Steve Allen was the first interviewee I questioned about assigning titles to songs without lyrics. I felt it would be a good question for him because he had a reputation for being so prolific in everything he did, and I had read that he pushed his talents to the extreme. I read a story about someone challenging him to write so many songs in so many days. He took on the challenge and did it in a public forum where he sat at a piano and continuously composed. It was a publicity stunt, and I took it with a grain of salt. But if you’re a prolific writer it’s unlikely the songs are inspired by anything in particular. The song I asked Steve about, called “Blues for Somebody,” turned out to have been written for Gus Bivona, a clarinet player who lived on his street. Steve also mentioned writing lyrics for a song called “Gravy Waltz,” which was just a title slapped on a tune. The challenge there was writing meaningful lyrics given that bizarre title.
Other times I’ve asked this question and received similar responses confirming that song titles can be absolutely meaningless — or you can affix a song title just because you need one. When I wrote “Angelica,” I wanted to have a song about the town of Angelica, New York (an important part of my childhood) and this particular song didn’t have a title. So I used Angelica for that tune. But the song was not particularly inspired by the town of Angelica, nor is it particularly evocative of my memories of Angelica. Like most things I write, Angelica came out of a little rhythm or hitting a certain chord, and then building off it from there.
Béla Fleck was also questioned about song titles, and he mentioned finding titles as he went about his daily activities, and writing them down as they came to him. Once he wrote down the words “Sunset Road,” the actual name of a country road he came upon, because he knew he could use it later as a song title. The actual song he called “Sunset Road” was not inspired by that place, but it was a convenient title to use after the tune was written and in need of identification. When you listen to the recording it seems to fit perfectly.
Classical composers had program music, which was created to sound like something or someone, or actually had a program to go with it. The opposite was absolute music, compositions that didn’t have a particular psychological or emotional intent but exist simply as organized sound. The listener is free to apply any meaning or emotion they feel. Classical composers might use the generic title “air,” or “opus,” followed by a number. A jazz analogy could be “Blues #9,” simply a new melody over the standard blues form. More than any other art form, music can exist and be meaningful without meaning something.
July 12, 2008
June 27, 2008
Generations
The Archive interviews lend themselves to intriguing comparisons when two different interviewees describe a similar situation or a shared experience. Jazz guitar statesman Bucky Pizzarelli spoke of the process of teaching his son, John Pizzarelli Jr. — one of this country’s finest guitarist/vocalists. The process of learning jazz in the aural tradition has paid handsome rewards to John, who has created a fabulous and distinctive vocal improvising style to go along with his equally unique seven string guitar (an instrument also used by Bucky). In the following excerpts, Bucky and John share memories of learning their craft and of working together during John’s formative years:
Bucky: [During the depression] my folks had a grocery store in Paterson, New Jersey … and we struggled through the whole thing. And everybody ate, we had a good time, and we struggled right into World War II. You know we struggled out of the depression into the World War. But we had a lot of fun in between. We listened to a lot of big band music and we had a lot of music within the family circle. My uncles played guitars and banjos. My father played a little mandolin. And that was our entertainment, to take our minds off the depression. Then we also had the big bands on the radio, we heard broadcasts from all over the country at different times. Sometimes four different bands the same night.
John: I wrote a lot of pop songs and I thought maybe there was a chance along the way there was going to be some Pop music in my future, of performing my own songs and being Billy Joel or James Taylor. And it’s interesting you should ask that question because I never ever realized that I was making a living doing what I was — and I was playing with my dad, and I’d be getting these six hundred dollar checks and thousand dollar checks or whatever, two hundred and fifty dollars, whereas when I was playing dances with my band, I’d be getting twenty-five. And that was like wow. If we had fifty for the gig we were going crazy. And I still had the rock band, because we had fun doing it, and we’d have stretches of down time and I was playing solo gigs and then on the weekend I’d take a rock gig with my band, just playing four chord songs, three chord songs. And my father said “you’re the only guy playing jazz to support his Rock ‘n Roll habit.” And he was right. I mean I’d be playing gigs and I’d be giving the money away. Ah we’re having fun here, Doug had the van, give Doug the gas money, I’ll take five bucks and I’ll have another beer. And the drummer, he had to come alone, give him the toll money.
