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It has been just over 100 years since the birth of jazz and in that century, what originally was thought of as a debased, degraded music — played in whore houses and juke joints by Negroes — has transformed into America’s high art form... as long as it is played by The Pantheon.

Who is in The Pantheon? Well, there are Duke and Satchmo, Dizzy and Bird, Miles and Coltrane, and of course the Great Triumvirate of Billie, Sarah and Ella. And there are other Older Titans such as Bessie Smith and Ma Rainey that help form the Triple Goddess (with Billie Holiday), much like Hecate, Selene and Artemis.

But before laughing off the comparison of famous jazz legends to the deities of ancient Greece, please keep in mind that in San Francisco there is a St. John Coltrane African Orthodox Church that takes these matters very seriously.

One result of the opinion that real jazz was created by only the deities in The Pantheon is a subset of people that espouse the belief that there is nothing left for the younger generation to contribute to jazz that has not already been contributed. This means that many are content to curl on their sofas at home and listen to their Blanton-Webster or Hot Five reissues.

Another result means that even though there are a few living legends left, you don’t go out to listen to them perform (after all, you have all their CDs at home), rather you go to a concert to "see" this legend. And once you have gone to "see" them in an antiseptic concert hall or through binoculars at a festival, you can check that legend off your to-do list, most likely to never see them again.

After all, they don’t have the chops to play like they used to on their recordings anymore.

Like the Dioscuri, the Cult of celebrity goes hand in hand with deification. In this paparazzi-driven world of Paris Hilton and the Simpson sisters, she (or he) with the most press tends to have the greatest impact on culture. Is it a wonder that gorgeous jazz It-girl Jane Monheit is adored in legion by young girls? Or that Diana Krall's legs in strappy sandal heels inspired 20-something men with no interest in jazz or Bossa Nova to buy her CD?

Is the cult of Billie Holiday any wonder? Light-skinned, beautiful, and tall, Billie was a favorite of photographers. "Ofay men used go crazy for Billie," says saxophonist Jules Broussard, a sentiment also echoed by Apollo emcee Pops Fosters in Julia Blackburn's 2006 book, With Billie. Holiday was so photographed wearing a flower in her hair that, even though it was a commonplace trend in that day among many women, subsequent wearers will always remind the beholder of Billie Holiday. Like Paris Hilton, Billie's police escapades and prison stays were splashed on headlines.

In comparison, Ella Fitzgerald — a short, chubby, homely girl — was photographed far less frequently, but is often remembered for her ability to break glass in a Memorex commercial. And then we have someone like Betty Carter who, in the hot debate over what is jazz and whether the term "jazz singer" is an oxymoron, manages to elicit an exemption from even the crustiest "Jazz Nazi." She is unequivocally jazz, but looks and press have always been lacking compared to The Triumvirate. She wasn’t in movies, Broadway plays, commercials or the darling of photographers, and despite recognition by Bill Cosby and President Clinton, she may be forgotten without some conscientious help.

Today's audiences need to be told something is great: to read somewhere that it is great or rather see a picture in the paper or magazine or website or on a billboard. They need to see it on TV, and the person needs to be inaccessible for it to be truly great.

It is my firm belief that, with the exception of a few bulwarks like the late Phil Elwood, Billie Holiday could sing at Jazz at Pearl's to a half-empty house and no reviews. If you think that I am exaggerating, take a look at the numbers of vocalist Ernestine Anderson’s last concert at Pearl's. I guess one of the criteria for being part of The Pantheon is dying. But part of the problem might have been that Pearl's — with a room capacity of 135 seats — was too small.