Showing posts with label jazz. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jazz. Show all posts
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Ray's Boathouse - Dick's Drive In!
Had an excellent private gig tonight. It was me, playing solo - Jazz/Blues/X-mas songs.
Thought that it was going to be kind of strange, but it turns out it was awesome. Thirty people about, all managers and owners of Dick's Drive In's. I decided that I have not been getting enough 'practice' at these solo gigs that I do, so I decided I was going to sing a bunch tonight! Sang tons of Christmas songs and Blues and Jazz, and man...! I thought it was pretty good actually. I brought my PA instead of my amp, and my keyboard sounds way better through it, not to mention the vocals. I feel like after a song or two I got used to singing through the PA system, and had some control over it and could just relax and sing along.
People really had a great response to it, and it was the best practice I have had at a solo gig in a very long time, especially for being a casual. I am going to sing a lot at all these upcoming gigs!
Sincerely,
Mack
Thought that it was going to be kind of strange, but it turns out it was awesome. Thirty people about, all managers and owners of Dick's Drive In's. I decided that I have not been getting enough 'practice' at these solo gigs that I do, so I decided I was going to sing a bunch tonight! Sang tons of Christmas songs and Blues and Jazz, and man...! I thought it was pretty good actually. I brought my PA instead of my amp, and my keyboard sounds way better through it, not to mention the vocals. I feel like after a song or two I got used to singing through the PA system, and had some control over it and could just relax and sing along.
People really had a great response to it, and it was the best practice I have had at a solo gig in a very long time, especially for being a casual. I am going to sing a lot at all these upcoming gigs!
Sincerely,
Mack
Monday, November 23, 2009
Ballard Jazz Walk
Playing the Ballard Jazz Walk the other night was an absolute blast. I was playing with the Jacob Stickney quartet, we have been playing gigs together for about a year now, and the band includes Devin Lowe, Adam Kessler, Jacob Stickney and myself. The music is mostly Jacob's original material, which is fun to play. You get really weird, strange chords for a couple bars, then other really strange chords for a couple bars, and in the end I am always amazed that it sounds so good! It is teaching me a lot about harmony...
Other bands I saw at the Jazz Walk :
Pete Christlieb and Hadley Caliman - Awesome. The New York fashion school is not a music venue however... how come the Tractor Tavern, or the Sunset was not on board with this..?! I could not believe it. Bill Anschell was on keys, and Chuck Deardorf on bass, Jon Bishop on drums.
Jason Parker Quartet - Super fun, most entertaining group of the evening. Jason is sounding really great, and he was playing with Cynthia Mullis, who played on his cd. The Teaching was backing him up (Evan Flory-Barnes, Jeremy Jones, Josh Rawlings) and they sounded good. Those guys have gotten super tight together over the years.
Jason was playing tracks off of his new cd, my favorite being "Mance's Dance" a Tatum Greenblat tune, and then "Love for Sale" a Jason Parker original arrangement that totally kicked ass. It was nice to see these guys because they had some stuff worked out, a lot of the groups were just calling tunes... which is a jazz tradition, but it tends to bore me sometimes now.
McTuff - Energy seemed great, but the balance was horrible. Joe Doria was playing organ, and I could not hear it. REPEAT, I COUULD NOT HEAR THE ORGAN.... wow, that never happens!
Anyways, there were tons of other bands also and it really was fun walking around checking out all the bands. It reminded me of what it must have been like being on Jackson street in the mid 1900's with all the jazz clubs.
Other bands I saw at the Jazz Walk :
Pete Christlieb and Hadley Caliman - Awesome. The New York fashion school is not a music venue however... how come the Tractor Tavern, or the Sunset was not on board with this..?! I could not believe it. Bill Anschell was on keys, and Chuck Deardorf on bass, Jon Bishop on drums.
Jason Parker Quartet - Super fun, most entertaining group of the evening. Jason is sounding really great, and he was playing with Cynthia Mullis, who played on his cd. The Teaching was backing him up (Evan Flory-Barnes, Jeremy Jones, Josh Rawlings) and they sounded good. Those guys have gotten super tight together over the years.
Jason was playing tracks off of his new cd, my favorite being "Mance's Dance" a Tatum Greenblat tune, and then "Love for Sale" a Jason Parker original arrangement that totally kicked ass. It was nice to see these guys because they had some stuff worked out, a lot of the groups were just calling tunes... which is a jazz tradition, but it tends to bore me sometimes now.
McTuff - Energy seemed great, but the balance was horrible. Joe Doria was playing organ, and I could not hear it. REPEAT, I COUULD NOT HEAR THE ORGAN.... wow, that never happens!
Anyways, there were tons of other bands also and it really was fun walking around checking out all the bands. It reminded me of what it must have been like being on Jackson street in the mid 1900's with all the jazz clubs.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Lynnwood Food Bank Benefit!
A week ago, my quartet played a gig at the Lynnwood Free Methodist Church to benefit the Lynnwood food-bank. It was exciting to have a showcase gig for a good cause, and we earned over $1,600.00 for the food bank!
Clark Gibson was playing sax, Adam Kessler was playing drums and Devin Lowe was playing a lil' bass in your face.
Getting ready for the concert, I had a whole bunch of music picked out for us to perform, but it turned out that two forty-five minute sets was only a third of the material I picked out. Although we did not get a true rehearsal in (hard with everyones schedules) we played charts that were easy enough to get through as a band with very little rehearsal time. Some of those included Get Happy, Pure Imagination, I'm Walkin and a Charlie Parker transcription of Dewey Square. It was a fun gig, the music was all around exciting, however as a musician I cannot be satisfied! LoL! Next time we will be tighter, play better and have even MORE fun!!!
You can check out a clip from the gig on my website, www.mackgrout.com
Mack
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Zubatto Syndicate and More!
The Zubatto Syndicate gig on November 5th was a success!
As a musician playing Andrew Boscardin's music (the composer, and leader of the Zubatto Syndicate) I wanted to write a little something from an insider perspective for all you bloggers and musicians out there.
We have all played gigs before where musicians and composers are trying to bring many different types of music together, and in my experience many of these instances are exaggerated incredibly. Normally when you get a classical group that says they are combining the two(jazz and classical), you have a chamber ensemble of some sort playing some major nine chords, or playing some modal sounding piece. When you get the jazz guys mixing classical into their playing, they are not really mixing in solid classical influences, but are improvising in a way that resembles how they interpret classical music. The music that Andrew wrote for the Zubatto Syndicate is definitely from more of a jazz background, but I felt that it had an honest mixing of classical influences.
Part of this could be attributed to a third of the band being typical 'classical' instruments. This made for some very unique arrangements, with oboe, bassoon and clarinets often playing the top of the voicings, and trumpet, alto and some of the jazz side of the band that normally play the top of the "balance pyramid" playing some inner voicings. I have not heard the recordings yet, but it sounded good from the band stand. My only concern is that the woodwind instruments can not be as loud as the brass, so I hope the balance was good the night of the performance and the melodies when they were in the oboe and clarinet were not over powered by the brass section.
One of the goal's of the Zubatto Syndicate, was to mix this quasi big-band style with contemporary styles. A lot of Andrew's songs (All entitled as Z, followed by a number. He said this was because when he was brainstorming musical ideas and motif's he just numbered them and instead of creating a name for the tunes, he just kept them as Z7, Z2, Z35 and etc.) were built around grooves. Rock grooves, hip-hop grooves, bluesy grooves and all sorts of interesting rhythms (One of Andrew's pieces was built around a 7/8 drum groove, really cool!). Byron Vannoy was playing drums, and John Hammer was playing bass, and together they really held down a good foundation for the band.
Once the band had rehearsed a few times, it was time to get down to Town Hall and perform the show. Even after rehearsing and practicing the music, I know that I was still on the uncomfortable edge when it was performance time... and I do not think I was alone! Part of it was because of the difficult passages, and rhythms that the music contained. Another part of it was that since Town Hall is such a huge room, with thirty foot ceilings, the sound of the bass on stage was basically disappearing. Because of this, throughout the show I was trying hard just to lay down the basic harmony of the pieces so that soloists could tell where we were in the forms (It sure was pretty tricky in spots!!!). I do not know how well I did, we can all see when the concert is broadcast on the Seattle Channel in January!
Overall, I think the nervousness of the band helped the performance. We were all super attentive as a unit, and there were several times where people stepped up and helped to lead everyone else. If everyone was super clean on all of the material and at ease, I do not think it would have had the same energy that it did.
I love working with Andrew, because all of his music has such interesting melodies, and he writes truly original music. Not to mention he is a good friend of mine, and we always have fun playing together! I would recommend not just jazz lovers, but any music lover to at least give the Zubatto Syndicate a listen to see what they think, it is an ambitious music, experimental, energetic, and then it is rounded out by some great soloists! Clark Gibson, Chad McCullough, Chris Stover and Jim DeJoie were all killing it.
Zubatto Syndicate is:
Zubatto Syndicate is:Byron Vannoy - drums
Chris Stover - trombone
Greg Sinibaldi - bass clarinet and tenor saxophone
Francine Peterson - bassoon
Chad McCullough - trumpet
Taina Karr - oboe and English horn
Jon Hamar - bass
Mack Grout - keys
Clark Gibson - alto saxophone
Jim DeJoie - baritone saxophone
Jesse Canterbury - clarinet
Andrew Boscardin - guitar
Check out Andrew Boscardin's blog on the band here.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Summer is busy time for us "Catz"
Have been playing a lot of gigs lately, corporate events, private gigs, and a few awesome club dates and stuff too.
Notable gigs :
Oysterville Jazz and Oysters festival - Rocked the house with May Palmer (R&B singer) Totally fun, never ate so many oysters in my life! Oysterville is a mysterious place, it is about 35 min. north of Long Beach Washington! It was a great time, beautiful place!