Bucky: Every one of my [four] children play something … [John and I] played one summer together at the Pierre Hotel. I was playing there with a trio and in the summer they cut down and said can you just come in with two guitars and make it easy? And John did it with me and then he got his baptism of fire there with me giving him the dirty looks when he hit the wrong chord. And he gave them to me when I did. But fortunately he can sit down with a tune and come up with a good set of chords for it. That’s what I like about him.
John: From 1980 to 1989 we worked everywhere and anywhere — house parties, concerts, we would play clubs out in Jersey, The Cornerstone out in New Jersey in Metuchen and nobody would listen, everybody would be talking away you know, and we’d sit and play for two hours, just talking to each other. “Okay what do you want to play, okay,” boom. Ear training 101 too. Well we’ll fake that song, okay, and he’d play melodies. And the best example of that is my first gig with my dad was eight weeks at the Pierre Hotel in 1980, the summer of 1980. July and August. And the first night I knew about eight songs. And if I only knew, we had to play four hours. And I remember him saying “Mountain Greenery.” “What?” And he’d go [scats] and he’d look at me and he’d be pounding these melodies out, and wouldn’t tell me anything. And maybe once in a while he’d hit a G7 like you didn’t hear G7? Oh, and it was the longest eight weeks. But I mean I learned, started to learn songs. And it was the best — I figured it out along the way that the way he learned was by watching Joe Moony at Sandy’s when he was twelve. He’d go down on Sundays with his uncles and watch Joe Moony rehearse at this club in Paterson. And Joe Moony was blind and he had the accordion with Andy Fitzgerald on clarinet and Jack Hotop on guitar and Gate Reeger. And they’d be playing and Joe would say “here’s how it goes,” and he’d go [scats] and here’s what you play, and this is what you play. And that’s how he taught me. He’d go zip, zip, zip and that’s what you’d do. And then he’d say “let’s fake this tune.” Rehearsals? There was never written out music. And it’s the best thing, and it was the hardest thing.
June 22, 2008
Real Jazz Education
When I asked saxophonist Joe Temperley about young players, he said what a lot of other interviewees said, “too much too fast.” Other guys said people sounded like they were coming out of the same mold these days because they’re using the same materials, the same patterns, and the same scales. It makes me think that when Joe Temperley said “too much too fast,” maybe the players are skipping over three important parts of learning to improvise: the ability to conceive of a melodic line, to make a melody interesting, and to create a memorable lick.
I remember two instances, with Clark Terry and Joe Wilder which illustrate this point. During Clark Terry’s residency we were playing a gig in the college pub. Saxophonist Bob Cesari and I were playing with him. Someone was soloing and Clark, in jam session fashion, just leaned back to us and played a little background lick for us to get. It was perfect and at the same time it was so simple. It wouldn’t have been something that Bob or I would have thought to play. Joe Wilder did the same thing at a clinic when we were playing “C Jam Blues.” He was just sitting there, and I said “well Joe, what could you and I play as an answer to...” and I hummed the opening line of the tune so the students could hear it. And he picked up his horn and played a simple, perfect background lick. Perfect. These jazz statesmen have an innate ability to create melodic phrases to complete the task. To me that is what improvising is about, it’s executing listenable ideas. I’m sure this is an old fashioned attitude, and I think I may be over-forgiving to my audience. I don’t think I patronize audiences, but when I play the sax I play as if I am listening to myself. I’m thinking would I like this? Part of this personal inquiry asks, is the audience hearing this little lick? Are they hearing this series of things which are a sort of sequence? Are they hearing that I am trying to treat a tone in a certain way and put a crescendo or vibrato on it? Do they hear those little things? That’s how I envision my own performances.
