Four Stages of Artistic Evolution (Do We Judge College Music Students too Harshly?)

I've written in earlier posts on how many of us critique college music students for sounding alike or being too technical. 

But do we actually judge college music students too harshly?

I've been in numerous master class settings where fellow instructors would form opinions about many of the students as though they were seasoned veterans who have been on the scene for 30 years. Often concluding that they don't swing, they're unmusical, they don't know any music, or that they have no apparent history in their playing. And these are all legitimate criticisms that should be taken seriously. But my issue is that the students aren't looked at as evolving artistic beings, but as green bananas to be immediately picked from the tree and consumed by the jazz world at large--unsweetened and not tasty.

I'd like to challenge the premise of these assertions. If we look at our artistic evolution, there are four stages of development. The argument that I'd like to put forth is that in many instances these students are exactly where they should be.

When I think of the four stages of artistic evolution, it looks something like this:

Stage 1: Acquisition

Stage 2: Practicum

Stage 3: Artistry

Stage 4: Mastery

Most college students are at Stage 1, which is where they're taking all of the knowledge and skills acquired and are trying to make sense of it all. This includes transcribing, learning harmony, rhythm, the jazz repertoire and familiarizing themselves with many different styles and players. When I was at Berklee, I was often told that I "played too many patterns,"  that I was "thinking too much," that I "didn't leave enough space," or that I "didn't swing." And all of these things were probably accurate assessments. However, as I understood things, I needed to go through this stage in order to make sense of what I was learning. Consequently, if what I was playing sounded forced or mechanical, then so be it. This was a part of my growth process. And I was not going to let anyone rush me through it.

It was when I moved to New York that I evolved to Stage 2 (Practicum). This is where I began to develop my craft more through playing and listening and not just from practicing and transcribing. My ideas and playing developed more organically, rather than from playing solos comprised mostly of patterns and sequences.

This can be a frustrating stage because you're not doing as much individual practicing as you were once accustomed, but you're learning and developing in a different way. This stage of refinement is not linear, so it's not always clear-cut when you're actually growing. I was so extreme that I would be in a situation where I was playing a lot but would be unhappy that I was not able to do any individual practicing. Which is comparable to enjoying ordering from the menu more than having the meal. 

Years later, when I switch to the soprano, this is when I moved to Stage 3 (Artistry). This was an interesting period in that I didn't have more skill sets. In fact, I believe I had fewer. But what I did have was a vision, which is the main component that separates musicians in Stage 3 (Artistry) from Stage 2 (Practicum). The practicum stage is what I also refer to as the "stuff" stage. This is where we're more preoccupied with showcasing our vast (or sometimes limited) vocabulary than making a personal statement. Most become trapped in this stage and, consequently, never really move to Stage 3. One just becomes more skilled at playing "stuff."

Stage 3 was very difficult for me because I had to essentially reinvent myself. Which can often be the case when one begins to come into their own. All of my practiced-vocabularies seem to have little relevance as disposable ideas, but certainly served as a melodic, harmonic and conceptual framework from which to create my own vocabulary.

Stage 4 (Mastery), on the other hand, is a complicated one. Even when you reach it, you probably won't even realize you're there. With Stage 4 comes great humility. Not just about music and your ability to play it, but about life itself. This is a stage of musical, spiritual and intellectual evolution. Unfortunately, I have not reached that stage, but I do feel hopeful that it is attainable.

So in conclusion: As I mentioned in the beginning of this piece, I think many college students are exactly where they should be--learning and searching trying to figure it all out. And as long as they realize that there are three more stages to go, they'll probably be alright. And if they don't, they'll have plenty of company, unlike those in Stage 4.

Learning to Artistically Recalibrate

The one admirable quality of the GPS system is how singular its objective is: To get you to your desired destination. And when you get off track, what does it do? It will recalibrate and find a new way to immediately get you back on track so that you can continue towards your desired destination.

