in the front of his house and buy kids good humors... and he'd ask them, "was your homework good? were you a good boy?" armstrong: ♪ that's my home jacobs: and he and lucille would have a party and have the neighborhood kids in. [that's my home continues] narrator: but by the late 1960s, his huge heart was failing. he was hospitalized for a time, returned to the road, fell ill again, lost weight. his doctor ordered him to stop playing the trumpet, begged him not to try to record,

to stay off the stage. armstrong couldn't do it. [band playing the saints go marching in] narrator: in july of 1970, george wein staged a celebration at newport for armstrong's 70th birthday. many of the musicians with whom he had played over the years had come back to be with him. wein: he was ill for a couple of years, and... and he was quite frail. the doctor didn't want him to play, but he allowed him to come to newport. it's this...re-energizing when the opportunity for him to do what he wanted to do and to know that he was out there reaching people... and he put everything he had into that evening.

narrator: wein wanted to save armstrong's strength, and suggested he simply walk onstage unannounced, rather than sing his theme song. armstrong, weak as he was, wouldn't hear of it. giddins: it was very important for an entertainer to have a theme song, because only the really great ones had songs that instantly meant them. so louis armstrong had a sentimental southern tune-- sleepytime down south. he was very attached to it. he loved the-- it was a beautiful melody. you know, you didn't give something like that up lightly. armstrong: for as long as i live, sleepytime down south will be my... my lifelong number, because it...lives with me, and it's my theme song, and when i walk out on that stage and say-- and everybody's waiting, quiet--

♪ now the pale moon's shining ♪ ♪ on the fields below ♪ the folks are crooning ♪ soft and low ♪ you needn't tell me, boy ♪ because i know, yes, yes ♪ ♪ when it's sleepytime down south ♪ [singing scat] ♪ soft wind blowin' through the pinewood trees ♪ ♪ the folks out there ♪ live a life of ease ♪ when old mammy falls on her knees ♪ ♪ when i say... [singing scat] ♪ oh

♪ good evenin', everybody the show's on, daddy. [band playing sleepytime down south] wein: when he dressed up for that evening, he had on a nice brown suit, as i remember... [crowd cheering] and there was a glow on his face. there was a glow in his eyes. there was a glow in his skin. and he just sang so beautifully, and he projected. it was like, "hey, i'm here again." you know, "i'm still here. i'm still louis armstrong, and i'm still going to give you a great evening of music and entertainment."

♪ now the pale moon's shining ♪ ♪ on the fields below narrator: tributes poured in from fellow musicians. "louis armstrong," bing crosby said, "is the beginning and the end of music in america." armstrong: ♪ you needn't tell me, boy... ♪ narrator: dizzy gillespie said simply... "no him, no me." armstrong: ♪ when it's sleepytime down south ♪ ♪ yes narrator: after his appearance at newport, armstrong went back on the road, but he soon grew dangerously weak again. in march of 1971, he was offered a two-week engagement at the waldorf-astoria in manhattan. his doctors were against it, afraid he would die onstage. shaw: he had so much music in him, it's no way he could have lived and not played.

one of the worst experiences i had with him-- i did the last 3 weeks with him, and we were at the empire room at the waldorf-astoria. and the doctor--he'd been in intensive care-- the doctor told him, said, "louis, don't do it. you can't do it." louis said, "well, i got a contract. i got to do it. my fans." and they...had to help him... on. [sighs] [voice cracking] they... they had to help him on and off. [sighs] [birds singing] narrator: in the early morning hours of july 6, 1971, louis armstrong-- the most important figure in the history of jazz-- died at his home in queens.

jacobs: and oscar cohen called and said, "phoebe, pops is gone." [voice shaking] uh... my heart broke... but i guess i knew, in the flash of that moment, that louis would never die, because louis was a spirit. he was a spirit. inasmuch as he encompassed my life, i know he must have touched on millions of people.