Similarly, Claude “Fiddler” Williams spent some time both at Hamilton College and also participating in the Utica Arts-In-Education program where he performed several concerts at the age of 90. An inquiry was made to Claude about his improvising, and the question was what is it about his improvising that makes the listener able to follow him, whereas at other times, listening to other improvisers, the questioner was unable to follow the thread. Claude answered that when he improvised he deliberately put in little identifiable reference points from the melody in his solo as a courtesy to the listener, so that they would be able to follow. I wonder if today’s jazz educators try to teach their students to consider the listening skills of the audience, or do they simply teach players to try to outdo each other on bandstand?
I freely admit that I feel behind the curve as far as formal jazz education when I read scholarly theses and because of material my own students bring me. The students sometimes ask about certain types of scales, and sometimes I don’t know what they are. I don’t think they need to know what they are, but at the same time I feel inadequate because students should be challenged from an academic standpoint as but also from a practical standpoint.
Ken Peplowski said that any knowledge is good knowledge. And Clark Terry said there are a thousand educated fools walking around with their heads filled with all this knowledge but they don’t know how to use it. Striking an appropriate balance is a worthy goal for the budding improviser.
I remember two instances, with Clark Terry and Joe Wilder which illustrate this point. During Clark Terry’s residency we were playing a gig in the college pub. Saxophonist Bob Cesari and I were playing with him. Someone was soloing and Clark, in jam session fashion, just leaned back to us and played a little background lick for us to get. It was perfect and at the same time it was so simple. It wouldn’t have been something that Bob or I would have thought to play. Joe Wilder did the same thing at a clinic when we were playing “C Jam Blues.” He was just sitting there, and I said “well Joe, what could you and I play as an answer to...” and I hummed the opening line of the tune so the students could hear it. And he picked up his horn and played a simple, perfect background lick. Perfect. These jazz statesmen have an innate ability to create melodic phrases to complete the task. To me that is what improvising is about, it’s executing listenable ideas. I’m sure this is an old fashioned attitude, and I think I may be over-forgiving to my audience. I don’t think I patronize audiences, but when I play the sax I play as if I am listening to myself. I’m thinking would I like this? Part of this personal inquiry asks, is the audience hearing this little lick? Are they hearing this series of things which are a sort of sequence? Are they hearing that I am trying to treat a tone in a certain way and put a crescendo or vibrato on it? Do they hear those little things? That’s how I envision my own performances.
Similarly, Claude “Fiddler” Williams spent some time both at Hamilton College and also participating in the Utica Arts-In-Education program where he performed several concerts at the age of 90. An inquiry was made to Claude about his improvising, and the question was what is it about his improvising that makes the listener able to follow him, whereas at other times, listening to other improvisers, the questioner was unable to follow the thread. Claude answered that when he improvised he deliberately put in little identifiable reference points from the melody in his solo as a courtesy to the listener, so that they would be able to follow. I wonder if today’s jazz educators try to teach their students to consider the listening skills of the audience, or do they simply teach players to try to outdo each other on bandstand?
I freely admit that I feel behind the curve as far as formal jazz education when I read scholarly theses and because of material my own students bring me. The students sometimes ask about certain types of scales, and sometimes I don’t know what they are. I don’t think they need to know what they are, but at the same time I feel inadequate because students should be challenged from an academic standpoint as but also from a practical standpoint.
Ken Peplowski said that any knowledge is good knowledge. And Clark Terry said there are a thousand educated fools walking around with their heads filled with all this knowledge but they don’t know how to use it. Striking an appropriate balance is a worthy goal for the budding improviser.
June 12, 2008
Singers as Musicians ... Or Not
I mentioned in my blog entry on Joe Williams (“A Vanishing Breed,” December ’07) that some skilled singers are regarded as musicians by their fellow instrumentalists. As regularly encountered on gigs though, those who approach a piano player and want to sing with them are almost assuredly not “musicians.”
I was reflecting on this recently when I was commissioned to write a big band arrangement of “At Last,” the sultry ballad made famous by Etta James. The arrangement was being written so the singer could perform on a CD collection and recording would be imminent. Initially I questioned the appropriateness of this choice, based on my limited knowledge of this singer’s capability. She reassured me this was what she wanted, and I went ahead and wrote the arrangement, input the notation into Finale and printed out the parts, so the band would have no trouble reading the parts.