Orange - Played Brewfest in Portland with the band Orange, lead by Ted Wallis. Fun gig, crazy time. Lots of bro's at this gig, we played at the Rockbottom in downtown Portland!
DMQ @ Highdive - Pretty good, unfortunately our draw was not what we were hoping for, but for the people that were there it was a good time! Our next show is at the Tractor Tavern (Dudley Manlove Quartet's After School Special) Come party and bring supplies to donate to local elementary schools!
Played a bunch more but those are the ones that I thought were really worth mentioning right now!
Went and saw Ahmad Jhamal also at Jazz Alley! Good show all around, however Ahmad's playing is somewhat of a mystery to me. I have not spent much time listening to him, but I think I need to now! I want to see if the way he was playing when I saw him is how he always plays!
Upcoming awesome things :
Dave Peck Trio @ Tulas August 28th and 29th - My mentor is returning to Tula's after a break from playing live! This is going to kick ass.
Trio CD - A trio cd is in the works with fellow musicians Brad Gibson and Devin Lowe on Drums and Bass respectively! Should be a fun time, we have a very unique way of playing together!
Mack Grout Band - Quartet show in Lynnwood, Nov. 7th! Benefit for the Lynnwood food bank. This is a full on concert, be there or be square! Trio featuring Clark Gibson on Saxophones.
This post might not be that interesting sorry! Will update more from now on!
Me and Ian Borak (Drums) have been working on a soundtrack for a commercial, should be on television in the next couple of months! Will have to let you guys know!
Cheers,
Mack
P.S. Also keep your ears out - yours truly has an interview/lesson excerpt on NPR! I will keep you all updated.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Jazz Jam Session -- Short story by Bill Anschell
The following short story was somewhat of a internet phenomenon several years ago. I remember reading this when I was in high school jazz band, and thinking that it was so funny that someone could write this story, and be so spot on with all their stereotypes about instrumentalists. It was not until just the other day did I realize that Seattle's Bill Anschell is the author of the story! I wanted to post this because it is funny, especially if you have been to and or sat in at jam sessions, and I want to give credit to Bill for writing it for all of those years that I referred to it and did not know who the author was. What a small world huh, he turns out to live here in Seattle! Check out his website at www.billanschell.com
Anyways, pay close attention to the part about instrumentalists and their personalities... I especially like the part about bald pianists and toy soldiers (and stinky drummers!).
Jazz Jam Sessions: A First-Timer’s Guide
Ready to check out your first jam session? There’s much more to jazz music - and to the “session” in particular - than meets the eye. This primer will help you better appreciate the intense psychodrama being played out on stage. Special “Insider’s Hints” (“I.H.”) highlighted throughout the text will help you make the most of your maiden voyage.
I.H.: Although your food and drink dollars are the lifeblood of the jazz economy, remember that to the musicians, you’re irrelevant. Don’t make requests. Don’t start dancing. And don’t try to sing along. The last thing the session needs is another ego. Things are complicated enough already.
1) The Room
Session venues fall into two distinct categories:
Yuppie jazz dives
Yuppies don’t generally like dives, but jazz, to a Yuppie, is a daring adventure. There may be no valet parking, but caution be damned!
The club will be located in a “transitional” part of town. Walking hurriedly from parking space to venue will raise the courageous Yuppie’s heartbeat past Stairmaster level. All the more gratifying, then, to finally feel the club’s warm embrace. Home at last among the expensive cigars and fancy martinis.
The food will be overpriced and lousy. There will be at least one fake Cajun dish on the menu. There will be an abstract painting of a saxophonist. There will be a state-of-the-art ventilation system that makes the thick cigar smoke swirl around in impressionistic patterns. In the restrooms, a fresh coat of Lysol won’t fully supress the smell of vomit.
There will be no piano, or there will be a Samick. “Samick,” translated from Korean, means “looks like a Steinway but sounds like a Hyundai.” (I.H.: an actual piano; can Yugo be far behind?) The room itself will be an acoustical nightmare. In the absence of carpeting or drapery, sounds will reverberate and distort like a bad LSD trip. Feeding this psychedelic nightmare will the the bar’s blender, a cash register, a big-screen television, and a CD player cranking out music that bears no resemblance to jazz. When the band starts, somebody will forget to turn the CD off. Yuppie conversation, to compete with these sounds, is elevated to a roar. Somewhere, in the background, a jam session takes place.
Non-Yuppie jazz dives
Same as Yuppie jazz dives, but without the Lysol.
I.H.: Sit as close to the band as possible. Stare intensely at each musician during his solo, and move your mouth along with his lines. Don’t smile. Now watch - each will assume that: a) you play his instrument, and b) you think he sucks. You are “vibing” them, and they’ll come undone. All jazz players, regardless of age, instrument, or ability, are deeply insecure. Have fun with this.
2) The Musicians
While a jazz artist may claim to have a “unique voice” on his instrument, sociological analysis tells us otherwise. In reality, jazz players are simply the embodiment of instrumental archetypes. Jam sessions, then, are the playing-out of archetypal conflicts. Jazz “standards” performed at the sessions make up the script. Over time, an epic play is realized. Here are the characters:
Piano: Pianists are intellectuals and know-it-alls. They studied theory, harmony and composition in college. Most are riddled with self-doubt. They are usually bald. They should have big hands, but often don’t. They were social rejects as adolescents. They go home after the gig and play with toy soldiers. Pianists have a special love-hate relationship with singers. If you talk to the piano player during a break, he will condescend.
Bass: Bassists are not terribly smart. The best bassists come to terms with their limitations by playing simple lines and rarely soloing. During the better musical moments, a bassist will pull his strings hard and grunt like an animal. Bass players are built big, with paws for hands, and they are always bent over awkwardly. If you talk to the bassist during a break, you will not be able to tell whether or not he’s listening.
Drums: Drummers are radical. Specific personalities vary, but are always extreme. A drummer might be the funniest person in the world, or the most psychotic, or the smelliest. Drummers are uneasy because of the many jokes about them, most of which stem from the fact that they aren’t really musicians. Pianists are particularly successful at making drummers feel bad. Most drummers are highly excitable; when excited, they play louder. If you decide to talk to the drummer during a break, be careful not to sneak up on him.
Saxophone: Saxophonists think they are the most important players on stage. Consequently, they are temperamental and territorial. They know all the Coltrane and Bird licks but have their own sound, a mixture of Coltrane and Bird. They take exceptionally long solos, which reach a peak half way through and then just don’t stop. They practice quietly but audibly while other people are trying to play. They are obsessed. Saxophonists sleep with their instruments, forget to shower, and are mangy. If you talk to a saxophonist during a break, you will hear a lot of excuses about his reeds.
Trumpet: Trumpet players are image-conscious and walk with a swagger. They are often former college linebackers. Trumpet players are very attractive to women, despite the strange indentation on their lips. Many of them sing; misguided critics then compare them to either Louis Armstrong or Chet Baker depending whether they’re black or white. (I.H.: Arrive at the session early, and you may get to witness the special trumpet game. The rules are: play as loud and as high as possible. The winner is the one who plays loudest and highest. Caution: It is loud and high.) If you talk to a trumpet player during a break, he might confess that his favorite player is Maynard Ferguson, the merciless God of loud-high trumpeting.
Guitar: Jazz guitarists are never very happy. Deep inside they want to be rock stars, but they’re old and overweight. In protest, they wear their hair long, prowl for groupies, drink a lot, and play too loud. Guitarists hate piano players because they can hit ten notes at once, but guitarists make up for it by playing as fast as they can. The more a guitarist drinks, the higher he turns his amp. Then the drummer starts to play harder, and the trumpeter dips into his loud/high arsenal. Suddenly, the saxophonist’s universe crumbles, because he is no longer the most important player on stage. He packs up his horn, nicks his best reed in haste, and storms out of the room. The pianist struggles to suppress a laugh. If you talk to a guitarist during the break he’ll ask intimate questions about your 14-year-old sister.
Vocals: Vocalists are whimsical creations of the all-powerful jazz gods. They are placed in sessions to test musicians’ capacity for suffering. They are not of the jazz world, but enter it surrepticiously. Example: A young woman is playing minor roles in college musical theater. One day, a misguided campus newspaper critic describes her singing as “...jazzy.” Voila! A star is born! Quickly she learns “My Funny Valentine,” “Summertime,” and “Route 66.” Her training complete, she embarks on a campaign of session terrorism. Musicians flee from the bandstand as she approaches. Those who must remain feel the full fury of the jazz universe (see “The Vocalist” below). I.H.: The vocalist will try to seduce you - and the rest of the audience - by making eye contact, acknowledging your presence, even talking to you between tunes. DO NOT FALL INTO THIS TRAP! Look away, your distaste obvious. Otherwise the musicians will avoid you during their breaks. Incidentally, if you talk to a vocalist during a break, she will introduce you to her “manager.”
Trombone: The trombone is known for its pleading, voice-like quality. “Listen,” it seems to say in the male tenor range, “Why won’t anybody hire me for a gig?” Trombonists like to play fast, because their notes become indistinguishable and thus immune to criticism. Most trombonists played trumpet in their early years, then decided they didn’t want to walk around with a strange indentation on their lips. Now they hate trumpet players, who somehow get all the women despite this disfigurement. Trombonists are usually tall and lean, with forlorn faces. They don’t eat much. They have to be very friendly, because nobody really needs a trombonist. Talk to a trombonist during a break and he’ll ask you for a gig, try to sell you insurance, or offer to mow your lawn.
3) The Music
Now that you know a little bit about the room and the players, it’s time to turn your attention to the music. Your new-found knowledge will give you astonishing insights. Let’s look at some typical session landmarks:
Picking the Tune
Every time a tune ends, someone has to pick a new one. That’s a fundamental concept that, unfortunately, runs at odds with jam session group processes.
