 |
| © Lance |
Dear
Lee Konitz,
I’ve
just read the interview/biographical book about you by Andy Hamilton. So I want
to start this letter by telling you, even though you passed several years ago
due to COVID, that you are one of my primary musical heroes. To me, your
playing has always revealed an integrity and honesty in its natural beauty and
an original creative direction that is singular in the world of jazz. The
elegance of your continuing musical statements will nourish those of us who
recognize this into perpetuity. Thank goodness for recordings. Please consider
me a musician who is happy to be part of the DNA of music. I met you briefly in
Chicago around 1961 when you played at “The Birdhouse.” You played in a trio
setting (bass and drums). I was quite surprised by the drummer who came with a
very stripped-down kit of snare drum, high hat and ride cymbal. At that time, I
was unaware of Lennie Tristano’s preference for drummers who focus on a time-keeping
role, which he did beautifully, mostly using brushes. Then I was amazed that,
as you were playing, you’d stop for a while—letting the bass and drums continue
as if they were still backing you. Then suddenly, you would spin out an
intricate long line of astonishing beauty. I was enthralled. I (all of 16 years-
old) came up to you and asked you why you would stop playing? You said, “I
don’t play if I can’t hear what to play!” That stunned me—a nascent improviser
struggling to fill musical space in some coherent way. That was revelatory! And
germane as to why I want to write to you.
Listening
is critical in music. And it ranges from listening to music played by others to
interacting well in performing with an ensemble. While improvising, there are
the obvious issues of paying attention to the pulse and harmonic movement. And
from what I know of your teaching, a deeply inculcated sense of the cyclical
movement of the melody is, as well. Listening is certainly paramount for
musical collaboration. And listening, like hearing, is assumed. I think it
would be fair to say that listening is focused creative attention whereas
hearing may simply be superficial. I don’t actually know any musicians who were
specifically taught how to listen other than the usual ear-training exercises
or work in orchestration. And I didn’t recognize how saxophone-centric I was in
my own listening until the recording, “The Real McCoy” was released. Avidly
listening to Joe Henderson, I was shocked when a friend asked me if I noticed
how beautifully recorded Elvin Jones’ ride cymbal was on the record. I’d never
noticed! And it was a fabulous component of the recording too. This opened up a
whole world of listening to things that had formerly escaped my attention. Made
conscious, I began really listening to everything in earnest. And so music
became multidimensional. The question for me is, and I would have liked to ask
you about it, how do we manage to simultaneously hear the pulse and
harmonic/melodic movement of a standard song while creating an improvisation? I
suspect that everyone has their own way of doing this and certainly some, have
it easier than others. For what it’s worth, I feel that such listening is
global —able to take in the whole coherently. Certainly the mind is capable of
this. Cocktail parties are a good example. Despite being occupied with idle
chit-chat, when someone mentions something of interest—even across a crowded
room—it stands out from the din and grabs one’s attention. So apparently
everything is being heard and taken in until something of interest is noted. On
the surface of it, this sounds like some sort of multitasking. Perhaps someone
has written about this, but it certainly is a bit of a mystery as to how this
is done. So listening to what to play next seems to be both a discovery and a
revelation. A deeply inculcated melody, as you have advocated, has to be
sublimated I would think, just as the other approach of hearing a musical
traverse through harmonic/tonal areas simply gets put in the mind like a kind
of road map. (Turn here on the Altered Dominant. Oh, here is a familiar
landmark etc.). The map is also a strong indicator of the natural direction an
improvised line will take. Take “Solar,” for example. The long descent of both
melodic and harmonic content makes it difficult to resist a downward direction.
Or the contours of “Stella by Starlight” or “All the Things You Are.” Very few
musicians can resist those contours as they are a powerful part of the music.
It is fun, while recognizing those contours, to move in different directions to
what’s indicated. There’s a small city north of Toronto named Barrie and it’s
about an hour’s drive. There’s a multi-lane highway going straight north to it.