I called the singer after the initial run through, and she indicated that “the arrangement didn’t work, it was all wrong, it was the wrong tempo.” (!) As she said this I was wondering if she tried counting it off at the tempo she wanted it. Immediately after I hung up the phone, I called the band leader to get his take on the arrangement — his budget was not unlimited and a good chunk had been expended for this arrangement. When I reached him on the phone, I reiterated what the singer had said and asked him how HE thought the arrangement worked. He said it succinctly: “the arrangement kicked butt; she couldn’t cut it.”
Other legendary stories abound of amateur singers boldly desiring their 15 minutes:
From my friend Rick Montalbano, there was the singer who said “that key is too high, can you do it in minor?”
Another time I remember a woman approaching me at the piano and asking if she could sing a song. I said “sure, what do you want to sing?” She said “I don’t know, what do YOU know?” I said “How about ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’?” She said “oh yes, yes, yes, that’s a great one. Have you got the words?”
A variation of this theme is from Bill Crow, who accumulated many jazz stories over the years and has put them in a great volume called “Jazz Anecdotes.” Someone requested “When Sunny Gets Blue” from the band. The singer says “I’d like to do it, but I only know the first line.” The piano player says “no problem, I’ll feed you as we go along.” They start the tune and the singer sings the first line “When Sunny gets blue...” and expectantly looks over at the pianist. He whispers to her: “B flat minor 7 to E flat minor 7.”
I was reflecting on this recently when I was commissioned to write a big band arrangement of “At Last,” the sultry ballad made famous by Etta James. The arrangement was being written so the singer could perform on a CD collection and recording would be imminent. Initially I questioned the appropriateness of this choice, based on my limited knowledge of this singer’s capability. She reassured me this was what she wanted, and I went ahead and wrote the arrangement, input the notation into Finale and printed out the parts, so the band would have no trouble reading the parts.
I called the singer after the initial run through, and she indicated that “the arrangement didn’t work, it was all wrong, it was the wrong tempo.” (!) As she said this I was wondering if she tried counting it off at the tempo she wanted it. Immediately after I hung up the phone, I called the band leader to get his take on the arrangement — his budget was not unlimited and a good chunk had been expended for this arrangement. When I reached him on the phone, I reiterated what the singer had said and asked him how HE thought the arrangement worked. He said it succinctly: “the arrangement kicked butt; she couldn’t cut it.”
Other legendary stories abound of amateur singers boldly desiring their 15 minutes:
From my friend Rick Montalbano, there was the singer who said “that key is too high, can you do it in minor?”
Another time I remember a woman approaching me at the piano and asking if she could sing a song. I said “sure, what do you want to sing?” She said “I don’t know, what do YOU know?” I said “How about ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’?” She said “oh yes, yes, yes, that’s a great one. Have you got the words?”
A variation of this theme is from Bill Crow, who accumulated many jazz stories over the years and has put them in a great volume called “Jazz Anecdotes.” Someone requested “When Sunny Gets Blue” from the band. The singer says “I’d like to do it, but I only know the first line.” The piano player says “no problem, I’ll feed you as we go along.” They start the tune and the singer sings the first line “When Sunny gets blue...” and expectantly looks over at the pianist. He whispers to her: “B flat minor 7 to E flat minor 7.”
May 23, 2008
Tips for Aspiring Singers
“American Idol” and karaoke can give the impression that anyone can be a performer if given a microphone. As a pianist, I enjoy the role of an accompanist, and have played this role with many singers of varying degrees of talent. Here’s my advice to aspiring vocalists as to how they can best enter the real world of performing on stage with a band:
DO...
A general fact to keep in mind is this: Any musician who wants to work needs to be as valuable as possible. This means having talent, personality and versatility.
DO...
