Why is nearly every mass-market, commercially-produced creative work so universally crap? You know the answer—perhaps you've lived it—pointy-haired bosses, sticking their noses where they don't belong, rooting madly for pecuniary truffles to sate the unending appetite of beancounters and shareholders alike—all at the expense of preventing the true visionaries from making something special.

But, rare as they may be, there are yet exceptions. One such shining example took place in 1957, when one uncompromising TV producer (Robert Herridge) somehow convinced CBS to give him creative carte blanche in putting together a live, one-hour jazz concert for TV: The Sound of Jazz.

Look, technically I should be reviewing The Sound of Jazz, the album recorded from the rehearsal for the TV broadcast. And I generally do prefer the precision and perfectionism that can only really be achieved in the studio. But just as poetry is meant to be appreciated as more than words on paper—it only truly comes alive in our voices—so too jazz ought to be more than just sterile, pristine recordings; it should also be shared, performed, celebrated. So if you happen to have a spare hour, I encourage you to tune in to The Sound of Jazz, the TV program, for yourself. Not only will you hear some great jazz, you'll also get to watch some jazz greats not merely performing, but also luxuriating in both the music and the company of each other. Allow me to take you through my favourite vignettes of the broadcast.

Last week, we heard from "Philly Joe" Jones on drums. This week we once again have jazz drummer Jo Jones on percussion, who, somewhat surprisingly, is a completely different guy. (He was sometimes nicknamed "Papa" Jo Jones to distinguish him from the younger Philly—despite the 12-year age difference between Philly and Papa, the shared name seems to have imparted a mortal synchronicity: they died within days of each other in 1985.) As it happens, we've encountered Jo Jones before; remember Charlie Parker's "origin story" of having a cymbal thrown at him during a cutting session gone awry? Yeah, that was Jo Jones. For the life of me, I cannot reconcile that outburst with the happy-go-lucky percussionist featured in The Sound of Jazz. Seriously, how can this grinning goof be the same person who "nearly decapitates" Bird?¹

Man, Thelonious Monk sticks out like a sore thumb here. Not just in what he plays—though his avant-garde composition "Blue Monk" forms a notable contrast with the other tracks, which lean more toward blues and swing—but also in how he plays the piano. Compare Basie elegantly tickling the ivories while Billie Holiday hovers at his shoulder, with Monk, who pounds the keys like they owe him money. The cameraman knew how to milk this for maximum drama: check out this shot of Basie watching Monk play (seated directly across from each other) and decide for yourself what Basie's thinking in that moment. (Monk did not take kindly to that stare!)

I hadn't even heard of Giuffre before this, let alone his trio, but their performance of "The Train and the River" is by far my favourite track. Seeing it live only further accentuates the magic: sometimes I find a trio to be a little bare in its sound, but that's not the case here; every time I listen I'm blown away by the depth and richness of texture that they're able to evoke. Note to self: pick up another one of their albums sometime.

But the real star of the show is Holiday herself. That she even appears is a minor miracle: the TV execs awoke in a meddlesome mood the day of the performance, and sent a note to the studio: "we must not put into America's homes, especially on Sunday, someone who's been imprisoned for drug use."² Herridge informed them that if Billie was through, so were he and the other key staff. The execs relented, and in doing so created the most heart-wrenching moment of the evening. You see, Holiday had a complicated relationship with Lester Young, who was playing saxophone that night: decades before, the two had been frequent collaborators and close friends, but the vicissitudes of time had since pulled them apart. Young was in poor health at this point, and wasn't even expected to stand for his solo—but watch what happens when he gets his moment with Lady Day.

There wasn't a dry eye in the control room. Young died within two years; Holiday followed months after.

Writing for Harper's magazine, Eric Larrabee proclaimed The Sound of Jazz to be "the best thing that ever happened to television." It's hard to agree with that statement in 2025 (after all, we've had Better Call Saul since), but I think you'd still be hard-pressed to find an introduction to jazz—not just jazz-the-music, but jazz-the-people, jazz-the-culture—better than The Sound of Jazz.³