So for many, it’s a destination. I’ve always been interested in improvisers who
get off the highway and take the scenic side roads. I think of you in this
regard. What makes any deviation in route successful is that, one way or
another, the destination is always recognized regardless of how one gets there.
I’ve even imagined going straight south from Toronto and circumnavigating the
earth to arrive at Barrie from the north! I had no idea until I read the
Hamilton book that freely improvising was something you valued and considered.
I mistakenly confined you to playing standards and other music in a similar
format. Clearly, my collection of your recordings is seriously lacking. I
should say that I hardly ever play standards because I find the format—if not
the music, however beautiful, too restrictive. The tertiary form followed by a
queue of soloists playing a common repertoire makes the mixing and matching of
musicians efficient but not so interesting to me. The modular aspect of musical
roles, to some extent, requires that fine musicians overcome the limitations—or
not. But it means that even not so simpatico individuals can make
reasonably good music together. And a good soloist can go anywhere and assume
competency from all supporting musicians. Like symphony orchestras
concentrating on familiar and established works that the members all know,
obviating the need for lots of rehearsal which equates to lots of money. (I
remember Chicago Symphony clarinetist, Jerry Stowell telling me that he had
played Beethoven’s 5th over 40 times! He and the principal clarinetist, Clark
Brody began playing their parts by memory to make it interesting!). Playing a
jazz standard in all keys is a helpful challenge but this still leaves the
format intact. And. I’ve never enjoyed taking my turn in a lineup to play. The
musical space is not valued. Or worse, it’s a competition. A “cutting session.”
When musical athleticism dominates, music is reduced to a very low aesthetic
threshold. Musical collaboration has much, much greater potential for real
beauty.
Now
I want to return to the issue of format which not only seems restrictive but
makes me question if it doesn’t also impact on listening. The traditional queue
of soloists is unsatisfying to me because of the tendency for each soloist to
focus only on what he or she is playing— expecting the rhythm section’s
support. Possibly bored with that limited and repetitive function —as in a jam
session —the rhythm section may simply be fulfilling their role in a minimal
way. So listening to the pulse and the harmonic environment in this situation,
however essential, is minimal listening at best. Perhaps it would be better
labeled as hearing. I hear the pulse; I hear the changes. Good enough. Here’s
the problem for me: all musicians in this context, once proven competent, may
be satisfied and stop listening further. Charlie Parker, a brilliant innovator, showed others the way and perhaps much of what musically ensued in jazz can be
traced to his influence and the impact of his creativity. In some ways, this is
unfortunate since a general lack of individuality ensued, in part, because
academic presentations of the craft of improvisation, as was developed in the
50s, has led to high competency but little in the way of unique musical
visions. Originality and clear sonic identity are the hallmarks of a fully
formed jazz musician, but the power of various innovators’ influence has
reduced the general quest for individuality and been replaced by imitation.
Besides Parker we have the powerful musical influence of John Coltrane. While a
music student, I had the indelible experience of having heard the Coltrane
quartet play the “Love Supreme” music over a two-week period at the “Jazz
Workshop” in Boston. The music was ecstatic as was the experience for anyone
immersed in it as a listener. In Coltrane’s case, musicians came to the false
conclusion that, if you could play the notes that he played— particularly in
his pentatonic phase— you’d be like him in that experience of musical ecstasy.
Wrong. No matter how original his musical choices were, it was what he was
living as he played that allowed for his/listeners’ ecstatic experience. It’s
not the note choices solely, it’s about what a musician lives in the music and
that is non-transferable. I also heard a solo performance by Steve Lacy as he
was in the throes of terminal cancer. He played very simply and clearly, with
no real flash, but here’s the thing: I (and many others there) could hear a
phantom band behind him supporting what he played. It was incredible. I
immediately wanted to study with him, but I knew that couldn’t be taught
because it was what he was living in the music as he played. And although, as I
said, the band behind him was a phantom, he was clearly listening to it
producing the essential components of that band in his simple playing. Perhaps,
even projecting what he was listening to. It was like the movie “Forbidden
Planet” in which one of the characters produces a terrifying tiger out his
mind. Anyway, I was amazed.