- buy your own microphone, cable and stand and aim at buying your own small PA system
- acknowledge your accompanists on stage
- make it your business to have your own collection of music tailored for you (melody and chords, intros and endings, in the right key)
- learn how to set up and tear down on a gig, and offer to help do it
- know your lyrics, but be able to make up alternatives on the spot if you forget them
- be able and willing to sing songs that may not be your favorites
- learn how to introduce songs and band members
- learn the etiquette of sitting in with a band (go see live music)
- consider learning the piano or guitar so you have a better understanding of chords and song structure
- read about and listen to your favorite singers, then listen to the artists who influenced them
- give your accompanist a nasty look if he/she makes a mistake
- stop singing if something goes wrong
- make apologies to the audience if you are not in great voice
- be careless with equipment, especially if it’s not yours
- be shy when opportunity knocks (be ready)
- even think about being a diva unless you have earned it!
A general fact to keep in mind is this: Any musician who wants to work needs to be as valuable as possible. This means having talent, personality and versatility.
May 18, 2008
Fixed Vs. Moveable Do: A Primer
I was recently reminded of the controversy which music educators and performers often entertain concerning solmization, a system of designating syllables for notes, instead of letters. The syllables mostly used today are: do (or doh), re, mi, etc. There are two current methods of applying these syllables to the scale degrees, which are known as “fixed do” and “moveable do.” In the former, the syllables are applied to “fixed” notes: e.g. “do” will always equal C; “re” will always equal D, etc. In the latter, “moveable do,” the syllables can be applied to any major scale so that do, re, mi, etc. denote first, second, third, (etc.) scale tones, no matter what pitch the “do” starts on.
After studying this and hearing a heated discussion about which was the superior system — fixed do or moveable do — I decided to come up with my own version, one which should be especially useful for young jazz musicians just learning the lingo. Here are my definitions, learned through postgraduate education in the club scene:
1. Fixed Major Do: The most desired scenario. Musician has agreed upon a fair/excellent price for their services, has received a deposit and is paid in full at the end of the gig. Sometimes referred to as “good bread” or even better, “good green bread” when payment is in cash. Most likely scenario to receive a tip.
2. Movable Major Do: Less desired situation but not at all rare. Everything seems fine until the end of the gig when musician is asked to “just come by my house and we’ll settle up.” You will know it’s coming when payer asks “and what do I owe you?” Musician is usually required to stand in the hallway and allow the family dog to sniff his/her crotch while payer’s spouse writes a check and simultaneously screams at children. Tip unlikely. Observe two BMWs in the driveway as you leave.
3. Fixed Minor Do: Musician has agreed to provide music for a “cause” or fundraiser. The minor amount of money you have asked for will be inversely proportional to the guilt you feel when you receive it as the vast majority of these events fail to raise anything besides your blood pressure. Invariably run by amateurs wearing clothes from the ‘60s. Count on asking four different people for your check. Often referred to as an “exposure gig.” It will expose you to many organizations who will call to ask you to do more of the same.
4. Moveable Minor Do: The worst. You have agreed to play an event like #3 as a sideman, something for some cause the leader believes in. Gig will include a terrible load in, will be outside in lousy weather and most assuredly will go way overtime due to impassioned speeches by event organizers. Count on the phrase “I’ll send a check soon.” After two weeks your phone call will be answered with “this number is no longer in service.” Subject payer will have moved out of state to avoid child support. Sometimes referred to as “the musical screw.”
After studying this and hearing a heated discussion about which was the superior system — fixed do or moveable do — I decided to come up with my own version, one which should be especially useful for young jazz musicians just learning the lingo. Here are my definitions, learned through postgraduate education in the club scene:
1. Fixed Major Do: The most desired scenario. Musician has agreed upon a fair/excellent price for their services, has received a deposit and is paid in full at the end of the gig. Sometimes referred to as “good bread” or even better, “good green bread” when payment is in cash. Most likely scenario to receive a tip.
2. Movable Major Do: Less desired situation but not at all rare. Everything seems fine until the end of the gig when musician is asked to “just come by my house and we’ll settle up.” You will know it’s coming when payer asks “and what do I owe you?” Musician is usually required to stand in the hallway and allow the family dog to sniff his/her crotch while payer’s spouse writes a check and simultaneously screams at children. Tip unlikely. Observe two BMWs in the driveway as you leave.