wynton marsalis: louis armstrong's overwhelming message is one of love... really, when you hear his music, it's of joy. his music is so joyous. he was just not going to be defeated by the forces of life,

and these forces visit all of us. there's always something-- my great-great-grandmother used to say that life has a board for every behind, and it's a board just fit to yours, so... maybe your board is not going to work on somebody else's behind, and when it's your turn, you're going to come up and that paddle is going to be put on your booty, and it's going to hurt as bad as it can hurt. and louis armstrong is there to tell you, after you get that paddling, "it's all right, son." ♪ whoa, dinah ♪ is there anyone finer ♪ in the state of carolina ♪ if there is and you know, show her to me ♪ ♪ dinah [singing scat] ♪ ...to the eyes of dinah lee ♪ ♪ baby, every night, when i ♪ ♪ shake with fright, oh ♪ 'cause my dinah might change her mind ♪ [singing scat] ♪ oh, man, oh ♪ dinah ♪ dinah ♪ oh, dinah, oh, babe ♪

♪ dinah lee ♪ dinah, dinah, dinah... [singing scat] ♪ oh, baby, every night when i... ♪ [singing scat] [playing trumpet solo] [crowd cheering]

narrator: in the years after louis armstrong's death, duke ellington continued to write... in restaurants and nightclubs, in airplanes and taxicabs and hotel rooms. "music is my mistress," he said, "and she plays second fiddle to no one." giddins: ellington's last decade is one of the best in his whole career. when strayhorn died in 1967, ellington, as if to compensate-- for the first time, not having strayhorn by his side after 28 years-- he wrote more than ever, and the pieces became more and more experimental and different-- the latin american suite, the afro-eurasian eclipse,

which is, you know, a real attempt to--to describe a one-world music in the language of ellingtonia. narrator: but in the spring of 1972, ellington was diagnosed with lung cancer. characteristically, he told no one. woman: my grandfather never complained. that was part of that upbringing-- that you never show your true feelings. so if you were ill or if you were in pain, it was impolite.

i'm sure...when doors were closed-- behind the dressing room, in his own private place-- there were complaints, there was truth about what was really going on, but none of us ever saw that. [playing sentimental lady] man: uh, what tune, since you've gone back to the piano, what tune, um... have you written, which you think is the best? oh... the one coming up tomorrow... always. narrator: for the first time in his long career, he began canceling public appearances. when ellington was hospitalized in new york,

he asked that his electric piano be brought to his room so that he could keep on working-- on a comic opera, a score for a dance troupe, still more sacred music. when his eyesight began to fail, he simply wrote larger... sometimes using the backs of the hundreds of get-well cards that flooded his room. edward kennedy ellington-- considered by many the greatest of all american composers-- died on may 24, 1974. i think we always feel we never said enough...

or did enough for someone... so good to you, and, uh... it just took everything out of me. a person has gone, but you keep him alive in your memories and your thoughts. each one of us had a different experience. i still remember...looking up from the trombone section when duke would come on at night, take his place at the piano, and he'd look up and just smile. you know, "we're here together again, aren't we? come on, let's go." and it was great. narrator: he was buried in woodlawn cemetery in the bronx, not far from louis armstrong... and next to his mother, who had been the first to tell him that he was blessed. [band playing in a sentimental mood]

narrator: in the 1960s, the city of new orleans tore down the house in which louis armstrong was born... to make way for a police station. by then, the lincoln gardens on the south side of chicago, where armstrong had played with king oliver, had long since closed its doors. law and order had come to kansas city, and most of the wide-open clubs, in which lester young

and count basie and charlie parker once played, vanished. the cotton club in harlem, where duke ellington first broadcast his jungle music, was gone. so was the savoy ballroom, where chick webb once took on all comers, and ella fitzgerald first became a star. birdland, the club named for charlie parker, abandoned jazz for rhythm and blues. in 1968, the last club on 52nd street finally closed its doors. even the five spot, where ornette coleman and john coltrane first performed their demanding music, eventually went out of business. during the late 1930s,