I
don’t expect that you would much like my solo playing since it often uses
circular breathing as a means of circumventing the sonic limitation of a breath
length. This also allows me the possibility of creating and sustaining more
complex sonorities than single notes, but pitch choices are still important to
me. I’ve never really liked the noise improvisers because noise lies only at
one end of the spectrum. It’s something to be used sparingly, not as a sole
musical resource. What’s more, beauty is something that I deeply value and I
find that beauty in pitch and sound. And I’ve always loved your patience to
know what to play next in your improvisations even if that seems to contradict
my use of circular breathing. Those places of your momentary musical hiatus are
quite wonderful. As sculpture is both defined by the space around it and its
volumetric presence. I am aware of this! So dynamics play a critical role in
differentiating what is occurring as I circular breathe. And, I don’t confine
my solo repertoire to that sound world. That would be musically boring and
wouldn’t satisfy my interest in the voice. By the way, I play the baritone
because that is my vocal range. I heard a very impressive solo by a notable
musician on “Cherokee.” Impressive from the aspect of “chops,” but totally
uninteresting to me from a musical standpoint, since it was an unrelenting
torrent of notes. Jazz, to me, arises out of the voice and there was no voice
in the improvisation, only impressive instrumental technique. One of the things
I love about your playing is the clear identity of a voice—your voice in your
improvisations. Unmistakable. And this is true of all of the great jazz
improvisers. I don’t think this individuality is accidental although it is
certainly organic. You can trace the various “lineages of attraction” in great
improvisers but that naturally evolves and is transformed into their own voice.
And I agree with you that one’s sound has to sit in relation to the pitch and
rhythmic content of one’s improvisation. They are of a whole, hence, organic. I
don’t think Coltrane’s music would have worked with Coleman Hawkins’ sound for
example. Hawkins’ outsized vibrato would have nullified Coltrane’s material or
vice versa. Great musicians seem to know how to marry sound with material. And
that’s interesting too. How does this happen—how do they do this? Is it purely
instinctive? One’s instrumental sound is not only the carrier of material but
is an identity. Friends of mine, who are jazz fans, are always amazed by how I
can hear a few notes by a notable player and identify them. It’s simply like
remembering a person’s face. I don’t quite know what it means when a musician,
however competent, is faceless. But it’s like my life partner, Bobbi says: “Not
all life prospers.” Therefore, a musician has to listen to what they are
playing too. It’s imperative that one’s sound and all of its features are
considered: tone, volume, articulations, vibrato, dynamics, pitch modification,
etc., and when and how these are deployed in an improvisation. And so,
accordingly, one’s musical “face” appears. Then remembering the arc of one’s
improvisation is important so that it has features and a vivid quality. Filling
musical space up is trivial. I contrast that to the metaphor of hanging out
with a good friend. The conversation flows effortlessly, but also silence is
not abhorred. I think that sitting silently with a good friend is the ultimate
in intimacy. So not only knowing how to play and what to play but when to play
needs to be recognized. This is listening too.
I
want to come back to freely improvising again. To me, with no road map or any
particular material to incorporate, what is played in an ensemble requires very
sensitive listening and collaboration. Unfortunately, this is often not the
case playing free. I’m not a fan of using this musical opportunity for
catharsis. So often, musical catharsis is not only excess but “in your face”
musical aggression. What’s behind this may be anger or ugliness which I’d
prefer not to be around. Deeply felt emotion is different and psychically
“clean.” Most offensive to me is the claim that this is “spiritual” music. No,
it’s cathartic. It bears no resemblance to the “Love Supreme” music. Certainly
everyone has the right to express themselves in the manner that they choose,
but I don’t have to listen. Love is my choice, not anger or excess. Also, some
free players do not bother with honing skillful control of their chosen
instrument. Call me conservative or traditional, but if you really can’t play
well, or even choose to play an instrument that’s broken (!!), I won’t listen.