3. Fixed Minor Do: Musician has agreed to provide music for a “cause” or fundraiser. The minor amount of money you have asked for will be inversely proportional to the guilt you feel when you receive it as the vast majority of these events fail to raise anything besides your blood pressure. Invariably run by amateurs wearing clothes from the ‘60s. Count on asking four different people for your check. Often referred to as an “exposure gig.” It will expose you to many organizations who will call to ask you to do more of the same.
4. Moveable Minor Do: The worst. You have agreed to play an event like #3 as a sideman, something for some cause the leader believes in. Gig will include a terrible load in, will be outside in lousy weather and most assuredly will go way overtime due to impassioned speeches by event organizers. Count on the phrase “I’ll send a check soon.” After two weeks your phone call will be answered with “this number is no longer in service.” Subject payer will have moved out of state to avoid child support. Sometimes referred to as “the musical screw.”
May 8, 2008
Jazz Class
This week came word that our dearly loved Mona Hinton passed away. That brought back a flood of memories of Milt and Mona, the jazz world’s classiest couple.
Photo by Duncan SchiedtIn the jazz world, Milt Hinton had the MVP to himself — most valuable player, most valuable photographer and most valuable person. He performed on thousands of recordings with an incredibly diverse list of artists. Beginning in the mid-1930’s, his photographs have documented the lives and times of musicians as only a fellow musician could. He served as a mentor, role model, teacher, confidant and inspiration to countless musicians and friends. Mona, his wife and life companion, complemented Milt with her own grace, wisdom and business sense. Everyone who knew her remembers her with her down home style, wearing the baseball cap turned backwards. I can’t imagine any more beloved couple.
On one of our early interview trips to Los Angeles, Milt was appearing with The Statesmen of Jazz, a group of veteran artists who played at various jazz festivals and schools. I got to know the manager, and was able to spend the day with the band as they traveled to perform at a middle school outside Los Angeles. While boarding the bus, I snagged the seat next to Milt, and he soon had me enthralled with stories from his childhood. He related how his family, living in Vicksburg, Mississippi, yearned to join the migration of African-American families north to Chicago. While Milt was still a baby, his uncle squirreled away tips and the occasional extra quarter borne of creative bookkeeping at the barber shop where he worked. Unable to purchase a train ticket without permission from his boss, he fabricated a letter requesting his presence out of town to attend to a sick relative. After successfully manipulating the system and making his way out of Vicksburg, the uncle was able to establish himself in Chicago and in time sent money back to the Hinton household. One by one they relocated north with its promising future.
That day in Los Angeles, the bus trip proved long and logistically difficult, and for part of the trip the legendary Milt slept with his head on my shoulder. In my life I have never sat so still. Back at the jazz event, I was fascinated at the way Milt and Mona attracted crowds wherever they went. Simply walking down a hall was a nearly impossible task for them, as everyone wanted to be near them. Milt’s bass, enclosed in an impressively well-traveled road case,
Photo by Duncan SchiedtMilt toured and performed well into his eighties and made his age work for him until he passed on December 19, 2000. When he received his Honorary Doctorate from Hamilton in May of 1991, Milt offered the following anecdotes about himself at the precommencement dinner:
Last June the musicians in New York gave me a very wonderful 80th birthday and I got quite a kick out of the guys kidding me about my age and that I’ve been playing so long. In fact, Ray Brown was telling how I had answered some young people when they asked about how my first bass was broken. I said my first bass was broken when it fell off a covered wagon. And just recently one of my friends passed away and I went to the cemetery to see him off. On my way back the undertaker asked me how old I was. And I told him and he said “ain’t no sense your going home.”Friends and acquaintances who knew the Hintons all have their own stories about the Hintons' generosity, humor and value to the jazz community. Our sincerest sympathy is expressed to their daughter Charlotte during this sad time. They represent jazz class at its finest.
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