Tune selection makes a huge difference to the musicians. They love to show off on tunes that feel comfortable, and they tremble at the threat of the unknown. But to pick a tune is to invite close scrutiny: “So this is how you sound at your best. Hmm...” It’s a complex issue with unpredictable outcomes. Sometimes no one wants to pick a tune, and sometimes everyone wants to pick a tune.
The resulting disagreements lead to faction-building and - under extreme conditions - even impromptu elections. The politics of tune selection makes for some of the session’s best entertainment.
Example 1: No one wants to pick a tune
(previous tune ends)
(silence)
trumpet player: “What the f#@*? Is someone gonna to pick a tune?”
(silence)
trumpet player: “This s%!* is lame. I’m outa here.” (Storms out of room, forgetting to pay tab).
rest of band (in unison): “Yes!!!” (Band takes extended break, puts drinks on trumpet player’s tab).
Example 2: Everyone wants to pick a tune, resulting in impromptu election and eventual tune selection
(previous tune ends)
(pianist and guitarist simultaneously): “Beautiful Love!”/“Donna Lee!”
guitarist to pianist: “You just want to play your fat, stupid ten-note chords!”
pianist to guitarist: “You just want to play a lot of notes really fast!”
saxophonist: "Giant Steps’.” (I.H.: a treacherous Coltrane tune practiced obsessively by saxophonists.)
guitarist and pianist (together): “Go ahead, asshole.”
trumpet player: "This s%!* is lame. 'Night in Tunisia'.” (I.H.: a Dizzy Gillespie tune offering bounteous opportunities for loud, high playing.)
saxophonist: "Sorry, forgot my earplugs, Maynard."
(long, awkward silence)
pianist, guitarist, saxophonist, trumpet player all turn to drummer: "Your turn, Skin-head."
(drummer pauses to think of hardest possible tune) I.H.: a time-tested drummer ploy to punish real musicians who play actual notes
drummer: "Stablemates."
trumpet player: F#@* this! I’m outa here.” (Storms out of room. Bartender chases after him.)
("Stablemates”)
trombonist: “Did someone forget to turn off the CD player?”
Not only are these disagreements fun to watch; they create tensions that will last all through the night. I.H.: As an educated audience member, you might want to keep a flow chart diagramming the shifting alliances. You can also keep statistics on individual tune-calling. Under no circumstances, though, should you take sides or yell out song titles. Things are complicated enough already.
The Newcomer
The first set ends without further controversy. The guitarist, still sober, has kept his volume down. The saxophonist eventually found a reed that didn’t traumatize him. The trombonist handed out business cards. The pianist kept his ego in check. No one told any drummer jokes, and the bassist grunted during the better moments. Sure, they lost a trumpet player, but no one really likes trumpet players anyway (except women and misguided critics).
Now other musicians will sit in. Some are regulars, others are unknown. Look toward the bandstand. Musicians new to the session will be hovering about the fringes, wondering how to proceed. There should be a sign-up sheet, but isn’t. There should be a charismatic leader, too; forget it. These are fundamental concepts that, again, run at odds with jam session group processes.
I.H.: Pretend you’re in charge. Approach these hovering musicians one by one. Ask who they normally play with, then stare at them blankly. Ask what tune they’d like to play, and shake your head in disgust. Ask if they’re students. Ask why they aren’t at a paying gig. Ask if they mind waiting until a singer shows up. This is important work you’re doing - cultivating insecurities, planting seeds for eventual drama. If instigating doesn’t come naturally to you, go have a drink or two. There. Now try again. Good.
Eventually, things sort themselves out, and the set begins. Interpersonal dynamics grow more complex. As a newcomer approaches the bandstand, the house musicians sit in judgment; the visitor is on trial. At the same time, the house musicians are slyly observing one another’s reactions, not fully trusting their own. Meanwhile, each is also acutely conscious of his own reactions being judged, and is hesitant to react at all. Added to this is the backlash factor: If the newcomer proves to be a great player, his own judgments of the house band - especially if it was initially unwelcoming - could be devastating.
So the house musicians take the safest route, hiding behind impassive faces, affecting a veil of stoicism. This further unnerves the newcomer. He may feel that he is being “vibed,” or that he has somehow failed before he has even begun.
But there is no turning around - one of the few set rules in the session Code of Conduct. The newcomer reluctantly calls a tune, looks in vain for approval, then counts it off. His job now is to sound relaxed and confident, and, of course, to have fun. His success in doing so will lead either of two outcomes:
1) Rejection
newcomer: “How about a ballad?”
saxophonist: “Are you crazy? LISTEN!”
(blender blends, tv blares, cash register rings, Yuppies roar, room echoes cavernously)
newcomer: “Okay, how about something loud and fast?”
(pianist points at guitarist): “What, you want to set Eddie Van Halen loose?”
Seeing no potential for consensus, the newcomer starts playing a blues tune. It’s a smart move: everyone sounds good on the blues, so no one complains. And since this is the first tune of the set, there haven’t been ten other blues tunes yet, though there will be. A good start, no doubt, but the jury is still out...
I.H.: There’s much more on these players’ minds than just melody, harmony, and rhythm. Let’s see what they’re REALLY thinking, captured in mid-tune:
saxophonist: S%!*! Another sad-ass, no-playing student: Improv 101, licks-to-go, play-by-number, your name here. Who needs ears? Who needs history? I need a drink.
guitarist: Holy s%!* - this cat’s got licks from hell! Burning it up! (looks around; sees saxophonist scowling) But I gotta be careful - these guys already think I’m some kinda Van Halen chops freak, like I got no soul, like I didn't pay dues in Motown cover bands for eight years. They won't cut me any slack, the arrogant bastards. Now if I hook up with this new cat, they’ll just laugh about it. F#@* them! I should call "Dock of the Bay" and see how they do. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just go get a beer (leaves stage).
drummer: Man, this cat is swinging! Here, baby, take THIS (plays a complicated rhythmic figure against the newcomer’s lines, loud). Are we going somewhere? We might be going somewhere. I FEEL LIKE WE’RE GOING SOMEWHERE! Yeah, baby. This is for you! (catches newcomers rhythms with his high-hat). We could be hooking up now. WE’RE HOOKING UP NOW! GO, BABY!
bassist (digging in): Grrrhh. Gnmnt. Glppnt.
pianist: I’m so sick of this crap. Yeah, I can play the same twelve bars over and over while you jerk off ad nauseum, you little s%!*. You and all your friends. Then we get to my solo 25 minutes later and no one even notices all the s%!* I’m playing. Put the tune out of its misery already, for chrissake. But wait, what’s that? Whoa, hang on! This cat’s playing some serious lines - maybe better than my lines? My God, what if I’m not really that great? But, s%!*, I mean I’ve heard Herbie (I.H.: Hancock, legendary jazz pianist) play lines worse than this, too. So maybe this cat’s great, and I still could be really good. Or, maybe he’s really good, and I’m just pretty good. Or maybe he’s barely decent, and I suck. Why won’t anyone just tell me? I hate this asshole.
trombonist: Oh, God, Help!!! Two guys dig him. Two guys don’t. The guitarist left. They’re all looking at me. Think, man, think: The piano player was maybe gonna use me on a gig next Sunday; can’t piss him off. But I was working the insurance thing with the drummer - no, that was the guitarist. Wait: who was about to buy an amp from me? The bassist - hell, that don’t matter. But this new cat, he sounds pretty damn good - maybe he’ll get some gigs I can play on. The sax player’s never gonna use me for anything, anyway. But everybody seems to respect the crusty bastard. I don’t know. I guess this new guy sucks, kinda.
(house musicians, exchanging glances, begin rolling their eyes. Piano player starts hitting ugly chords. Drummer succumbs to the group will and forces a yawn. Bass player is oblivious.)
(newcomer ends solo. No response. He is not invited to play another tune. He leaves the stage dejected, head hanging. Boys can be so cruel...)
2) Acceptance
newcomer: “How about a ballad?”
saxophonist: “Are you crazy? LISTEN!”
(blender blends, tv blares, cash register rings, Yuppies roar, room echoes cavernously)
newcomer (pointing at you): “But HE told me I could call whatever I want.”
all musicians (turning to you): “Who the hell are YOU? Who put YOU in charge?”
I.H.: Shut your mouth. NOW.
newcomer: “Aw, forget that asshole. Let’s just play ‘Cherokee’.”
(“Cherokee” begins. The musicians all bond in the face of a common enemy - you. In their newfound brotherhood, they drop their defenses and enjoy the music. They are pointing their horns at you and playing with great emotion. It is the sound of jazz: Joy, sorrow and anger. You should take the anger personally. You should leave while it is safe.)
(But, no, there’s still so much to be learned. Take a chance: Order a round of drinks for everyone. Hope they’ll forgive you. As it turns out, you’re suddenly the hero. They need the drinks, in a big way, because approaching the bandstand now is...)
The Vocalist
She’s wearing a tight-fitting dress. Her hair is a sculpture. She glides to the bandstand like a model on a runway, ignoring the drink stains and cigarette burns peppering the floor. Her posture is perfect, her arms move just so. She picks up the mike and balances it between three arched fingers. She turns to the audience, a stagey, far-away look in her eyes. “Oh Jesus, here we go,” the saxophonist says under his breath.
“How about a hand for these hard-working guys,” she says, just like she is supposed to. There is no applause. She laughs a stage laugh and tries again. “Where are you all from? Anyone here from New York?” Silence. The crowd is captivated - not by her, but by a racy rock video blasting over the television. Still, she tries. “How many of you are in love?” she asks, giggling a little girl giggle. She’s looking right at you, because you’re the only one paying attention. The musicians are looking at you, too. “You’re NOT from New York, and you’re NOT in love,” their dark eyes say.
“Not a real talkative bunch, are you?” she asks rhetorically, then turns to the band. “Well, I guess we’d better give them something to talk about.” She winks at the sax player, who almost spits. “Do you fellas know ‘Summertime’?” There is a collective shudder. “What key?” the pianist asks, knowing she won’t have an answer. Her veneer momentarily fades; she is in trouble. She did not prepare for the session by practicing or figuring out her keys. She prepared for it by buying a new outfit and having her hair coiffed.
