It seems to me that the greatest factor contributing to the chaos prevailing in the world is the lack of a real basis of communication among people. And it is the function of the occasional transcendent genius to surmount the natural and man made barriers that separate people and to invest their lives with meaning by illuminating the mysteries of human existence which is itself, to the aware person, a profoundly unnerving, even terrifying proposition. Such a genius is Louis Armstrong.

When it was suggested that I comment in print on my friend Louis Armstrong and give my opinion of his particular artistry, I hesitated for a number of reasons, among them a diffidence about putting myself on record as a critic in a highly specialized field not my own.

Then it occurred to me that I might be able to say, in my own not-so-humble way, something pertinent about Louis as a person, quite apart from my doubtful qualifications as a music critic.

For to me, Louis Armstrong is that rara avis, a great man. And by greatness I mean that fine shade of difference existing where genius is present. Fortunately for humanity at large and jazz players in particular, Louis Armstrong is both genius and great in the ordinary sense. By this I don't mean to minimize his genius as a creative artist in his field, but to say that if Satchmo had never heard of high F or if he thought a trumpet was a minor bridge bid or couldn't sing a note, I would still dig him because he is an authentically great man embodying all of the best human qualities and instincts by which people should conduct their lives.

Apropos of the growing recognition of Louis's genius, it gives me a great deal of joy to see that a man of unparalleled talents is being recognized in his own time and that suitable accolades are being bestowed upon him at this milestone in his career in the only genuinely original creative art form produced in America.

Perhaps it occurs to some that my qualifications for this discourse are questionable. However, at an early age I was required to undergo the ordeal of piano lessons, for which my aptitude consisted in scrutinizing the activities of my supervisors in order to chuck my legitimate exercises during their absence and devote myself to one- finger variations on the theme of Poor Butterfly.

One day I spotted a contemporary lugging a violin case to his own particular Gethsemane. In my covetous state I thought it was a toy and, determined that I must have one, I went into one of my childhood tantrums which were the terror of the neighborhood. It brought my dear Grandmother Tallulah (after whom I was named) to my defense with a remark that seems to me now the utmost wisdom: "What do you want me to do with her? I can't kill her!" I was instantly furnished with a Stradivarius, whereupon my doom was complete (and, I might also add, so was that of the Strad).

Through these dismal experiences I attained the mechanics of musical performance in a most rudimentary and inexpert way. My abilities as a performer or appreciater are those of the pure amateur. Such are my qualifications for Virgil Thomson's job.

My introduction to the charms of Louis Armstrong occurred when I arrived in Hollywood during the early thirties and became so bored with the doings on the sound stages that I insisted upon having recorded music played on the set; naturally, it was all Louis Armstrong. The first tune I ever heard him do was I'll Be Glad When You're Dead, You Rascal You!

It may seem strange that I had missed Louis during his and my visits in Europe during the twenties, but although I heard most of the other great American artists performing in Europe at that time, for some unaccountable and regrettable reason I failed to catch Louis.

However, I've lately atoned for my original sin of omission by playing one of my boy's records during certain second- act sequences of Private Lives which I appeared in for three seasons--on Broadway and on tour. The tune is Potato Head Blues. It is one of the greatest things in life, in case anyone who is uninitiated to the true jazz wants to dig a great example of Louis, and while it may seem incongruous to put such a record in a Noel Coward drawing room comedy, I just had to have a snatch of Satch each night to alleviate the tedium of playing the same part for so long.

To the uninitiated, Louis Armstrong may be nothing more than a stereotyped sort of clown in what is thought of in some quarters as hotcha music, but in actual fact he is the unique creative man who has originated his own milieu. I should like to say further that artists certainly arise from time to time who are supreme but, except for unique genius, most of us require conditioning in a social or cultural context to appreciate particular kinds of art. In the case of a transcendent genius, a meaning implicit in the artistic product comes through which makes it meaningful to everyone above and beyond the confines of one's limited cultural backyard.

I'm not going to try to intellectualize this thing, because my responses are primarily emotional. I'll try simply to explain why Louis is my boy.

The major difficulty in talking about Louis Armstrong is that the quality which sets him apart and above other artists in his field is the indefinable quality of genius which people devoted to the critical function have spent centuries trying to analyze, whatever the medium--literature, dramaturgy, dance, music, painting--any of the communicative arts.

However, it seems to me that the essence of Louis is that he feels in his soul the ineffable tragedy of human existence and manages to communicate it to the aware, perceptive listener, which is, in the last analysis, the proper province of all art. And, withal, I entertain the notion that Louis hasn't the foggiest idea of his own greatness.

Yet, he's the authentic creative man, endowed with the ability to give meaning to the lives of others not only through his music but from the very fact of his living. His beautiful, heartbreaking horn with the pure, clear notes embroidered in the tasteful classical patterns; his comedy, his humor, everything about Satchmo gasses me!

I suppose it might be interesting and possibly even expected for me to evaluate Louis Armstrong as an actor. If I were to draw the analogy, I should mention Charlie Chaplin. The magic of Chaplin's art is that he illustrates the tragedy inherent in life--man trapped by circumstances and buffeted by fate by using his own comic personage in the most ridiculous and hilarious situations. It is the coexistence of the sad and the funny that makes one want to cry while rocking with belly laughs. Anyone who has heard Louis Armstrong at his best will experience a similar emotion. In musical terms, undiscerning people think of Mozart's music as exclusively gay and frothy: happy, full of laughter. It is--sometimes--but underlying it is a profound sadness. Such is Louis's art.

