Sweet Jeebus, Ethan, the Internet is not something that you just dump something on. Especially when that something is a five-part, feature-screenplay-length essay on the original nerdcore pianist, Lennie Tristano, and his musical progeny.
I just read the the whole thing in one sitting, at my computer. I do not recommend this approach. Fercrissakes, print the damn thing out (and reduce the font size or you risk exhausting your paper supply). Only go back to the machine when you need to listen to one of the musical examples. Reading that much text on a computer screen bites, so you'll want to take the dead-tree option instead -- but you do actually need to read the whole thing. Yeah, all five parts. It is absolutely worth it -- the piece is provocative, insightful, well-argued, and very entertaining to read, although many of you will find much to disagree with in there, I am sure.
Iverson doesn't flinch from the issues of race and identity that are inexorably entwined in any discussion of Tristano, Konitz, and Marsh & co. -- even when you're not talking about that, you're conspicuously not talking about it, right? So I'm throwing the comments here open for discussion of Mr. Iverson's treatise and related issues. All I ask is that you kindly read the whole thing -- yes, dammit, all 18,000 words -- before commenting.
I may or may not have more to say at a later date, time permitting. Thing is, I was never much of a Tristano-head, despite the sincere efforts of some of my piano teachers. And Warne Marsh's playing, however impressive, has always felt very "inside baseball" to me -- not sure I've ever encountered a bona fide Marsh fan who wasn't a saxophonist. Lee Konitz I like a great deal, as does most everyone, but I am especially partial to his musical activities since 1990 or so. So I'm going to turn over the floor to the people who have a stronger emotional connection to (and more detailed knowledge of) these players than I do.
I will say, though, that in light of this discussion, I think it might be interesting to compare 1955's Lee Konitz with Warne Marsh side-by-side with the criminally underappreciated Clark Terry-Bob Brookmeyer recordings of the mid-sixties -- two extremely contrasting approaches to twisting, sinewy eighth-note lines and double-barreled counterpoint.