But then she has an idea. With studied nonchalance, she says: “You, know. The regular key.” There is a collective snort. “Regular?” asks the pianist. Not decaf?” The others join in. “Not unleaded?” asks the saxophonist. “Not minty fresh?” asks the drummer. “Not extra wide?” asks the trombonist. “Not the special prescription-strength formula with possible side effects including nausea, headaches, and dry-mouth?” asks the bassist. All turn and stare at him in amazement. The trumpet player shouldn’t have left so soon. This is too much fun.
Now she is near tears. All she can do is start singing, and she lands half-way between two keys. “Lovely,” the pianist mutters. “Quarter-tone explorations on ‘Summertime.’ B minor-and-a-half. C minor-minus. John Cage meets Liza Minelli. Ravi Shankar meets Barbara Streisand. Here, lady, I’ll help you - forgive me, guys. Just because I’m brilliant doesn’t mean I’m heartless. Let’s put it in C minor, and here’s your melody note. Now sing, or act, or whatever it is you do.”
The band joins in, and she works her way through the song’s two choruses. Her voice is pleasant, but barely discernable beneath a haphazard dungheap of inflections that are her “jazz bag.” She approaches the end of the melody. “PLEASE DON’T SCAT! PLEASE, PLEASE!” the musicans silently implore. She scats. There are shooby-doos. There are piercing wails. There are throaty moans. There is writhing and grimacing. There are photo ops. She is smiling at the band, inviting them to feel the spirit. They return blank stares. Finally the saxophonist can take no more. He begins soloing loudly, pointing his horn right at her. The band launches into 20 minutes of improvisation, and the music is good. They have, once again, found a common enemy. Again there is great joy and sorrow and anger. This time, they are not angry at you.
The tune ends. Before anyone can make a move, the vocalist launches into “Route 66.” It is a pre-emptive strike on her part, a brilliant tactical maneuver. The band has no choice but to play along - it’s too late to call up the next artist. Even their emergency bail-out plan - leaving the stage for a premature break - has been disabled. Six musicians crushed by one singer in a single, clean surgical strike. Having won the upper hand, she assumes the role of benevolent dictator. She does not scat. She demands that the audience applaud for each soloist (I.H.: Go ahead). The musicians, in turn, take short polite solos. A new world order has been established.
But the regime will prove a short one. Like any leader buoyed by new-found power, she feels compelled to test the limits. She dips deep into her Star Search bag, pulling out the secret weapon she’s been saving for just such a moment. Ammo that will blast the blender, tv, cash register, and roaring Yuppies into stunned silence. All will stand in awe. She will, at last, be discovered. “Get your kicks,” she belts, “on Route...Sixty...” She throws her arms laterally, telling the band with great passion that she, alone, will take it from here. It is going to be the word “Six,” and it is going to take a very long time.
Sssssiiiii... (the histrionics commence. She drops to one knee. She plumbs the bottom of her range, then her voice begins a slow ascent. Her eyes are shut, chin tucked against chest. She is bent forward, cleavage showing mightily)
...ii... (her voice is in mid-register, still climbing, now wrapped in a wide, swooping vibrato. She rises from her knee to an upright position).
...iii...(she approaches her upper register and begins a series of blues cliches. Her fingers wiggle on the microphone as if she is playing an instrument - first trumpet, then trombone, then saxophone. She has not taken a breath yet.)
...iiii... (as she nears the top of her range, her free hand begins to rise. She is preparing to land on a note that will startle all with its power and beauty. At the exact moment she hits it, her finger will...)
“F#@* this!” says the sax player. “Let’s take a break.” The musicians quickly scramble off-stage, order - as they know it - restored. The singer is still peaking, now in piercing soprano range, pointing dramatically off-stage, eyes closed. Sensing that change is afoot, she sneaks a glance. Quickly at first, eyes barely open. Then longer, eyes agog. The truth sets in, the sheer horror of it. An outright coup d’etat, and she’s been rendered powerless, impotent, ludicrous. She cuts off in mid-note, suddenly slumping. Quietly, resignedly, she concludes, “...ix.”
But it’s okay - no one except you was listening anyway. And you’d best not clap, if you want to be a part of...
The Break
The house musicians are seated at the crowded bar. Actually, two are sitting, and three are standing behind, jutting into the flow of traffic. They are flanked by drunk Yuppies on either side. Other drunk Yuppies periodically bump them from behind.
Despite their nominal victory, the battle with the vocalist has left them in poor spirits. They have felt the wrath of the jazz universe. Their capacity for suffering has been tested and found wanting. They wonder why. Life itself seems without reason. A solution cannot be found in words, only in drink.
You try to help. You explain that evil must exist in the jazz world so they might better appreciate the good. Blessings should be counted. For example, tonight there have been no violinists or accordian players. No harmonica player has sat in and called “Stormy Monday.” No beer has been spilled on the keyboard. And there is still much music to be played.
“Wait a minute,” says the saxophonist. “Aren’t you that asshole that was trying to run the session?” You see anger gathering in his face. He is moving toward you threateningly when a passing Yuppie taps him on the shoulder. “Excuse me. You’re the sax player, right?” The saxophonist’s face lightens. He has been recognized. He nods his head. “Do you play here often?” the Yuppie asks. The saxophonist shrugs with newfound humility. The Yuppie continues: “Good. Perfect. Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“AAAIIIIIIIEEEEEE!” screams the saxophonist, reeling from the sucker punch. Then he thrusts his middle finger Yuppieward, yelling, “It’s right HERE, s%!*head!” The Yuppie stares at the finger in stunned silence. Quickly, the trombonist leaps in, hands wringing. “Restrooms are over there, Sir,” he says, politely. “Hope you don’t mind the smell of vomit. And Sir, permit me one personal question: Is your loved one provided for in the event that something, God forbid, should happen to you?”
Other Yuppies see the dialogue, but miss the finger and the insurance pitch. They decide it is acceptable to talk to musicians, despite the obvious class differences. Several more approach the group. “Dudes, you know any Skynyrd?” asks a pony-tailed businessman. The guitarist looks away, lest his eyes betray him. “How about some Kenny G?” asks a well-dressed young woman. The pianist and drummer quickly grab the saxophonist, restraining him from further violence. There are also requests for “Pennsylvania Polka,” “something we can dance to” and “could you just leave the CD player on?”
Across the bar, you see the newcomer and the vocalist talking intently. You walk over to introduce yourself, but they don’t even notice. They are forming a band. They’re going to figure out the vocalist’s keys and record accompaniment parts on a sequencer. Fake drums, fake bass, fake orchestra, state-of-the-art digital deception. Then they’re going to look for gigs as duo. They’ll start in this very room, seeking out the clubowner, offering to play for half of what tonight’s band is making. They are no longer traumatized by their bandstand humiliation; they are vengeful. Justice must be served.
There’s no place for you in this conversation, so you head back to the house musicians. Coincidentally, the clubowner is talking with them. More precisely, he’s yelling at them. He has each arm over the shoulder of a rebuilt Yuppie bimbo, with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. He’s screaming about the fact that the last set was only 30 minutes long and had just two tunes in it. He’s reminding them that vocalists are good for business and look great on stage. He’s letting them know that they cannot, under any circumstances, scream hari-kari screams and thrust middle fingers Yuppieward. He’s delivering an ultimatum that if they screw up one more time he’s going to find a sequenced duo and save some money. Then he and the silicone Valley Girls disappear into his office. He needs to go over some figures.
Suddenly, this wretched gig becomes very important to the six musicians. They stare at their drinks dejectedly. They can already picture the glaring, aching white space on their calendars every Tuesday. They can hear the painful silence of phones no longer ringing; they’re not wanted, not needed. Rejection hurts; even rejection from Yuppie hell. And now, their world turned upside down, they at last see the good in one another: A saxophonist who so desperately loves the music; a pianist with a brilliant grasp of harmony; a drummer who throws himself headlong into the musical moment; a bassist who selflessly lays down the pulse; a trombonist striving to overcome the handicap of a useless instrument. Surely this magical unit can’t be so easily undone. There is an uncomfortable silence among them, the noises of the bar echoing about like a bad dream. You dare not speak. What could you possibly say?
A few minutes later, the clubowner emerges from his office. He is alone now, drink still in hand, cigar left behind. He has more demands: An earlier start time, a dress code, a maximum of two drinks per musician. The musicians continue to stare silently at their glasses; those seated slump closer to the bar. Meanwhile, the vocalist and the newcomer have spotted the clubowner. They circle around the bar to approach him from behind. They tap his shoulder to get his attention, then quietly talk to him just out of earshot. The musicians don’t need to hear it, anyway. They know exactly what’s going on.
Now the clubowner draws the singer and newcomer into the group. It’s time for a discussion. “Look,” he says to the band. “Can you give me one good reason I shouldn’t book this duo for next Tuesday?” The band is silent. “Okay, fine.” He turns to the duo triumphantly. “Give me a reason or two why I might want to try something different.” He is having fun now. He’s pitting the musicians against one another, Chapter One in the Clubowner Playbook. He’s tapping into the clubowners’ collective unconscious, the seamy underbelly of the jazz universe. He’s drawing strength from the awesome, evil karma of clubowners around the world and throughout time. Disdain for musicians seeps from his every pore.
But he has underestimated the sacred tie that binds all jazz artists, even those momentarily blinded by vengeance. The singer and newcomer purse their lips and refuse to speak. Now the clubowner is getting irritated. “C’mon, you two,” he says. “The same s%!* you said in my ear two minutes ago. What’s the difference?” Still they are silent, and the clubowner becomes angry. He turns suddenly to you. “You,” he says. “You decide. You, the impartial observer. You, all serious holding that crappy ‘Jazz Jam Session’ primer. You tell me who to book next week.”