I do acknowledge the possibility of surprising musical events, just not born of
accidents. The thrill of free playing lies in not knowing; no a priori
or perhaps only the most open idea, like who starts.
I
began as a kid by playing the clarinet, improvising in a Dixieland band. I had
no ideas about chords so I played “by ear.” I still remember how great that
felt. This was in grade 7, I believe. The feeling was like finding I had wings
and could fly. Then in my first year of high school, I discovered Charlie
Parker and got an alto saxophone. At the same time as I was studying and
playing classical clarinet, I was playing alto (and borrowing the school’s
bari) in both dance bands and a jazz quartet. My parents were professional
classical musicians, but gave me free reign to explore jazz too. In fact, they
gifted me with my first recording by Charlie Parker by not distinguishing
between Dixieland and bebop—for me, a happy confusion. At some point, my
friends, formerly of the Dixieland band with me also discovered bebop. But we
didn’t know any tunes so we would get together in the trumpeter’s basement and
freely improvise. Sometimes interesting things would happen and we’d stop
playing and would laugh with delight. So we persevered with sheer delight. The
idea of playing with close friends over time has served me well. It’s been my
choice for years. The result has been an opportunity for a collaboration in
which magical things can happen—not because we know each other so well, but
because, like birds in murmuration, we hear the music together at the same
time. This is what the composer Pauline Oliveros calls “deep listening.” Personally,
I get the feeling that we are “played by the Music.” (Edit. Cap intentional)
Therefore, the deepest listening is when one is “played” by the Music. It’s my
feeling that inspiration is the signifier of this experience. This is not
something that can be controlled. You speak about musicians frequently relying
on various psychotropic substances to produce their most creative mental space.
I think this is a vain attempt to produce inspiration and, while it may feel
inspired in the moment while under the influence, everyone I know that has done
so knows that, in the “hard light” of normal consciousness, music produced
under a drug-induced state is often lacking. So what we are talking about is a
consciousness whereby one is open to a greater influence. Personally, I feel
that music is a kind of collective consciousness accessible to those who avail
themselves. Of course, egos being egos, when not in the throes of letting music
come through one’s playing, the usual thing is for a musician to take the
credit for what occurs. I wonder to what extent every musician experiences a
relationship to music which compels us all to keep at it. In actuality, there is
no feeling equivalent to inspiration. There is nothing equivalent to the magic
when everything aligns and something occurs that is new and different and
listeners are moved, and I’m moved—the verification of something special. When
I was young, I pictured jazz musicians as having this special knowledge, as
living inside this special knowledge, as deliverers of beauty and musical
truth. I once had a grad student come to me, all upset and when I asked him
why? He told me that he had just learned that a particular musician was a
complete asshole. I said, “So?” He wondered how an asshole could create such
beautiful music. I told him that music doesn’t care about your ego, just if
you’ve done the work needed on your instrument and if you’re available. If you’re
listening. That music comes through the asshole of a person who, when they’re
playing, is no longer that at all.
I
find most of your improvisations to have been inspired. I would be asking you
about this. I know that you practised the horn a lot, often just improvising. I
wonder if you noticed a change in your consciousness or, more simply, what you
were living while playing as distinct from what I would call ordinary consciousness?
I don’t ever get the impression that you practiced to work things out—that you
could plug into an improvisation. Sure, we all need to work through the gnarly
aspects so that what is to be played can flow effortlessly. As much as I
enjoyed Eric Dolphy’s playing, he did have a certain mannerism when moving
through a certain register that indicated muscle memory at play. I suppose that
this is inevitable to some degree but you are remarkably free from noticeable
mannerisms. How did you manage this? I guess that I could go on and on with
questions like these and it’s unlikely you’ll be compelled to answer but I’ll
be listening nevertheless. Listening is a lifetime of learning. I await your
response.
Sincerely,
David
No comments :
Post a Comment