"Letter to Lee Konitz" from David Mott

© Lance

In an age of skepticism and doubt and where imposters and jealous wannabes flourish in cyberspace, it is rare – and encouraging - for a writer to discover an artist who possesses a genuine affection and inquisitiveness about our art and another musician’s artistry to the degree that saxophonist, composer and educator, David Mott exhibits in his brilliant and thought-provoking “Letter to Lee Konitz.” A graduate of both the Berklee School of Music and the Yale School of Music and professor at Toronto’s York University, Mott is not only a multiple award-winner and true master and explorer of his instrument, but, as you will find in this essay, a sincere, deep-thinking and highly reflective artist. It is my pleasure to share it with you here. I do hope you enjoy it – Nick Mondello  

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