You frantically thumb through the primer, only to realize that this section is still being written. It’s time to take the lead now, reach deep inside yourself and improvise. You look at the house musicians, still staring silently at their drinks. No question, they screwed up. They were blatantly rude to the newcomer and the singer. Just five minutes ago, the saxophonist almost slugged you. No audience will ever like them. But they really do love music; that much you know for sure. And they need the gig.
You turn to the singer and the newcomer. They came to the club wanting simply to make music. They gave it their best effort, and in return received only ridicule and scorn. But now they’re trying to undercut the band and steal its gig. They want to pollute the already acrid air with carcenogenic Musak.
You need guidance. What would Dr. Laura say? Or Rush? What would Jesus do? What would Journey do? Help, sadly, is not forthcoming; not from radio personalities, nor from spiritual models. (I.H.: Don’t look at me - you’re on your own now, pal.) You run it over and over in your mind, wheels spinning. You look from the clubowner to the six musicians to the duo. The clubowner is furious, returning your glance with a burning glare. All eight musicians are avoiding your eyes, staring at their drinks, or their shoes, or the sticky, stinking floor.
And then you realize that this is not musician versus musician. This is musician versus clubowner. Artist versus cynical businessman. Art versus commerce. And it goes deeper still, a playing-out of the grandest archetypal battle. Repressed employee versus miserly employer. Tiny Tim (sans ukelele) versus Scrooge. The proletariat versus the bourgeoisie. There is only one side you can take, Limbaugh be damned.
You look the clubowner in the eye. “You, sir, SUCK,” you say dramatically. You quickly make your way to the bandstand, grabbing the microphone that still bears traces of the singer’s designer lipstick. “I said, YOU SUCK!” you yell over the house system. A hush falls over the Yuppies. The bartender turns off the blender. Someone turns off the CD player. You point at the clubowner and repeat, more gently, “He sucks.”
The Yuppies snicker. There is applause, first a polite smattering, then a substantial ovation. This must be Performance Art, they decide. But we understand it, and it is Good. Confidently, you stride back to the musicians, slap a couple of twenties on the bar, and say, “Drinks for everyone. Except HIM.” You point an accusing finger at the clubowner. Then you head for the exit.
You feel good. You’ve learned a lot about jazz jam sessions tonight. You’ve also single-handedly defused an explosive situation, and done it with flair. As it turns out, you won’t soon be forgotten, either. Looking back over your shoulder, you see Yuppies flocking to the stage to be part of this new cutting-edge art form. A middle-aged businessman has the mike, and is pointing to one of his associates near the back of the room. “Eat s%!*,” he bellows artistically, to great laughter and applause. He passes the mike to a slender young woman, who points at a beefy young man near the bar. “Kiss my ASS,” she warbles. The room goes ballistic. The line behind the microphone grows, filled out by Yuppies in search of self-expression. Meanwhile, the house band has snuck back into the picture. It is both accompanying and commenting upon the surreal proceedings with freely improvised blips, bleeps, squeaks, and farts.
Your final image, as the door swings shut behind you, is of a critic seated near the stage. He is furiously taking notes, euphoric to be present at the birth of next “New Thing.” He will praise the “collective spontaneity” of the Yuppies, noting their “almost Ellingtonian integration of individual voices into a collective fabric.” He will draw parallels between your creation and avant-garde work of the 1960s, describing it as “Ornette Coleman meets Laurie Anderson in a revisionist framework for the new millenium.” He will note a “new dynamic redefining audience as performer and performer as audience.” He will praise the “direct and powerful text elements.” He will refer to you as a “drive-by genius,” and an “unassuming sculptor of human interactive paradigm.”
Your place in music history is assured.
(I.H.: Need a manager? Try the Musicians Union directory, under “Trombonists”...)
Anyways, pay close attention to the part about instrumentalists and their personalities... I especially like the part about bald pianists and toy soldiers (and stinky drummers!).
Jazz Jam Sessions: A First-Timer’s Guide
Ready to check out your first jam session? There’s much more to jazz music - and to the “session” in particular - than meets the eye. This primer will help you better appreciate the intense psychodrama being played out on stage. Special “Insider’s Hints” (“I.H.”) highlighted throughout the text will help you make the most of your maiden voyage.
I.H.: Although your food and drink dollars are the lifeblood of the jazz economy, remember that to the musicians, you’re irrelevant. Don’t make requests. Don’t start dancing. And don’t try to sing along. The last thing the session needs is another ego. Things are complicated enough already.
1) The Room
Session venues fall into two distinct categories:
Yuppie jazz dives
Yuppies don’t generally like dives, but jazz, to a Yuppie, is a daring adventure. There may be no valet parking, but caution be damned!
The club will be located in a “transitional” part of town. Walking hurriedly from parking space to venue will raise the courageous Yuppie’s heartbeat past Stairmaster level. All the more gratifying, then, to finally feel the club’s warm embrace. Home at last among the expensive cigars and fancy martinis.
The food will be overpriced and lousy. There will be at least one fake Cajun dish on the menu. There will be an abstract painting of a saxophonist. There will be a state-of-the-art ventilation system that makes the thick cigar smoke swirl around in impressionistic patterns. In the restrooms, a fresh coat of Lysol won’t fully supress the smell of vomit.
There will be no piano, or there will be a Samick. “Samick,” translated from Korean, means “looks like a Steinway but sounds like a Hyundai.” (I.H.: an actual piano; can Yugo be far behind?) The room itself will be an acoustical nightmare. In the absence of carpeting or drapery, sounds will reverberate and distort like a bad LSD trip. Feeding this psychedelic nightmare will the the bar’s blender, a cash register, a big-screen television, and a CD player cranking out music that bears no resemblance to jazz. When the band starts, somebody will forget to turn the CD off. Yuppie conversation, to compete with these sounds, is elevated to a roar. Somewhere, in the background, a jam session takes place.
Non-Yuppie jazz dives
Same as Yuppie jazz dives, but without the Lysol.
I.H.: Sit as close to the band as possible. Stare intensely at each musician during his solo, and move your mouth along with his lines. Don’t smile. Now watch - each will assume that: a) you play his instrument, and b) you think he sucks. You are “vibing” them, and they’ll come undone. All jazz players, regardless of age, instrument, or ability, are deeply insecure. Have fun with this.
2) The Musicians
While a jazz artist may claim to have a “unique voice” on his instrument, sociological analysis tells us otherwise. In reality, jazz players are simply the embodiment of instrumental archetypes. Jam sessions, then, are the playing-out of archetypal conflicts. Jazz “standards” performed at the sessions make up the script. Over time, an epic play is realized. Here are the characters:
Piano: Pianists are intellectuals and know-it-alls. They studied theory, harmony and composition in college. Most are riddled with self-doubt. They are usually bald. They should have big hands, but often don’t. They were social rejects as adolescents. They go home after the gig and play with toy soldiers. Pianists have a special love-hate relationship with singers. If you talk to the piano player during a break, he will condescend.
Bass: Bassists are not terribly smart. The best bassists come to terms with their limitations by playing simple lines and rarely soloing. During the better musical moments, a bassist will pull his strings hard and grunt like an animal. Bass players are built big, with paws for hands, and they are always bent over awkwardly. If you talk to the bassist during a break, you will not be able to tell whether or not he’s listening.
Drums: Drummers are radical. Specific personalities vary, but are always extreme. A drummer might be the funniest person in the world, or the most psychotic, or the smelliest. Drummers are uneasy because of the many jokes about them, most of which stem from the fact that they aren’t really musicians. Pianists are particularly successful at making drummers feel bad. Most drummers are highly excitable; when excited, they play louder. If you decide to talk to the drummer during a break, be careful not to sneak up on him.
Saxophone: Saxophonists think they are the most important players on stage. Consequently, they are temperamental and territorial. They know all the Coltrane and Bird licks but have their own sound, a mixture of Coltrane and Bird. They take exceptionally long solos, which reach a peak half way through and then just don’t stop. They practice quietly but audibly while other people are trying to play. They are obsessed. Saxophonists sleep with their instruments, forget to shower, and are mangy. If you talk to a saxophonist during a break, you will hear a lot of excuses about his reeds.
Trumpet: Trumpet players are image-conscious and walk with a swagger. They are often former college linebackers. Trumpet players are very attractive to women, despite the strange indentation on their lips. Many of them sing; misguided critics then compare them to either Louis Armstrong or Chet Baker depending whether they’re black or white. (I.H.: Arrive at the session early, and you may get to witness the special trumpet game. The rules are: play as loud and as high as possible. The winner is the one who plays loudest and highest. Caution: It is loud and high.) If you talk to a trumpet player during a break, he might confess that his favorite player is Maynard Ferguson, the merciless God of loud-high trumpeting.
Guitar: Jazz guitarists are never very happy. Deep inside they want to be rock stars, but they’re old and overweight. In protest, they wear their hair long, prowl for groupies, drink a lot, and play too loud. Guitarists hate piano players because they can hit ten notes at once, but guitarists make up for it by playing as fast as they can. The more a guitarist drinks, the higher he turns his amp. Then the drummer starts to play harder, and the trumpeter dips into his loud/high arsenal. Suddenly, the saxophonist’s universe crumbles, because he is no longer the most important player on stage. He packs up his horn, nicks his best reed in haste, and storms out of the room. The pianist struggles to suppress a laugh. If you talk to a guitarist during the break he’ll ask intimate questions about your 14-year-old sister.
Vocals: Vocalists are whimsical creations of the all-powerful jazz gods. They are placed in sessions to test musicians’ capacity for suffering. They are not of the jazz world, but enter it surrepticiously. Example: A young woman is playing minor roles in college musical theater. One day, a misguided campus newspaper critic describes her singing as “...jazzy.” Voila! A star is born! Quickly she learns “My Funny Valentine,” “Summertime,” and “Route 66.” Her training complete, she embarks on a campaign of session terrorism. Musicians flee from the bandstand as she approaches. Those who must remain feel the full fury of the jazz universe (see “The Vocalist” below). I.H.: The vocalist will try to seduce you - and the rest of the audience - by making eye contact, acknowledging your presence, even talking to you between tunes. DO NOT FALL INTO THIS TRAP! Look away, your distaste obvious. Otherwise the musicians will avoid you during their breaks. Incidentally, if you talk to a vocalist during a break, she will introduce you to her “manager.”
