Sometimes the images seem even more eloquent than the music itself. Apart from that brief, frenzied period known as the swing era, jazz has never really been an all-conquering form of popular music; yet it is hard to think of any other art form that has produced quite such a distinctive body of images. Even today, when the music struggles to win airtime and column inches, just open a fashion magazine or watch a television commercial: the evidence is all around.

Which is one reason to welcome a new exhibition in the West End, a few minutes’ walk from Ronnie Scott’s. A collection of pictures selected by Jamie Cullum, The Spirit of Jazz offers an unashamedly nostalgic journey through the nightspots, recording studios and dance halls where this most ethereal form of music-making found a home amid the cigarette smoke and the smell of perspiration, alcohol and sex. Drawn from the sprawling Getty Images archive, the show brings together shots by agency snappers and established masters such as the veteran British photographer David Redfern — dubbed “the Cartier-Bresson of jazz” by the saxophonist Dexter Gordon. Billie Holiday hovers in front of a microphone; Benny Goodman rests on a sofa after a gig; a young couple perform a jitter­bug on a Newcastle dancefloor.

The very mention of Cullum, of course, causes apoplexy among purists, who regard the singer-pianist as a callow interloper from Smash Hits territory. Yet, given that he has long had a passion for photography — a film-studies graduate, he fitted himself out with a Leica as soon as the royalties began to flow in — he is rather well qualified for this particular role.

His showman tastes are reflected in his choices. It could certainly be argued that some of the items in the show fall outside the boundaries of jazz. The honking saxophonist Big Jay McNeely is an R&B luminary, while Sinatra, Lena Horne and Josephine Baker have more than a touch of showbiz stardust about them. Take the longer view, however, and you can see that all of them belong to the larger family that traces its ancestry back to the disreputable quarter of New Orleans.

Not the least of the show’s merits is that it reminds us that, for all its virtuosity, jazz is also an expression of visceral emotion. Critics and historians can be maddeningly po-faced in this regard, burying the passion and humour underneath endless recitations of catalogue numbers. There is certainly nothing wrong with conferring respectability on the music, but the exhibition is proof that, in some respects, jazz has been better served by photographers than by many of its scribes.

“I’ve tried to make things accessible,” Cullum explains. “When I made my first selection, I’d forgotten that it wasn’t just supposed to appeal to people like you and me. So I made a point of including people dancing as well. The photos had a sense of joy that reminded me why I fell in love with jazz in the first place. One I particularly liked was the shot of Lionel Hampton jumping in the air. You forget that jazz musicians were like rock stars in those days.”

In a sense, photography and jazz came of age together. Anyone who has ever bought a Blue Note album will know how integral the portraits of the artists were to the enduring appeal of the label. Francis Wolff’s photographs are unrivalled for their blend of elegance and informality. Similarly, the late William Claxton (who, like Wolff, is not included in the Getty display) helped to ensure that Chet Baker’s matinée-idol looks made as compelling an impression as his haunting performance of My Funny Valentine. Britain’s own Val Wilmer — one of the few women to break into the upper reaches — has produced work that, as well as documenting the key trends of the post-1950s era, reflects the footloose existence of the players, floating from one date to the next.

Yet, having conquered the academy, jazz has also lost some of its waywardness. The affable Redfern — who has been prowling bandstands for more than 40 years — laments the fact that contemporary jazz, for all its technical accomplishments, produces fewer larger-than-life personalities. (He recalls how, during a drinking session with Roy Eldridge and colleagues, the trumpeter advised him: “Whatever you do, don’t try to keep up with us.”) That explains why modern photographs sometimes feel like facsimiles of old ones.

“The job is more difficult in that respect,” Redfern explains. “Come back, Ben Webster and Illinois Jacquet. There are still some great characters around, but you’re deluding yourself if you say there are as many as there used to be.”

Still, there’s no point indulging in such gloomy change-and-decay thoughts when we have the work of immensely talented homegrown photographers such as Allan Titmuss and Tim Motion, to name but two. Moreover, as Redfern points out, technical advances have made it easier to capture the spontaneity of a live performance without resorting to extra lighting or staged poses.

What about that other all-important ingredient, cigarette smoke? When you stroll into the refurbished, upwardly mobile version of Ronnie Scott’s — still one of the great live venues on the planet — the first thing you notice is that the old blue-grey fug has gone. A boon for your lungs and your clothes, no doubt, but, according to the photographer David Sinclair, the cleaner air has its drawbacks.

The setting, he insists, should never be too glossy: “I’d love to return to the days when the maître d’ would use both hands to part the smoke as I entered the room. Carefully stepping over a body protruding from beneath a table, possibly dead or maybe just enraptured by the music, I’d find a shooting position while avoiding leaning on the part of the club’s wall where water still trickled down from the floor above.”

Ah, yes, the scent of stale tobacco and warm beer. Those were the days.

The Spirit of Jazz is at the Getty Images Gallery, W1, from October 9 to November 28

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