jazz and swing had provided 70% of the profits in the music industry. by the mid-1970s, it was less than 3%. in 1975, miles davis himself said that jazz was dead-- "the music of the museum." branford marsalis: jazz just kind of died. it just kind of went away for a while. there were still people playing. there were still people playing, but to be honest, with the exception of a few like kenny barron or ron carter or sir roland hanna-- who really just stayed with it, you know-- a lot of the more talented younger generation that was supposed to come up did something else, and that had never happened before.

wynton marsalis: today you go in to make a modern recording, all this technology-- the bass plays first, then the drums come in later, then they track the trumpet, then the singer comes in, then they ship the tape somewhere... well, none of the musicians have played together. you can't play jazz music that way. in order for you to play jazz, you've got to listen to them. the music forces you at all times to address what other people are thinking and for you to interact with them with empathy and to deal with the process of working things out. and, uh...that's how our music really could teach what the meaning of american democracy is... the thing in jazz that will get bix beiderbecke up out of his bed at 2:00 in the morning to pick that cornet up

and practice into the pillow for another two or 3 hours... or that would make louis armstrong travel around the world for 50-something years just nonstop, get up out of his sickbed, crawl up on the bandstand, and play... the thing that would make duke ellington, the thing that would make thelonious monk, miles davis, charlie parker, mary lou williams... the thing that would make all of these people give their lives for this-- and they did give their lives for it-- is that it gives us a glimpse into what america is going to be when it becomes itself. and this music tells you that it will become itself. and when you get a taste of that...

there just is nothing else you're going to taste that's as sweet. that's a sweet taste, man. [piano playing let's get down] [band joins in] narrator: in 1976, dexter gordon came back to america. for most of the past 15 years, he had been living in europe, where jazz still had an enthusiastic audience, and where musicians could always find work. when gordon opened at the village vanguard, he wasn't sure how he would be received. woman: well, it was a whole new era

when dexter gordon walked into this room. people came from all over because they knew about him-- he didn't think they did-- and they were there waiting for him to appear, and here he came, this long, tall, beautiful man-- so elegant, you know. [crowd cheering] lorraine gordon: and he just played this gorgeous music, and people just went nuts, and happy and thrilled, and gave him the honor he truly deserved. [gordon playing let's get down] man: dexter gordon was one of my favorite musicians when i was growing up. my dad played saxophone and had a lot of records of dexter gordon. and i was present at the village vanguard during his homecoming week, and it was just amazing to feel the impact of his sound and his presence. to be in a room with him...

at that time, for me-- i was 23 years old at the time-- and...it just hit me like a ton of bricks-- just his sound, the power of his tone. narrator: he played straight-ahead jazz-- without synthesizers, without electronic bass, without a drum machine-- and the crowds stood to cheer him after every tune. columbia had offered him a contract, and the special two-record live album he made at the vanguard was called homecoming. it sold surprisingly well. there was still an audience for the music that flowed directly from louis armstrong and lester young and charlie parker.

[song ends] [applause and whistling] narrator: a year after dexter gordon's triumphant comeback, the drummer art blakey was in new york, auditioning young musicians for his jazz messengers... just as he had been doing for 3 decades. cuscuna: on this night, this young kid sat in on trumpet, and he was astonishing. his ideas were fresh and different and very concise and clear-- very clear thinker. and at the end of the set, i said--i asked art--i said, "who the hell is that?" and he said, "well, that's ellis marsalis' kid." and ellis marsalis was a wonderful new orleans pianist who was little-known outside new orleans, but a favorite musician of a lot of us.