Trombone: The trombone is known for its pleading, voice-like quality. “Listen,” it seems to say in the male tenor range, “Why won’t anybody hire me for a gig?” Trombonists like to play fast, because their notes become indistinguishable and thus immune to criticism. Most trombonists played trumpet in their early years, then decided they didn’t want to walk around with a strange indentation on their lips. Now they hate trumpet players, who somehow get all the women despite this disfigurement. Trombonists are usually tall and lean, with forlorn faces. They don’t eat much. They have to be very friendly, because nobody really needs a trombonist. Talk to a trombonist during a break and he’ll ask you for a gig, try to sell you insurance, or offer to mow your lawn.
3) The Music
Now that you know a little bit about the room and the players, it’s time to turn your attention to the music. Your new-found knowledge will give you astonishing insights. Let’s look at some typical session landmarks:
Picking the Tune
Every time a tune ends, someone has to pick a new one. That’s a fundamental concept that, unfortunately, runs at odds with jam session group processes.
Tune selection makes a huge difference to the musicians. They love to show off on tunes that feel comfortable, and they tremble at the threat of the unknown. But to pick a tune is to invite close scrutiny: “So this is how you sound at your best. Hmm...” It’s a complex issue with unpredictable outcomes. Sometimes no one wants to pick a tune, and sometimes everyone wants to pick a tune.
The resulting disagreements lead to faction-building and - under extreme conditions - even impromptu elections. The politics of tune selection makes for some of the session’s best entertainment.
Example 1: No one wants to pick a tune
(previous tune ends)
(silence)
trumpet player: “What the f#@*? Is someone gonna to pick a tune?”
(silence)
trumpet player: “This s%!* is lame. I’m outa here.” (Storms out of room, forgetting to pay tab).
rest of band (in unison): “Yes!!!” (Band takes extended break, puts drinks on trumpet player’s tab).
Example 2: Everyone wants to pick a tune, resulting in impromptu election and eventual tune selection
(previous tune ends)
(pianist and guitarist simultaneously): “Beautiful Love!”/“Donna Lee!”
guitarist to pianist: “You just want to play your fat, stupid ten-note chords!”
pianist to guitarist: “You just want to play a lot of notes really fast!”
saxophonist: "Giant Steps’.” (I.H.: a treacherous Coltrane tune practiced obsessively by saxophonists.)
guitarist and pianist (together): “Go ahead, asshole.”
trumpet player: "This s%!* is lame. 'Night in Tunisia'.” (I.H.: a Dizzy Gillespie tune offering bounteous opportunities for loud, high playing.)
saxophonist: "Sorry, forgot my earplugs, Maynard."
(long, awkward silence)
pianist, guitarist, saxophonist, trumpet player all turn to drummer: "Your turn, Skin-head."
(drummer pauses to think of hardest possible tune) I.H.: a time-tested drummer ploy to punish real musicians who play actual notes
drummer: "Stablemates."
trumpet player: F#@* this! I’m outa here.” (Storms out of room. Bartender chases after him.)
("Stablemates”)
trombonist: “Did someone forget to turn off the CD player?”
Not only are these disagreements fun to watch; they create tensions that will last all through the night. I.H.: As an educated audience member, you might want to keep a flow chart diagramming the shifting alliances. You can also keep statistics on individual tune-calling. Under no circumstances, though, should you take sides or yell out song titles. Things are complicated enough already.
The Newcomer
The first set ends without further controversy. The guitarist, still sober, has kept his volume down. The saxophonist eventually found a reed that didn’t traumatize him. The trombonist handed out business cards. The pianist kept his ego in check. No one told any drummer jokes, and the bassist grunted during the better moments. Sure, they lost a trumpet player, but no one really likes trumpet players anyway (except women and misguided critics).
Now other musicians will sit in. Some are regulars, others are unknown. Look toward the bandstand. Musicians new to the session will be hovering about the fringes, wondering how to proceed. There should be a sign-up sheet, but isn’t. There should be a charismatic leader, too; forget it. These are fundamental concepts that, again, run at odds with jam session group processes.
I.H.: Pretend you’re in charge. Approach these hovering musicians one by one. Ask who they normally play with, then stare at them blankly. Ask what tune they’d like to play, and shake your head in disgust. Ask if they’re students. Ask why they aren’t at a paying gig. Ask if they mind waiting until a singer shows up. This is important work you’re doing - cultivating insecurities, planting seeds for eventual drama. If instigating doesn’t come naturally to you, go have a drink or two. There. Now try again. Good.
Eventually, things sort themselves out, and the set begins. Interpersonal dynamics grow more complex. As a newcomer approaches the bandstand, the house musicians sit in judgment; the visitor is on trial. At the same time, the house musicians are slyly observing one another’s reactions, not fully trusting their own. Meanwhile, each is also acutely conscious of his own reactions being judged, and is hesitant to react at all. Added to this is the backlash factor: If the newcomer proves to be a great player, his own judgments of the house band - especially if it was initially unwelcoming - could be devastating.
So the house musicians take the safest route, hiding behind impassive faces, affecting a veil of stoicism. This further unnerves the newcomer. He may feel that he is being “vibed,” or that he has somehow failed before he has even begun.
But there is no turning around - one of the few set rules in the session Code of Conduct. The newcomer reluctantly calls a tune, looks in vain for approval, then counts it off. His job now is to sound relaxed and confident, and, of course, to have fun. His success in doing so will lead either of two outcomes:
1) Rejection
newcomer: “How about a ballad?”
saxophonist: “Are you crazy? LISTEN!”
(blender blends, tv blares, cash register rings, Yuppies roar, room echoes cavernously)
newcomer: “Okay, how about something loud and fast?”
(pianist points at guitarist): “What, you want to set Eddie Van Halen loose?”
Seeing no potential for consensus, the newcomer starts playing a blues tune. It’s a smart move: everyone sounds good on the blues, so no one complains. And since this is the first tune of the set, there haven’t been ten other blues tunes yet, though there will be. A good start, no doubt, but the jury is still out...
I.H.: There’s much more on these players’ minds than just melody, harmony, and rhythm. Let’s see what they’re REALLY thinking, captured in mid-tune:
saxophonist: S%!*! Another sad-ass, no-playing student: Improv 101, licks-to-go, play-by-number, your name here. Who needs ears? Who needs history? I need a drink.
guitarist: Holy s%!* - this cat’s got licks from hell! Burning it up! (looks around; sees saxophonist scowling) But I gotta be careful - these guys already think I’m some kinda Van Halen chops freak, like I got no soul, like I didn't pay dues in Motown cover bands for eight years. They won't cut me any slack, the arrogant bastards. Now if I hook up with this new cat, they’ll just laugh about it. F#@* them! I should call "Dock of the Bay" and see how they do. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just go get a beer (leaves stage).
drummer: Man, this cat is swinging! Here, baby, take THIS (plays a complicated rhythmic figure against the newcomer’s lines, loud). Are we going somewhere? We might be going somewhere. I FEEL LIKE WE’RE GOING SOMEWHERE! Yeah, baby. This is for you! (catches newcomers rhythms with his high-hat). We could be hooking up now. WE’RE HOOKING UP NOW! GO, BABY!
bassist (digging in): Grrrhh. Gnmnt. Glppnt.
pianist: I’m so sick of this crap. Yeah, I can play the same twelve bars over and over while you jerk off ad nauseum, you little s%!*. You and all your friends. Then we get to my solo 25 minutes later and no one even notices all the s%!* I’m playing. Put the tune out of its misery already, for chrissake. But wait, what’s that? Whoa, hang on! This cat’s playing some serious lines - maybe better than my lines? My God, what if I’m not really that great? But, s%!*, I mean I’ve heard Herbie (I.H.: Hancock, legendary jazz pianist) play lines worse than this, too. So maybe this cat’s great, and I still could be really good. Or, maybe he’s really good, and I’m just pretty good. Or maybe he’s barely decent, and I suck. Why won’t anyone just tell me? I hate this asshole.
trombonist: Oh, God, Help!!! Two guys dig him. Two guys don’t. The guitarist left. They’re all looking at me. Think, man, think: The piano player was maybe gonna use me on a gig next Sunday; can’t piss him off. But I was working the insurance thing with the drummer - no, that was the guitarist. Wait: who was about to buy an amp from me? The bassist - hell, that don’t matter. But this new cat, he sounds pretty damn good - maybe he’ll get some gigs I can play on. The sax player’s never gonna use me for anything, anyway. But everybody seems to respect the crusty bastard. I don’t know. I guess this new guy sucks, kinda.
(house musicians, exchanging glances, begin rolling their eyes. Piano player starts hitting ugly chords. Drummer succumbs to the group will and forces a yawn. Bass player is oblivious.)
(newcomer ends solo. No response. He is not invited to play another tune. He leaves the stage dejected, head hanging. Boys can be so cruel...)
2) Acceptance
newcomer: “How about a ballad?”
saxophonist: “Are you crazy? LISTEN!”
(blender blends, tv blares, cash register rings, Yuppies roar, room echoes cavernously)
newcomer (pointing at you): “But HE told me I could call whatever I want.”
all musicians (turning to you): “Who the hell are YOU? Who put YOU in charge?”
I.H.: Shut your mouth. NOW.
newcomer: “Aw, forget that asshole. Let’s just play ‘Cherokee’.”
