This article originally appeared in Saxophone Journal, May/June 2013. Volume 37, No. 5
Jazz might be the music of poets and lovers, but it also attracts plenty of jocks and tough guys. Individual style speaks to the way that we see the world, and how we relate to our environment. Improvisation is usually interactive, and therefore a social activity, but it can sometimes be quite the opposite. In the moment, we can channel the quiet, internal world of the mind, or aggressively charge forth, all blood and guts. The language of each improviser is a unique and personal spectrum of expression, and the cult of jazz personality is sustained by heart-on-sleeve performances, even if the heart is one of cool, detached intellectualism, or even a heart of darkness. At a certain level of artistry, when the need for proving and posturing is over, we can fully become who we already were.
I recently played a short stint in Colorado with some truly fine musicians that I was meeting for the first time. On one of the breaks, a band member was asking me about some of the things that I had played in the previous set. He described the things that he had heard in a way that I hadn’t really thought of before, but he was articulating, in his own way, some of the deeper processes of improvisation. It was very interesting to get the perspective of a stranger with a highly developed ear, after carefully listening (and interacting in a supremely artistic manner, I should add!). This caused me to reflect on all the different ways that I think about improvising, and how I slowly accrued those methodologies, one by one, over many years of hard practice.
There is no single “correct” method for learning how to improvise. I know great players that used play-alongs and chord/scale theory, while others relied mostly on transcribing. Some shun transcribing altogether, for fear of sounding too much like somebody else. Furthermore, the nomenclature can very widely among a group of well-matched musicians, making it more challenging to talk about the music. Sometimes, a student can be totally hung up by a method of deriving information because it just doesn’t make sense to them. For example, when I was a student, I learned about something called the super locrianscale. It was explained to me as a major scale with the root raised by half-step. This made my brain hurt. Another student explained it to me as a locrian scale with a lowered fourth. This made the left hemisphere of my brain slowly melt out of my ear! I struggled for a long time, never really mastering that part of the language until the day that someone showed me that you could go up a half-step from the root and play the ascending form of melodic minor. For some reason, that explanation made very clear sense to me, and to this very day, I continue to think about altered dominants in this way. All roads lead to the same place, but we usually need to find the path that best suits our individual needs. Now and then, it is necessary to learn something a few different ways before the concept finally sinks in. There are no shortcuts in the learning business.
Jazz culture places soloists above all, and this leads to egoism. There is a strong tendency to act cool and aloof, even when we don’t know what the heck is going on. Especially when we don’t know what’s going on. The long-term damage of the shuck-and-jive routine can literally set you back by years. By admitting that you don’t understand something, you can keep trying to find a new way to comprehend a given concept. If you ask ten teachers to explain something, you are likely to get as many as ten different accounts of the truth. This can be confusing, but only until you find the way that makes the most sense to you. Never give up, and never be afraid to say, “I still don’t understand.”
As a teacher, my philosophy is that the best way to solve problems is to distill each challenge into a clear statement. A problem should be expressed in a single sentence, in plain language. For instance, “I don’t know what to play on half-diminished chords.” If the problem is too complex to state in one sentence, try to break it down into a set of smaller, simpler problems. Once the problem is clearly established, the answers (and there usually are multiple solutions) can be laid out in the same, matter-of-fact language. One path for our sample problem might be something like, “Play a melodic minor scale on the third,” or, “Play a major seven sharp-five chord on the tritone.” Simplicity is about minimizing the number of steps necessary to solve the puzzle. Life on the bandstand is fast and furious. A moment of hesitation is all it takes to get lost. Get to the important stuff as quickly as possible, not by cutting corners, but by identifying the straightest path.
The issue of multiple solutions has a lot to do that expanding bag of tricks. Once we understand a particular way of negotiating a chord type, or a progression, we should master that method and then search for alternatives. If we only have one way of getting out of trouble, we will only use that way, and once your audience can easily anticipate your next move, they will be bored with you and they will stop listening. Much in the way that great writers constantly seek new metaphors and expressive devices, the improviser must expand his/her language. New sounds and melodic structures will keep solos sounding fresh, and provide a greater capacity for choice. The single most potent element of improvisation is the ability of the musician to make choices, on the fly, and in the moment.
Long-time readers of my column know that I tend towards a wide variety of techniques. I have written about chord/scale theory, upper structures, modal approaches, voice-leading techniques, triad pairs, and even atonal systems and tone rows. An over-reliance on any one way of thinking will lead to predictability, and then monotony (for the listener and for the player). My training has given me flexibility to quickly adapt to different musical environments. I enjoy playing all kinds of music, and I can equally enjoy burning an up-tempo swinger or laying back on an atmospheric ballad. In retrospect, it is easy to see how I amassed the different techniques that ultimately formed my voice. Here are a few key points that have worked for me.
1. Never immediately discount anything, ever. Give it a chance, or put it away for future exploration.
2. Study with a master teacher for an extended period of time. Then find a new master. Repeat as necessary.
3. Transcribe one artist until you gain deep insight into his style. Then find a new artist. Repeat as necessary.
4. Respect the tradition, study history, and get the oldest musician in town to tell you her stories.
5. Don’t lie to yourself, and don’t quit.
6. Have a notebook. Fill it. Get a new notebook.
7. Be confident, but always assume that there is a better player in the band, and an even better player in the audience.
8. Be generous on stage and share the spotlight.
9. Regularly read all sorts of books, magazines, and newspapers.
10. Teach! You will nurture the future of music by helping young artists, and by building new audiences. (You will also learn unexpected things from your students.)
There are no shortcuts to becoming a master. You will make choices that relate to your values, musical and otherwise. You will face dark hours of intense doubt. There will be spectacular successes, and punishing humiliations. It takes a long time, and patience isn’t exactly cultivated in contemporary society. If you can muscle it out, endure the tough times, and keep your nose to the wheel, you will eventually get there. It is only a question of how badly you want it, and how much you are willing to sacrifice to get there. Everyone is unique, but nobody is born a master. It is a process of becoming. Practice well! §