and he introduced me to him, and later on he said, "he's in his first year at juilliard and, of course, "you know, i couldn't do that to ellis. "i just couldn't pull him out of school and offer him the job, you know, so i can't give him the gig." but two sets later, about 4:00 in the morning, we were all hanging out at the club, and i said, "so, art, did you decide on any new members?" he said, "just one-- wynton marsalis." [marsalis playing soon all will know] narrator: wynton marsalis was born in 1961 in new orleans, a year before dexter gordon began his self-imposed exile in europe. he was brought up surrounded by music. his father, ellis, was a pianist,

composer, and music educator. his older brother branford played the saxophone. two younger brothers, delfeayo and jason, would become musicians, as well. by his mid-teens, marsalis was playing in all kinds of groups around new orleans: marching bands, funk bands, and the new orleans civic orchestra. wynton marsalis: we had a partner of mine across the street. we would play records for each other, you know? then it would be, like, tower of power and early earth, wind & fire, marvin gaye, stevie wonder. you know, everybody would bring in, like, "what's going on?" so i took one of my father's coltrane albums out. it was actually my favorite things, 'cause i liked the cover-- it was blue and red. and trane was playing the soprano, and i said, "man, let's check this out. let's check this trane out." so i put trane on-- ♪ doo ding, doo ding, doo doo doo ling ♪ so they started playing my favorite things, and we're all, like, "yeah." you know, trane and them played. the song was, like, 10 or 15 minutes or something.

it was too long for the cats, you know, so everybody was like, "yeah, you know, ok." and i was like, "yeah, you know, i kind of like that." and then i started listening to giant steps, and every day i would come home in the summertime and put that giant steps album on. and i can hear trane right now, you know? ♪ doo dee doo it's just something in the sound of it. [playing surrey with the fringe on top] narrator: marsalis soon began to soak up all the jazz history he could, grounding his own experiments in a thorough knowledge of the music's rich past. wein: and i listened to him play... and i--i started to cry. i couldn't believe it, because i never thought i'd hear a young black musician...play that way,

and i could hear that he had been listening to louis armstrong. and that meant so much to me, because the only musicians-- young musicians--that paid attention to louis armstrong were white musicians. young african-american musicians did not pay attention to louis armstrong. [playing caravan] narrator: by the age of 21, after just two years on the road with art blakey, wynton marsalis was a star, the leader of his own group. his first record had sold more than 100,000 copies-- unheard of in the 1980s for an acoustic jazz album.

cuscuna: wynton was the first new acoustic jazz player with something to say. and fortunately thereafter, with his brother branford and a lot of people that wynton knew, the floodgates opened, and suddenly in the eighties there were a lot of new players that pumped new blood into jazz, which was a--which was very much of a saving grace. narrator: by the late 1980s and early 1990s, marsalis' success inspired record companies to seek out and promote new stars. in 1992, he was named artistic director of jazz at lincoln center, and 5 years later, wynton marsalis became the first jazz composer ever to win the pulitzer prize in music.

[band playing death letter] but by the very nature of the music, no individual artist has ever been the sole focus of jazz in america. dozens of supremely talented musicians now feed the many tributaries of jazz. christian mcbride... lewis nash... david murray... steve coleman... joe lovano... jacky terrasson... greg osby...

geri allen... marcus roberts... joshua redman... and cassandra wilson... ♪ i got a letter this morning... ♪ narrator: ...who has found brand-new ways of singing everything, from pop tunes and the ballads of billie holliday to early delta blues. wilson: ♪ got a letter this morning ♪ ♪ how do you reckon it read? ♪ ♪ mmm, it said, ♪ "hurry, hurry, on account of the man you love is dead" ♪ ♪ well, i packed up my suitcase ♪ ♪ took off down the road ♪ when i got there ♪ he was lying on the cooling board ♪