(“Cherokee” begins. The musicians all bond in the face of a common enemy - you. In their newfound brotherhood, they drop their defenses and enjoy the music. They are pointing their horns at you and playing with great emotion. It is the sound of jazz: Joy, sorrow and anger. You should take the anger personally. You should leave while it is safe.)
(But, no, there’s still so much to be learned. Take a chance: Order a round of drinks for everyone. Hope they’ll forgive you. As it turns out, you’re suddenly the hero. They need the drinks, in a big way, because approaching the bandstand now is...)
The Vocalist
She’s wearing a tight-fitting dress. Her hair is a sculpture. She glides to the bandstand like a model on a runway, ignoring the drink stains and cigarette burns peppering the floor. Her posture is perfect, her arms move just so. She picks up the mike and balances it between three arched fingers. She turns to the audience, a stagey, far-away look in her eyes. “Oh Jesus, here we go,” the saxophonist says under his breath.
“How about a hand for these hard-working guys,” she says, just like she is supposed to. There is no applause. She laughs a stage laugh and tries again. “Where are you all from? Anyone here from New York?” Silence. The crowd is captivated - not by her, but by a racy rock video blasting over the television. Still, she tries. “How many of you are in love?” she asks, giggling a little girl giggle. She’s looking right at you, because you’re the only one paying attention. The musicians are looking at you, too. “You’re NOT from New York, and you’re NOT in love,” their dark eyes say.
“Not a real talkative bunch, are you?” she asks rhetorically, then turns to the band. “Well, I guess we’d better give them something to talk about.” She winks at the sax player, who almost spits. “Do you fellas know ‘Summertime’?” There is a collective shudder. “What key?” the pianist asks, knowing she won’t have an answer. Her veneer momentarily fades; she is in trouble. She did not prepare for the session by practicing or figuring out her keys. She prepared for it by buying a new outfit and having her hair coiffed.
But then she has an idea. With studied nonchalance, she says: “You, know. The regular key.” There is a collective snort. “Regular?” asks the pianist. Not decaf?” The others join in. “Not unleaded?” asks the saxophonist. “Not minty fresh?” asks the drummer. “Not extra wide?” asks the trombonist. “Not the special prescription-strength formula with possible side effects including nausea, headaches, and dry-mouth?” asks the bassist. All turn and stare at him in amazement. The trumpet player shouldn’t have left so soon. This is too much fun.
Now she is near tears. All she can do is start singing, and she lands half-way between two keys. “Lovely,” the pianist mutters. “Quarter-tone explorations on ‘Summertime.’ B minor-and-a-half. C minor-minus. John Cage meets Liza Minelli. Ravi Shankar meets Barbara Streisand. Here, lady, I’ll help you - forgive me, guys. Just because I’m brilliant doesn’t mean I’m heartless. Let’s put it in C minor, and here’s your melody note. Now sing, or act, or whatever it is you do.”
The band joins in, and she works her way through the song’s two choruses. Her voice is pleasant, but barely discernable beneath a haphazard dungheap of inflections that are her “jazz bag.” She approaches the end of the melody. “PLEASE DON’T SCAT! PLEASE, PLEASE!” the musicans silently implore. She scats. There are shooby-doos. There are piercing wails. There are throaty moans. There is writhing and grimacing. There are photo ops. She is smiling at the band, inviting them to feel the spirit. They return blank stares. Finally the saxophonist can take no more. He begins soloing loudly, pointing his horn right at her. The band launches into 20 minutes of improvisation, and the music is good. They have, once again, found a common enemy. Again there is great joy and sorrow and anger. This time, they are not angry at you.
The tune ends. Before anyone can make a move, the vocalist launches into “Route 66.” It is a pre-emptive strike on her part, a brilliant tactical maneuver. The band has no choice but to play along - it’s too late to call up the next artist. Even their emergency bail-out plan - leaving the stage for a premature break - has been disabled. Six musicians crushed by one singer in a single, clean surgical strike. Having won the upper hand, she assumes the role of benevolent dictator. She does not scat. She demands that the audience applaud for each soloist (I.H.: Go ahead). The musicians, in turn, take short polite solos. A new world order has been established.
But the regime will prove a short one. Like any leader buoyed by new-found power, she feels compelled to test the limits. She dips deep into her Star Search bag, pulling out the secret weapon she’s been saving for just such a moment. Ammo that will blast the blender, tv, cash register, and roaring Yuppies into stunned silence. All will stand in awe. She will, at last, be discovered. “Get your kicks,” she belts, “on Route...Sixty...” She throws her arms laterally, telling the band with great passion that she, alone, will take it from here. It is going to be the word “Six,” and it is going to take a very long time.
Sssssiiiii... (the histrionics commence. She drops to one knee. She plumbs the bottom of her range, then her voice begins a slow ascent. Her eyes are shut, chin tucked against chest. She is bent forward, cleavage showing mightily)
...ii... (her voice is in mid-register, still climbing, now wrapped in a wide, swooping vibrato. She rises from her knee to an upright position).
...iii...(she approaches her upper register and begins a series of blues cliches. Her fingers wiggle on the microphone as if she is playing an instrument - first trumpet, then trombone, then saxophone. She has not taken a breath yet.)
...iiii... (as she nears the top of her range, her free hand begins to rise. She is preparing to land on a note that will startle all with its power and beauty. At the exact moment she hits it, her finger will...)
“F#@* this!” says the sax player. “Let’s take a break.” The musicians quickly scramble off-stage, order - as they know it - restored. The singer is still peaking, now in piercing soprano range, pointing dramatically off-stage, eyes closed. Sensing that change is afoot, she sneaks a glance. Quickly at first, eyes barely open. Then longer, eyes agog. The truth sets in, the sheer horror of it. An outright coup d’etat, and she’s been rendered powerless, impotent, ludicrous. She cuts off in mid-note, suddenly slumping. Quietly, resignedly, she concludes, “...ix.”
But it’s okay - no one except you was listening anyway. And you’d best not clap, if you want to be a part of...
The Break
The house musicians are seated at the crowded bar. Actually, two are sitting, and three are standing behind, jutting into the flow of traffic. They are flanked by drunk Yuppies on either side. Other drunk Yuppies periodically bump them from behind.
Despite their nominal victory, the battle with the vocalist has left them in poor spirits. They have felt the wrath of the jazz universe. Their capacity for suffering has been tested and found wanting. They wonder why. Life itself seems without reason. A solution cannot be found in words, only in drink.
You try to help. You explain that evil must exist in the jazz world so they might better appreciate the good. Blessings should be counted. For example, tonight there have been no violinists or accordian players. No harmonica player has sat in and called “Stormy Monday.” No beer has been spilled on the keyboard. And there is still much music to be played.
“Wait a minute,” says the saxophonist. “Aren’t you that asshole that was trying to run the session?” You see anger gathering in his face. He is moving toward you threateningly when a passing Yuppie taps him on the shoulder. “Excuse me. You’re the sax player, right?” The saxophonist’s face lightens. He has been recognized. He nods his head. “Do you play here often?” the Yuppie asks. The saxophonist shrugs with newfound humility. The Yuppie continues: “Good. Perfect. Can you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“AAAIIIIIIIEEEEEE!” screams the saxophonist, reeling from the sucker punch. Then he thrusts his middle finger Yuppieward, yelling, “It’s right HERE, s%!*head!” The Yuppie stares at the finger in stunned silence. Quickly, the trombonist leaps in, hands wringing. “Restrooms are over there, Sir,” he says, politely. “Hope you don’t mind the smell of vomit. And Sir, permit me one personal question: Is your loved one provided for in the event that something, God forbid, should happen to you?”
Other Yuppies see the dialogue, but miss the finger and the insurance pitch. They decide it is acceptable to talk to musicians, despite the obvious class differences. Several more approach the group. “Dudes, you know any Skynyrd?” asks a pony-tailed businessman. The guitarist looks away, lest his eyes betray him. “How about some Kenny G?” asks a well-dressed young woman. The pianist and drummer quickly grab the saxophonist, restraining him from further violence. There are also requests for “Pennsylvania Polka,” “something we can dance to” and “could you just leave the CD player on?”
Across the bar, you see the newcomer and the vocalist talking intently. You walk over to introduce yourself, but they don’t even notice. They are forming a band. They’re going to figure out the vocalist’s keys and record accompaniment parts on a sequencer. Fake drums, fake bass, fake orchestra, state-of-the-art digital deception. Then they’re going to look for gigs as duo. They’ll start in this very room, seeking out the clubowner, offering to play for half of what tonight’s band is making. They are no longer traumatized by their bandstand humiliation; they are vengeful. Justice must be served.
There’s no place for you in this conversation, so you head back to the house musicians. Coincidentally, the clubowner is talking with them. More precisely, he’s yelling at them. He has each arm over the shoulder of a rebuilt Yuppie bimbo, with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. He’s screaming about the fact that the last set was only 30 minutes long and had just two tunes in it. He’s reminding them that vocalists are good for business and look great on stage. He’s letting them know that they cannot, under any circumstances, scream hari-kari screams and thrust middle fingers Yuppieward. He’s delivering an ultimatum that if they screw up one more time he’s going to find a sequenced duo and save some money. Then he and the silicone Valley Girls disappear into his office. He needs to go over some figures.
Suddenly, this wretched gig becomes very important to the six musicians. They stare at their drinks dejectedly. They can already picture the glaring, aching white space on their calendars every Tuesday. They can hear the painful silence of phones no longer ringing; they’re not wanted, not needed. Rejection hurts; even rejection from Yuppie hell. And now, their world turned upside down, they at last see the good in one another: A saxophonist who so desperately loves the music; a pianist with a brilliant grasp of harmony; a drummer who throws himself headlong into the musical moment; a bassist who selflessly lays down the pulse; a trombonist striving to overcome the handicap of a useless instrument. Surely this magical unit can’t be so easily undone. There is an uncomfortable silence among them, the noises of the bar echoing about like a bad dream. You dare not speak. What could you possibly say?
