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Has George Benson Sold Out To The Bright Lights And "Billboard" Charts?
By David McElfresh
EVERY ART FORM has someone who, though once a figurehead,
has become as frustrating as he was once fulfilling. J.D. Salinger
refuses to publish his current writing until he dies. Nicolas
"Rebel Without A Cause" Roeg turns out confusing trash
horribly inferior to his earlier films. And musician supreme George
Benson now caters to a jazz-lite crowd with albums of pop music,
like his new Standing Together, that come nowhere near
his previous jazz standards. Listening to the old stuff, even
fans of the current Benson material must concede that the depth
and grittiness are gone.
The guitarist is outspoken about his radical change in career
direction. "It's crazy to sit on something I did 25 years
ago," Benson said in a recent interview. "If I can't
bring something new to the stage, forget it."
Benson was a monster figure in the '60s and '70s hardcore jazz
scene; and as evidenced by sporadic, full-strength jazz recordings
like 1989's Tenderly and 1990's Big Boss Band, he
still remains one of the most soulful and creative jazz guitarists
alive. That is, when he wants to be--which unfortunately, is none
too frequently these days. Not all of Benson's earlier flash and
finesse has gone into hibernation, though. Standing Together
teasingly references his lifelong love of mentor Wes Montgomery's
octave playing, and the bluesy chickenshack guitar ranting from
his organ trio days--both used to far better effect on his first
dozen years' worth of albums.
Most ingratiating is the new album's memorable "Poquito
Spanish, Poquito Funk": "We can do that Latino thing,
too, you know," he says in the intro. Yeah, he can, but if
you want to hear him really have at it, check out 1971's White
Rabbit, where his ultra-Latin versions of everything from
Jefferson Airplane's title cut to Brazilian composer Heitor Villa-Lobos'
"Little Train" make this new cut, by comparison, feel
about as authentic as a Taco Bell burrito.
Ironically, Benson at an earlier stage purposely downplayed the
impressive vocal abilities that now take center stage: 1969's
The Other Side Of Abbey Road lists Benson only as the guitarist,
for some reason not listing him as the smooth, Stevie Wonder-influenced
singer on "Oh! Darling" and "Here Comes The Sun."
Since Breezin', though, album credits have been more inclined
to stick Benson's warbling credits ahead of his guitar work. Recent
converts to Benson's radio-friendly music are no doubt surprised
to find him, in live performance, equally as handy with the axe
he wears around his neck.
Post-Breezin' fans who encounter Benson's early albums
with organist Jack McDuff, or his catalog of mostly solid '70s
music on the CTI label, are walloped with a phase in Benson's
career that few jazz guitarists before or since have equaled.
This writer once walked out of a mid-'70s Benson concert in Kansas
City because the complexity of his soloing was as draining as
a Thomas Pynchon novel, and his ever-thickening improvisations
on Miles Davis' "So What" seemed likely to send blood
streaming out of my ears if I didn't find the door. It's not often
we're blessed with a musician that intense.
So how can Benson, knowing he's hot-shit, top-drawer jazz guitar
material, intentionally dilute his chops in favor of the tepid
fare on Standing Together? More likely than the bucks,
it was probably the bright lights that long ago won him over.
Full houses of young, hormonal-driven lovers replaced small clubs
of mostly male jazz dweebs. The end of "This Masquerade"
received standing ovations, the likes of which never came after
playing a jazz standard. And a handful of stars and bullets accompanied
the entrance of his name on the Billboard charts.
An enticing new world for an underpaid, underappreciated jazzman,
no question. The ultra-talented Benson chose his fork in the road,
turning the other cheek to us whiny jazzophiles. But the art world,
as opposed to the entertainment one, is glad that author Joyce
Carol Oates hasn't decided to write like Danielle Steele just
because she'd like a larger audience; or that Peter Greenaway
doesn't stoop to directing Scream 3 in search of name recognition
from the Entertainment Tonight crowd. Zen masters who've
figured out the sound of one hand clapping might want to help
us out with another koan: What's the point of being blessed with
exceptional talent if it's purposely laid aside?
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