♪ i packed up my suitcase ♪ took off down the road ♪ mmm ♪ when i got there ♪ he was lying on the cooling board ♪ narrator: the jazz world is filled with young artists, eager to mark out their own paths and committed to avoiding the pitfalls to which so many of their forebears had fallen prey. ♪ ...where he used to lay ♪ ♪ i got a tune in the morning ♪ ♪ right, right at the break of day ♪ woman: i believe that you can communicate tragedy... by learning the lesson from someone else's tragedy. i think that's the whole point, is that... for these people who have already done this for us-- our predecessors--

they've lived these lives, they've done the drugs, they've done...you know... all of these things, and... i think the point of it is that we now... benefit from that, and we stand on their shoulders, and we have the responsibility of extending the music. we have the responsibility of... pushing the music into the 21st century. crouch: one of the things that's very important about what's going on in jazz today is that young people involved in jazz... are people who have real courage. courage is something you can't buy. courage is something you can't sell. and when somebody actually takes a real risk-- like these young people do who go into jazz, knowing that they're never going to be like puff daddy combs

or madonna or any of those people-- they're not going to get to that. so that assertion among young people of real courage, real aesthetic belief-- that can only beget good.

redman: i think jazz is as alive and as well and as active and creative as it's ever been. i think there's a lot happening in terms of the combination of jazz with other sounds from around the world, or from within american music [singing scat to love for sale] redman: there's a lot happening with the combination of jazz with r & b, jazz with latin music, jazz with west indian music, jazz with gospel music,

jazz with hip-hop. [man singing rap] [crowd cheering] redman: but ultimately, what matters is the emotional power of the music.

[crowd cheering] the important thing is that jazz is moving, expanding in many different directions, and that there are original artists out here who have something original to say, who are expressing their original feelings and original experiences as human beings today. and as long as that continues, jazz will be fine. [conductor humming along]

low, low, low! boy: jazz is like... you're a painter. and you want to create a certain image. you throw out a color, and i want to throw out plenty of colors so they could see what kind of painter i am. i want to illustrate what kind of music--musician i am. conductor: ok, hold on. ahhh... girl: the harmonies-- it's like, they hit me, and it's like...wow! just--i want to do that! hold it out! i want to learn how to get from here to there, and how did we get from this type of music to the kind of music that's on the radio? wah! wah! everything grows out of what's been done before,

so it's really interesting, and, hopefully... i'll take it my way someday. go! [playing saxophone solo] you didn't do it in there. wynton marsalis: the reason the debate around jazz is always heated and strong is because jazz music deals with the soul of our nation. and through this music, we can see a lot about what it means to be american. in our generation, there was a belief that jazz music was dead, so there was all the celebration that went with that-- "ah, finally! no more jazz!" now, here we are. we're still swinging, and we ain't going nowhere. there's plenty of us out there swinging, and we're going to keep swinging. [playing wild man blues]

[crowd cheering] giddins: i once asked a musician where jazz was going, and he said, "it'll go wherever we take it. we're the musicians." and i don't know of a really better answer. one thing i do know about the future of jazz is that nobody has adequately or accurately predicted it. nobody in the swing era predicted bebop, nobody in the bebop era predicted the avant-garde, and, certainly, nobody of the avant-garde predicted fusion. some young musician's going to come along-- hopefully, it will be someone really thrilling, like armstrong or parker-- but somebody of extraordinary gifts,

and he or she will play a music that no one else has heard, and that will be the next movement. [whistle blows] [band playing oh, but on the third day] narrator: the musical journey that began in the dance halls and saloons and street parades of new orleans in the early years of the 20th century continues... and shows no sign of slowing down. jazz remains gloriously inclusive... a proudly mongrel american music,

still brand-new every night... the voices of the past still its greatest teachers. [playing jazz]

[ella fitzgerald singing scat] [jazz music playing]

[applause] thanks so very much, ladies and gentlemen. all the kids in the band want you to know that we do love you madly. [laughter] [jazz music continuing] announcer: learn more about jazz at pbs.org/jazz and join the conversation with hashtag jazzpbs. "ken burns: jazz" is available on dvd. the companion book and cd set

are also available. to order, visit shoppbs.org or call 1-800-play-pbs.