If, as is possible, people who have no feeling for jazz have not succumbed to the Armstrong artistry, it may be difficult for them to understand the exceptionally high praise accorded him. And while I readily admit that a certain amount of conditioning is desirable to initiate one into the appreciation of jazz, as it is in any other highly specialized medium, I believe that if skeptics were exposed to the genuine article instead of the pseudo- stuff palmed off on the public as jazz, no one could fail to gain something from listening to Louis Armstrong.

One of the notable things about Armstrong is that he is unafraid of musical competition. He surrounds himself with the best men on their respective instruments, truly an all- star band--which is a practice at variance with that of some leading performers, musical or otherwise, whose supporting aggregations are composed of mediocrity in order to emphasize the superior talent of the star. This is handy for the manufactured star who cannot face comparison, but the authentic star prefers the best available support for his own enjoyment as well as the beneficial effect on his own performance (although in the latter connection Louis's scintillating horn has shone through many a mediocre big band that he happened to be stuck with from time to time.)

Paradox though it may seem that Louis is unaware of his true greatness, he does seem relaxed and sufficiently confident in the presence of the great side-men currently playing with him to share the spotlight with the others and to stay in the background when others are performing their specialties.

As Louis's protégé, my favorite piano man Joe Bushkin once said, "When Louis comes on, man, it's like the atomic bomb arriving--for PEACE!" What else can anyone say?

Louis's present outfit has certainly played some of the greatest jazz ever performed, but I must say I have a nostalgic fondness for what I consider just about the best sounds ever put on wax--those old blues tunes and street-parade stomps during the Hot Five days, recorded with Sidney Bechet--an equally great man in his own way--in which Louis and Sidney establish a kind of rapport in their improvised counterpoint which would have made Bach jump.

I hope it has escaped no one's notice that Louis Armstrong is one of the greatest ambassadors America ever had, having become a synonym for America in many European countries long before the cats on Main Street ever heard of him.

The story is told of Louis's command performance in London during which he called out to the royal congregation, "This one's for you, Rex"--of course disarming the King and, I'm sure, getting many votes for these United States.

I suppose it's inevitable that I take a stand on the subject of bop, which just doesn't happen to be my cup of tea, but I don't believe people's minds should be closed to a possibly progressive trend in music, or anything else, for that matter. And as a result, I don't believe that a love of Louis Armstrong's kind of jazz and an interest in what is called "new sounds in modern music" should be mutually exclusive.

So, Pops, if you'll forgive me the final heresy I must admit I've been known to listen to bop. If it swings, I'll listen. After all, there was a time when Louis Armstrong's musical method was considered revolutionary and was frowned upon in conservative circles. But what makes me flip are the extreme fanatics who insist that Louis is old hat and delude themselves with the fallacy that any kind of change makes for progress, which ain't necessarily so, but as Louis said the other night: "Ain't ain't right and I mustn't say it."

But as my beloved grandfather said when castigated by his bride for abusing the King's English, "ain't is a good old Elizabethan term." To call Louis old hat is as ridiculous as calling Shakespeare or Mozart old hat. I suppose, when you come right down to it, I'm just a snob who loves a champion whatever the field--Bill Tilden, Joe Louis, Babe Ruth, Mel Ott, Carl Hubbell, the Barrymores, Pavlova, Nijinsky, whom I had the misfortune of missing, Caruso, Laurette Taylor, Einstein, Shakespeare and you-know- who, Louis Armstrong.

Certain practitioners of that peculiar brand of dissonance known as bop are known to refer to the product of their efforts as "head" music. Well, daddy-o, that's all right, but Louis Armstrong blows "heart" music, and that's for me.

Louis is charged with a divine kind of electric energy which enables him to reach the hearts of his listeners with his music. He has that elusive quality of being able to touch people of every land and color, to move audiences from Tokyo to Topeka with astonishing ease. I have always believed that Louis was himself touched by three fairies when he was born, and these three fairies endowed him with his music, his humor and his utterly unique voice.

The genius of Armstrong, like that of Charlie Chaplin, is truly international. It reaches across land frontiers and oceans, obliterating man-made barriers of color and class. I believe in one world. So does Louis. I believe in one God. So does Louis. To me, Louis, like Chaplin and Burr Tillstrom (the guiding genius of Kukla, Fran and Ollie) are symbols of that one world. Their art is beyond nationality and language; it is universal in the greatest sense.

When I speak of one world I don't use the term politically. I am thinking of the oneness of humanity in which I fervently believe. Louis is the epitome of one world. He represents the goal of a united world which we are all struggling for. Louis is making his own contribution to the creation of such a world in his wonderful, humorous, humble way. He does not use the language of politicians, but blows, beautiful themes on his horn and serenades the world with his husky voice.

Louis and I have talked together many times about many subjects. I love to talk to him because of his basic sincerity and his very original gift of expression. He uses words like he strings notes together--artistically and vividly. I'll never forget a discussion we had during this year's presidential election campaign. I told him how much I admired Governor Adlai Stevenson, the Democratic standard-bearer, and I discovered that he and I shared similar views. As we parted, I whispered to him: "Louis, please pray to Sweet Jesus that Stevenson will be elected." Louis grinned, and he said, "We cats talk to each other every night." It was not a sacrilegious reference to the Deity, for I know the depths of Louis Armstrong's religious feelings. To a true musician "cat" is a word charged with great affection and warmth. It was at once a term of great reverence and respect.

Louis belongs to a classic circle of America's great men. I once compared Joe Louis with FDR. I also bracketed Sugar Ray Robinson with Harry S. Truman. I class Louis with these four distinguished 20th Century Americans. They have all enriched our national life in their own ways.