I see this as a way that we should live our lives--always being ready to recalibrate. No matter how many times we make a wrong turn, or find ourselves going in an undesired direction, the GPS doesn't complain, it doesn't call you a stupid moron or try to shame you in any way. It's only focus is to get you to where you need to go.

Even though I had never thought of this issue in quite the same way, I do, however, see myself as an intuitive "plan B(er). Meaning that, I always have a plan B--an alternative way of doing things. Having spent so many years playing jazz, I've been conditioned to think this way. Recalibrating is at the core of being an improviser. We're constantly having to find an alternative route to our creative destination. Just like driving, playing an improvised solo is not a straight trajectory. Sometimes we get lost. Sometimes we end up in a place we don't want to be--rhythmically, harmonically and melodically. Sometimes we have to stop, but most times, just like the GPS, we recalibrate our creative endeavors and keep moving.

Being willing to recalibrate our creative routes can sometimes mean the difference between playing a good solo and a great solo, being a good improviser versus a great improviser, or simply being skilled musician versus a creative artist. And in these instances, recalibrating means finding a new route that takes us to where we need to go, not necessarily where we want to go. These two factors are not always working in tandem.

And this is where it requires some soul searching as well as humility. Having a geographical final destination is easy. You're basically going from point A to point B. However, having an artistic one is more complex. Sometimes it's not as tangible or may have more than one. Only we can know that. And sometimes we don't even know.

But no matter where we're headed, or even where we think we're headed, we have to be prepared for that metaphorical missed turn, that traffic detour or anything that takes us into a direction different from where we intended. And we have to be ready to instantly recalibrate, get back on track. No drama, no fuss, no sorrow. We must simply turn our artistic car around and keep our eye on the sparrow.

Let Artistic Freedom Ring!

Artistic freedom isn't just thinking outside of the box, it's being unaware that boxes even exist. I'm not a subscriber to the noble savage syndrome, but I do believe a little bit of ignorance can be healthy to one's creative process. Sometimes being overly informed--or at least not knowing how to turn off the overly analytical part of your brain--can make it too easy to rationalize yourself out of trying something new, or simply just going for it.

For example, only 1% of college basketball players go on to play professionally. If players only focused on this statistic, few would ever even try.  In some cases, you have to put logic and reason aside and just do it. Certainly had I the same understanding of the music business when I was in college that I have now, I may have been drawn to the comfort of pursuing a safer path. 

Here's an example of what would have been my ultimate safe plan: First, instead of moving to New York with my horn, a suitcase and $500 in my pocket (Yes, I was that crazy!), I would have gotten a job teaching in the Boston public school system for a couple of years until I saved up enough money to move to New York. Then, once I moved to New York, I would have gotten certified to teach in the NYC public schools. After I saved up enough money from teaching to purchase my first apartment,  I would have probably had settled down and gotten married and had a kid or two. Eventually, I would have gotten around to starting my career. You can see where I'm going. And this path certainly would have made my mother happy. But being naive and ignorant, coupled with over-ambitiousness, I was able to resist this path of normalcy and traveled one that was very risky but fruitful--thankfully! Had I been preoccupied with the statistics of success probabilities and likelihoods, I never would have bitten the bullet and just gone for it.

Some of my most creative and profound musical moments are born out of this attitude of just going for it--and occasionally, just plain ignorance. Several years ago, suffering a little bit from burn out, I had taken a couple of months off from practicing and I would just pick up my horn and attend jam sessions and play the most "out" and "weirdest" ideas that came to mind. I purposely ignored the chord changes, the form, and sometimes the rhythm, and just played whatever. And you would think that doing something like this would only yield negative responses. Just the opposite. Many expressed that they had never been more impressed. And I can understand why. It was probably one of the few times that people had heard me playing from a space of being totally uninhibited--at least during that stage of my development.

Much of my playing is certainly guided by logical thinking. So my little experiment allowed me to play from a space that others, myself included, were not used to hearing me play from. Again, I was not playing outside of the box. There was no box. 

