jr., Kimberly Benston, and Berndt Ostendorf. Their work will be discussed later in this essay.

3. The foundations for these arguments were first provided in Andreas Huyssen's “Adorno in Reverse: From Hollywood to Richard Wagner,” which was first published in New German Critique 29.2-3 (1983): 3-38, and then later included in After the Great Divide. For Huyssen's entire argument, see After the Great Divide 16-43. It is important, however, to note that while, with regard to the effects of the culture industry, there are similarities between Adorno's critique of Wagner and of jazz, Adorno's association of Wagner with the beginning of the culture industry is in large part a rhetorical counter to Wagner's anti-Semitism. By locating the beginning of the culture industry with Wagner, Adorno subtly rebuts Wagner's claim that Jewish financial interests are corrupting German culture. Thus a simple association of the two critiques is highly problematic. Unlike his discussion of the culture industry and jazz, Adorno's discussion of the culture industry and Wagner is inseparable from his critique of Wagner's anti-Semitism. I examine the problematic nature of this comparison in the chapter of the book manuscript to which this article belongs.

4. Despite these general statements by Adorno, which challenge high-low cultural dichotomies, his fixation on European music demonstrates that he only made cultural concessions on a theoretical level and was unable to finally turn his recognition that high-low distinctions were “obsolete” into a serious consideration of the critical dimensions of “light” music. In his discussion of what he calls the “incestuous choice” of the German intellectual exiles who fled from Nazi Germany to Los Angeles, Mike Davis has implicitly provided a partial explanation for this tendency in Adorno's writings. Davis notes that “segregated from native Angelenos, the exiles composed a miniature society in a self-imposed ghetto, clinging to their old-world prejudices like cultural life-preservers” (City of Quartz 47). While Davis' metaphor of the “life-preserver” highlights the personal investment in Adorno's, Horkheimer's, Schönberg's, and Mann's German cultural predilections, they also saw themselves as contributing to the preservation of the culture that the Nazis were destroying.

5. Adorno began to develop this critique of jazz as far back as 1936 in his essay “On Jazz,” in which he claimed that use value of jazz intensifies rather than supersedes alienation because its innovations are produced “in terms none other than its marketability” (48). He repeats the same argument in “Fetish Character of Music and the Regression of Hearing” and again in 1941 in his review of Sargeant and Wilder: jazz “cheats the masses as soon as it holds them in its grip” (“Review” 170).

6. See, in particular, John Gennari, “Jazz Criticism: Its Development and Ideologies” 496-504.

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