announcer: corporate funding for this program was provided by general motors.

major support was also provided by: the park foundation, dedicated to education and quality television; the pew charitable trusts, driven by the power of knowledge to solve today's most challenging problems; the doris duke charitable foundation, supporting performing artists with the creation and public performance of their work; louisiana, home of the sounds of zydeco, cajun, gospel, and of course jazz; the national endowment for the humanities, bringing you the stories that define us; the arthur vining davis foundations; the reva and david logan foundation; the john d. and catherine t. macarthur foundation; the national endowment for the arts; peter and helen bing; and by the corporation for public broadcasting and by contributions to your pbs station from viewers like you. thank you.

well, i think in order to do a film like jazz or civil war or baseball, you have to be an optimist at heart. you have to stay with it. this is about process. and, so, we wanted to basically sample lots of influence. you know, we drew on a whole body of consultants, most of whom we couldn't put in one room together because they'd end up fighting, but we listened to them and sort of sampled and selected and got, i think, a big, rolling machine of a film that just swings at its best. man: the swingos think that swing is marking an indelible notation on the evolution of jazz. with them, it's a creed, a code. that's why the swing addicts seem so glazed and dazed in their nth-degree appreciation of this swing business. burns: this is an incredibly interesting story of the 20th century.

i mean, it's about two world wars and the depression, about race. man: what occasions the focusing of attention on the negro? granted, that white people have long enjoyed the negro entertainment as a diversion. is it not something different, something more, when they bodily throw themselves into negro entertainment in cabarets? about sex--i mean, this is the music that men and women speak to each other with. it's the mating call, the ritual of courtship. man: the savoy was a palace of dance. and i remember being on the floor, having picked up some charming young lady who might be working out on the island and dancing with her. and, of course, i had imbibed of some of the juice. i remember throwing the girl out, and sometimes the girl never came back. [laughing] and it's also about drug abuse and its terrible cost.

man: a day in the life of charlie parker. you would play all night in the club, and then you'd go up to mittens at 9:00 in the morning, whatever, and play there till about noon, and then he had to get more drugs. if you could get a few hours of sleep in between, it would be ok, but then you had to get the money for the drugs. it was a constant merry-go-round, 24 hours a day. and, at the heart, it's going to be about joy, about communication, about this language that is so much more precise than my moving my mouth right now. we tend to have a hard time talking about music, and somehow we think it's the failing of the music. it's not. it's the failing of the words. music is itself a much more exquisite, much more precise form of communication. we human beings are just often a little bit too slow to get it completely, but we made this film for a broad national audience. we didn't make it to please the jazz critics. we made it to please a broad national audience because this is our birthright. this is who we are.

this is the celestial music of america, and i want a little old lady in dubuque to tap her toes to all of this stuff, and i think we've done it. if you'd come into the editing room two years ago and looked at it, you'd go, "oh, my goodness. this is never going to work. how is he going to do this?" and we just worked day by day, and you just sort of put on the layers, and something accrues, almost like the layers on a pearl. you can't quite identify, but they're there, and then, at the end, you have something that is durable, that lasts, that you hope will speak to many people, and there's something intensely satisfying, as opposed to having a daily deadline where you turn something out quick. you may not get it completely right. here we have an opportunity, we hope, to get it completely right and to work on something with our hands and with our minds, but, most important, with our hearts, until we get it right. corporate funding

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this is "nightly business report" with tyler mathisen and sue herera. caught off guard. investors were reminded this week that things may not be what they seem, and you need to pay attention. sticker shock. why consumers on the health exchanges could be in for a big expensive surprise. recipe for success. one entrepreneur's old-fashioned strategy that helped him build his business and make millions. all this tonight on friday night the "nightly business report" for friday, may 20th. good evening, everyone. stocks finished on an up note ending several weeks of declines. today's gains were modest and largely lacked a specific catalyst, but gains they were. here are