Stanley Crouch, a cultural critic whose contrarian and trenchant writings exploring music, politics, race and literature made him a prominent and often controversial figure in American arts and letters, died Sept. 16 at a New York hospital. He was 74.

His wife, Gloria Nixon-Crouch, announced the death in a statement but did not cite a specific cause.

Mr. Crouch was an actor, playwright, jazz drummer and college professor — without benefit of a college degree — before he emerged in the late 1970s as one of the country’s most original, contentious and (sometimes literally) combative writers.

He was a bare-knuckled literary provocateur — erudite, fearless, sometimes reckless, in the view of his critics — while reveling in his often truculent takedowns, often of works by other African American artists and intellectuals.

Mr. Crouch was a passionate champion of jazz as perhaps the pinnacle of artistic expression in this country and was just as ardent in denouncing rap music as “either an infantile self-celebration or anarchic glamorization of criminal behavior.”

His bold declarations escalated to a fistfight with another writer at the Village Voice, prompting Mr. Crouch’s firing from the weekly newspaper in 1988, reportedly after similar bullying incidents.

He also wrote for the New York Daily News, the Root, the Daily Beast and the New Republic, among other outlets, and was the recipient of a MacArthur Foundation “genius” grant. He published a novel and an acclaimed biography of saxophonist Charlie Parker and published learned essays on writers Thomas Mann, William Faulkner and Saul Bellow.

After leading an avant-garde group as a drummer in his earlier years, Mr. Crouch became a jazz classicist over time and was a close friend and intellectual mentor of trumpeter Wynton Marsalis, with whom he helped launch Jazz at Lincoln Center, a performance venue and influential jazz repertory group.

Together, Mr. Crouch and Marsalis were the standard-bearers of a 1980s movement that rejected electronic jazz fusion and called for a return to the musical traditions embodied by Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Thelonious Monk and other jazz innovators. Mr. Crouch was a featured commentator in Ken Burns’s 10-part documentary series on jazz in 2000 and was named a National Endowment for the Arts Jazz Master in 2019.

He praised the beauty of trumpeter Miles Davis’s music from the 1950s and 1960s, but when Davis adopted a rock-influenced style in the 1970s, Mr. Crouch condemned the move as a betrayal of near-apocalyptic dimensions. He called it “perhaps the essential failure of contemporary Negro culture: its mock-democratic idea that the elites, too, should like it down in the gutter.”

“Gone is the elegant and exigent Afro-American authenticity of the likes of Ellington, at ease in the alley as well as the palace,” Mr. Crouch wrote in a memorable 1990 essay in the New Republic, “replaced by a youth culture vulgarity that vandalizes the sweep and substance of Afro-American life.”

He applied his aesthetic views more broadly to social concerns and what he saw as a widespread acceptance of loutish behavior and underachievement.

“The cult of ethnic authenticity often mistakes the lowest common denominator for an ideal,” he wrote in the essay on Davis. “In this climate, obnoxious, vulgar, and anti-social behavior has been confused with black authenticity.”

Mr. Crouch — who preferred the terms Negro, Black American and Afro-American to “African American” — was just as harsh toward other revered Black artists. When Toni Morrison received the 1993 Nobel Prize in literature, he did not join in the ovation.

“She has a certain skill, but she has no serious artistic vision or real artistic integrity,” he told The Washington Post. “ ‘Beloved’ was a fraud. It gave a fake vision of the slave trade, it didn’t deal with the complicity of Africans, and it moved the males into the wings.”

In essays and interviews, Mr. Crouch called filmmaker Spike Lee “a middle-class would-be street Negro,” whose films reflected “fantasy” versions of Black communities and “the fundamental shallowness that you get from a propagandist.”

Mr. Crouch believed that the civil rights movement was aspiring to a “complex vision of universal humanism” and cultural understanding before it was “hijacked by radicals.” He called Malcolm X the “chief black heckler of the civil rights movement” and was withering toward Louis Farrakhan, dismissing the Nation of Islam leader as “our most highly respected racist and all-purpose lunatic.”

Even when onetime friends deserted him, Mr. Crouch did not moderate his outspoken views.

“I admire the brother’s candor,” writer and scholar Cornel West told the New Yorker in 1995, “but his abrasive style is so alienating that it tends to reinforce the polarization. The low points, like the attacks on Toni Morrison, gain more attention. His brilliant jazz criticism is overshadowed.”

Others said Mr. Crouch was nothing more than a clever mouthpiece for White conservatives, particularly when he complained of crime-ridden neighborhoods and “a cult of victimization.”

