Herbie Hancock rocks

Much attention has lately been focused on Alan Yentob's arrival on a white charger to take save TV arts coverage. His first programme on the new Saatchi Gallery was a welcome addition to an impoverished cultural landscape, and so what if he was calling in friendly favours to get permission to film the elusive man.

Let us not forget, however, that there has been a champion of the arts around for quite a while now, fighting the philistines virtually single-handed. I refer, of course, to that grizzled old warrior Melvyn Bragg, still jousting confidently under that adamantine helmet of hair.

The South Bank Show has been keeping us abreast of developments in the arts since the dark ages. This latest edition of the programme is a perfect example of how its techniques have been perfected, but not allowed to become predictable. Herbie Hancock makes a suitable subject for the treatment.

This is a man about whom lots of people know little snippets of fact. Some know him as the composer of 'Watermelon Man', a modern jazz classic, while others remember 'Rockit' and its storming of the charts accompanied by a memorable video. The programme starts with Herbie seated at the piano, shot in black and white, taking the familiar South Bank theme tune for a musical ride round several blocks. It is clever and classy and it works.

The details of Hancock's rise to prominence are deftly sketched. He gave up engineering for music at college, but has never lost a taste for the technical.

He slipped into the big time without a fuss - under the wing of experienced jazzer Donald Byrd. Herbie, although far from arrogant, does not suffer from false modesty. Acting on sound advice, he not only wrote original material, but also published it as well, making certain he gained the correct financial rewards.

Melvyn is mostly notable by his discreet absence from the proceedings, Hancock mostly appearing to talk straight to the camera - which he does fluently - without prompting by questions. Most importantly of all, the music was allowed to speak for itself at some length.

The footage of a prowling Miles Davis, aurally diagnosing Herbie's every keyboard sortie, was particularly fine. By virtue of revealing comments from past and present bandmates, we get a sense of this somewhat unassuming man's profound influence on jazz, that music that 'was designed to eat everything in its path that's tasty'.

I suppose that there are those that will be disappointed not to find out more about the private man. We learn, in passing, that he is a long-time practising Buddhist, and that he is part-Cherokee Indian. It is clearly the case that with Herbie Hancock, music is his life's mission, and that's exactly what we get from Melvyn and his team.