A few minutes later, the clubowner emerges from his office. He is alone now, drink still in hand, cigar left behind. He has more demands: An earlier start time, a dress code, a maximum of two drinks per musician. The musicians continue to stare silently at their glasses; those seated slump closer to the bar. Meanwhile, the vocalist and the newcomer have spotted the clubowner. They circle around the bar to approach him from behind. They tap his shoulder to get his attention, then quietly talk to him just out of earshot. The musicians don’t need to hear it, anyway. They know exactly what’s going on.
Now the clubowner draws the singer and newcomer into the group. It’s time for a discussion. “Look,” he says to the band. “Can you give me one good reason I shouldn’t book this duo for next Tuesday?” The band is silent. “Okay, fine.” He turns to the duo triumphantly. “Give me a reason or two why I might want to try something different.” He is having fun now. He’s pitting the musicians against one another, Chapter One in the Clubowner Playbook. He’s tapping into the clubowners’ collective unconscious, the seamy underbelly of the jazz universe. He’s drawing strength from the awesome, evil karma of clubowners around the world and throughout time. Disdain for musicians seeps from his every pore.
But he has underestimated the sacred tie that binds all jazz artists, even those momentarily blinded by vengeance. The singer and newcomer purse their lips and refuse to speak. Now the clubowner is getting irritated. “C’mon, you two,” he says. “The same s%!* you said in my ear two minutes ago. What’s the difference?” Still they are silent, and the clubowner becomes angry. He turns suddenly to you. “You,” he says. “You decide. You, the impartial observer. You, all serious holding that crappy ‘Jazz Jam Session’ primer. You tell me who to book next week.”
You frantically thumb through the primer, only to realize that this section is still being written. It’s time to take the lead now, reach deep inside yourself and improvise. You look at the house musicians, still staring silently at their drinks. No question, they screwed up. They were blatantly rude to the newcomer and the singer. Just five minutes ago, the saxophonist almost slugged you. No audience will ever like them. But they really do love music; that much you know for sure. And they need the gig.
You turn to the singer and the newcomer. They came to the club wanting simply to make music. They gave it their best effort, and in return received only ridicule and scorn. But now they’re trying to undercut the band and steal its gig. They want to pollute the already acrid air with carcenogenic Musak.
You need guidance. What would Dr. Laura say? Or Rush? What would Jesus do? What would Journey do? Help, sadly, is not forthcoming; not from radio personalities, nor from spiritual models. (I.H.: Don’t look at me - you’re on your own now, pal.) You run it over and over in your mind, wheels spinning. You look from the clubowner to the six musicians to the duo. The clubowner is furious, returning your glance with a burning glare. All eight musicians are avoiding your eyes, staring at their drinks, or their shoes, or the sticky, stinking floor.
And then you realize that this is not musician versus musician. This is musician versus clubowner. Artist versus cynical businessman. Art versus commerce. And it goes deeper still, a playing-out of the grandest archetypal battle. Repressed employee versus miserly employer. Tiny Tim (sans ukelele) versus Scrooge. The proletariat versus the bourgeoisie. There is only one side you can take, Limbaugh be damned.
You look the clubowner in the eye. “You, sir, SUCK,” you say dramatically. You quickly make your way to the bandstand, grabbing the microphone that still bears traces of the singer’s designer lipstick. “I said, YOU SUCK!” you yell over the house system. A hush falls over the Yuppies. The bartender turns off the blender. Someone turns off the CD player. You point at the clubowner and repeat, more gently, “He sucks.”
The Yuppies snicker. There is applause, first a polite smattering, then a substantial ovation. This must be Performance Art, they decide. But we understand it, and it is Good. Confidently, you stride back to the musicians, slap a couple of twenties on the bar, and say, “Drinks for everyone. Except HIM.” You point an accusing finger at the clubowner. Then you head for the exit.
You feel good. You’ve learned a lot about jazz jam sessions tonight. You’ve also single-handedly defused an explosive situation, and done it with flair. As it turns out, you won’t soon be forgotten, either. Looking back over your shoulder, you see Yuppies flocking to the stage to be part of this new cutting-edge art form. A middle-aged businessman has the mike, and is pointing to one of his associates near the back of the room. “Eat s%!*,” he bellows artistically, to great laughter and applause. He passes the mike to a slender young woman, who points at a beefy young man near the bar. “Kiss my ASS,” she warbles. The room goes ballistic. The line behind the microphone grows, filled out by Yuppies in search of self-expression. Meanwhile, the house band has snuck back into the picture. It is both accompanying and commenting upon the surreal proceedings with freely improvised blips, bleeps, squeaks, and farts.
Your final image, as the door swings shut behind you, is of a critic seated near the stage. He is furiously taking notes, euphoric to be present at the birth of next “New Thing.” He will praise the “collective spontaneity” of the Yuppies, noting their “almost Ellingtonian integration of individual voices into a collective fabric.” He will draw parallels between your creation and avant-garde work of the 1960s, describing it as “Ornette Coleman meets Laurie Anderson in a revisionist framework for the new millenium.” He will note a “new dynamic redefining audience as performer and performer as audience.” He will praise the “direct and powerful text elements.” He will refer to you as a “drive-by genius,” and an “unassuming sculptor of human interactive paradigm.”
Your place in music history is assured.
(I.H.: Need a manager? Try the Musicians Union directory, under “Trombonists”...)
Friday, March 27, 2009
The hours and the analyzing. (This ones a rambler!!)
The hours that I keep are driving me insane! I have been staying up so late, and there is really no reason! Normally, in the summer when I am working (playing gigs) practically every night I am keeping really late hours for a reason, but right now? Really? I need to kick myself in the butt and make myself get up early. Living in an apartment I cannot practice the piano past ten o'clock pm, so staying up till three is not very worthwhile for me.
Because it is a slow season for musicians to be working corporate gigs (not many people have weddings and parties in March) I have been spending a lot of time at home, practicing, and thinking of promotional ideas, especially for the cover band. People keep telling me that as musicians, we are the first expendable thing to go when people are throwing events, but I disagree. I really think that this March was not any slower than every other of my twenty three Marches I have lived through. Booking out does seem to be a little more spacious than before though, normally at this time of year summer is filling up pretty quick! I will cross my fingers, perhaps people will be booking more short notice this year. This is all specifically talking about corporate gigs though, club shows are going great for the "Dudley Manlove Quartet" and for some of the jazz projects I have been working on.
When I hang around my friends, who are mainly musicians... (my closest and oldest friends are not though) I feel like such a businessman. It obviously comes from the family background, which can be a post of its own on another day! A lot of the time this business side of me has really felt like a blessing, but lately as I am home alone practicing music and scheming marketing techniques for groups that I play in, my business side has felt sort of like a curse.
I have loved playing music on the piano my whole life, and one thing that is very difficult for me is to choose a certain type of music that I want to really pursue. I love to play classical music, and could do that for the rest of my life... I feel the same about jazz and blues, and funk, and sometimes I think it would be fun to be a singer-songwriter. When this kind of uncertainty mixes with my business side, I think to myself "Well, which one of these musics is more financially worthwhile?" I guess I am not being a very good artist, I analyze how and what people will think of my playing too much.
I think over the years, people have told me so many times that there is no money, or future in jazz that it has built a neurological block inside of me. My whole life I have loved playing jazz, and the past few years I think I taught myself to want to play other things, that would be more popular, or cool, or worthwhile. See, this is all because my business side is sticking his fat nose in my artist side's business. Really, for anything to be really great I have to be fully committed to it -- I need to put the artist side first, and then fit the business side into whatever is going on in the creative realm! Harder to do than you might think! Especially when there are so many things that I like to play!
Well, I have been thinking lately that I think I love to play jazz a little bit more than those other types of music. Especially because I like to play with a lot of different musicians. I think that I need to be a jazz pianist. You might think "Mack, you have been a jazz pianist for ten years already" and although this is true, I have also been playing all sorts of stuff that whole time. Not that I am going to necessarily stop playing everything else, but I feel like for some reason right now I can accept that I want to play jazz the most. I do not know how or what happened to me to make me realize that I had been faking myself out the last year or so into thinking that I did not want to play jazz, but I know some things that have helped me realize that I think jazz is cool, does have a future, and can be just as financially rewarding as anything else. (I have always been a supporter of the idea that anybody can make money doing anything, have you seen some of the movies and albums that are released? People are making money from those!)
Studying with Dave Peck has definitely lit a fire under my ass! When he plays at my lesson, it makes me want to be better. I want to have control of harmony in the way that Dave does.
I have also been checking out some european pianists lately, Stefano Bollani, Florian Ross (German), Enrico Pieranunzi, and they are all blowing my mind. They sound great, and it has been a while since I could sit down and really enjoy some piano trio cd's. Jacky Terrasson is great too, Greg really digs him.
I also read an article by the great Enrico Rava - Italian trumpet player, who once had a discussion with Stefano Bollani. At the time Stefano was studying pop music, although he was a really talented and great jazz pianist (I felt a connection immediately). In the article Enrico told Stefano that his life is too short for him to be trying to be great at something he was not passionate about, and that he should quit everything and move to the city and play jazz. Long story short, he moved to the city, and today is one of the best players in the world. This story was inspiring to me. Check out Stefano Bollani on youtube.
I guess that lately I have just lost vision of a goal that I want to achieve. Well, maybe it is not that I lost sight of a goal, but that I had many possible goals that I could chase after instead of putting all my energy towards one, and going out and achieving it. I feel like I am getting back on track now. So, because it is a slow season right now I am going to start setting up jam sessions a couple times a week, just to start playing a lot. I want to play jazz right now, so I am gonna try to be an artist first, and make what I think is great music, and then fit my business into my music, my product.
A fun jazz trio/quintet that really takes influences from all kinds of music -- rock, r&b, funk, pop, but also does not cheat my own, or my bands musical integrity and artistry. This is not going to be a wallpaper band -- its time to get serious!
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