“I’ve been applauded by black bus drivers, subway drivers, mechanics, various people who have come up to me and said, ‘I’m sure glad somebody is saying it,’ ” Mr. Crouch told the New York Times in 1993. “That’s enough for me. I don’t care what some trickle-down Negro Marxist says.”

In the 1960s, when Mr. Crouch came of age, he was part of the emerging Black Arts movement, championed by poet and activist Amiri Baraka. It was a sometimes militant effort to create art, music and political strength within the African American community, separate from the dominant White culture.

Mr. Crouch joined a Los Angeles theatrical group led by Jayne Cortez, a major figure in the Black Arts movement, and wrote defiant poetry and plays. By the early 1970s, he was growing disaffected with the black nationalist movement.

“Race pride is something that I’m not unacquainted with,” he told Newsday in 1990. “But that’s different from racism, and a lot of people in the cultural nationalist movement are hard-core anti-white racists. And to me, racism is antithetical to the Afro-American tradition.”

Mr. Crouch became increasingly drawn to the writings of Ralph Ellison, author of “Invisible Man,” a landmark novel about African American life, and especially Albert Murray. Murray was a novelist and essayist, and his 1970 book “The Omni-Americans” used jazz to demonstrate how African American achievement is at the heart of American civilization.

Mr. Crouch was intellectually transformed.

“This great man,” he wrote of Murray, “is my mentor and far more my father than the fellow whose blood runs in my veins.”

Mr. Crouch abandoned his dashikis for suits and ties and, in 1975, moved to New York. He said all art forms, regardless of their origins, should aspire to the qualities of beauty, skill and excellence that he admired in Ellington and other jazz artists. His aim was to show that African Americans had a strong and abiding voice in defining American life as a whole.

“See, we do know there is an Afro-American culture which is impossible without American culture,” he told the Baltimore Sun in 1995. “And American culture, as we understand it, is impossible without the Negro-American component.”

Stanley Lawrence Crouch was born Dec. 14, 1945, in Los Angeles. His mother cleaned houses. He had little contact with his father, a drug addict who was in prison when he was born.

Suffering from asthma in his youth, Mr. Crouch became a dedicated reader and jazz fan who was shaped by the strict standards of his teachers.

“If you came in there and said, ‘I’m from a dysfunctional family and a single parent household,’ ” he told the New York Times in 1993, “they would say, ‘Boy, I’m going to ask you again. What is 8 times 8?’ When I was coming up, there were no excuses except your house burned down and there was a murder in the family.”

Mr. Crouch attended two community colleges in California without graduating, raised money for the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, a civil rights group, and gravitated toward the arts.

He became a poet-in-residence at Pitzer College, one of the elite Claremont Colleges in Southern California, then talked his way into a faculty position at Pomona, another of the Claremont Colleges, where he taught from 1968 to 1975.

He wrote and produced plays, taught himself to play drums and formed a free jazz band called Black Music Infinity. He was a popular teacher whose students included George C. Wolfe, who became a celebrated theatrical director, producer and playwright, and Marianne Williamson, who became a self-help writer and a 2020 Democratic presidential candidate.

In 1975, Mr. Crouch moved to New York, in part to be closer to Murray, Ellison and the center of the jazz world. He organized concerts, sometimes acting as his own bouncer, and became a fixture in musical and intellectual circles, gregarious and pugnacious in equal parts.

Between 1990 and 2006, Mr. Crouch published five collections of essays. His only novel, “Don’t the Moon Look Lonesome,” about the marital struggles of an interracial pair of jazz musicians, was published to mixed reviews in 2000.

He found greater success in 2013 with his long-awaited biography of Parker, “Kansas City Lightning,” which some critics considered Mr. Crouch’s masterpiece. It focused on the pioneering bebop saxophonist’s youth and was written in the bouncy, rhythmic style of an improvised jazz solo.

In a review in the New York Times, music critic David Hajdu called Mr. Crouch’s prose “free-flowing and severe, volatile, expansive, allusive and indulgent. From bravura sentence to serpentine paragraph, the book is a virtuoso performance of musical-literary mimesis.”

A projected second volume of the biography has not appeared.

Mr. Crouch’s first marriage, to Samerna Scott, ended in divorce. Survivors include his wife since 1994, sculptor Gloria Nixon-Crouch; a daughter from his first marriage; and a granddaughter.

Mr. Crouch called his home office, filled with thousands of books and recordings, the war room. He relished the idea of debate and intellectual dispute because, in his view, nothing less than the fate of civilization was at stake.

“You have to be the lion in the path of anarchy,” he told the Washington Times in 1990. “See, I’m not going to submit to racism, I don’t care whose version of it I happen to come in contact with; I’m not going to submit to superficial thinking about people; I’m not going to submit to any ideas that reduce the rich possibility of human life.”