One creativity exercise I do to put me in this mindset of musical recklessness when I practice is that I pretend that I'm not playing the saxophone and that I'm not really a musician, and I approach playing with the naive curiosity of a small child. I found that this would allow me to venture into sonic areas that would be impossible when thinking within or around the normal paradigm of saxophone playing. Again, I was not thinking outside the box, there was no box during that moment. Just by even creating a box to play outside of, you're already placing limits on yourself. Sometimes it just has to be what it is and nothing else. If it's noise, don't try to make it melodious. And if it's melodious, don't try to turn it into noise. Creativity is not a straight trajectory. Sometimes it makes absolutely no sense. Creativity is random, spontaneous, illogical, and sometimes outside of your control. In fact, part of our job as artists is to get out of the way of creative moments when they're trying to carve out their own unique niche for themselves in our universe. Let them become their own entity.

It reminds me of when we were kids and my grandmother always made us sit quietly on the couch during thunderstorms. We were not allowed to utter a single word. She said we had to "be still" and "hush up" while the lord did his work. Well, in the creative world, we have to "be still"  and "hush up" and let the Lord of Creativity do his work, too.

So the lesson learned: Don't create boxes to ignore, just create.

Soprano Sax and Drums Duo: The Sounds of Interstellar Dialogue

The first soprano saxophone and drums recording I ever heard was "Breathe If You Can," an adventurous and hard hitting outing by soprano saxophonist Heath Watts and drummer Dan Prell on Leo Records. It stayed in high rotation on my playlist for several days. I was very intrigued by the great chemistry Heath and Dan had together. After I heard it,  I knew that I one day wanted to do something along those lines.

I then discovered Clangs, a recording by Steve Lacy and Andrea Centazzo on Ictus Records, which was very different from Breathe If You Can. Their interaction on Clangs was more spacious and textual, whereas, the Watts/Prell duo was very edgy and in your face. What both recordings do share, however, is proof that the sax and drums format is not exclusively tenor saxophone domain, which was kind of my impression before discovering these two recordings.

On Saturday, January 16, 2016, at Cornelia Street Cafe, I'm going to humbly throw my hat into the ring and pair up with legendary jazz drummer Andrew Cyrille. Unlike myself, Mr. Cyrille has been quite prolific in the sax and drums format. He’s played duo performances with Anthony Braxton, Jimmy Lyons, Peter Brotznmann, and my man Greg Osby. Each of these encounters resulted in nothing less than astonishing.

So if you happen to be in West Village this Saturday near Cornelia Street, we'd love to have your company. I’ll be going on an adventurous ride the C-Train. 

In closing, here's a short interview with Andrew that appears on the CD, The Albert Ayler Story where he's talking about being possessed by the music. I hope we can get to some of this at The Cornelia Street Cafe. 

JAZZ: A Creative Model for Learning

Until I became passionate about music, I always felt I was a slow learner. I thought that my intellectual lamp burned a 20-watt bulb--a sentiment I'm sure was shared by many of my teachers. In some instances, I was probably viewed as just plain old stupid. My grades all throughout school were unimpressive at best, which matched perfectly with my disinterest in school--even more tragic, my disinterest in learning. Attending school was just a five-day-a-week, an eight-hour-a-day commitment that prolonged my enjoyment of Christmas break and summer.

When I discovered jazz and improvising that all changed. I acquired not only a love for music, but for learning. Even more important, I discovered that they are different approaches to learning.

One insight I gained from my quest to become a skilled improviser, which began when I was in the 8th grade, is that I can accomplish and understand most anything I put my mind to, no matter how difficult the task may seem. Like many young students who are bitten by the jazz bug, it was the first time I practiced my instrument without being told to. I practiced because I was excited about learning, not because I feared the repercussions of not doing well on a test.

Why is this important? When you're incentivized by the love of learning, even when what you're doing is difficult, you won't be easily deterred. You will work at it for as long as it takes to figure it out: hours, days, months, or even years--which is often the case when trying to figure out jazz. In some instances, it's a matter of finding your own unique way of understanding. And this is also very important. In more traditional subjects like math, science and history, students are often motivated by grades, not the love of numbers, or the love of understanding nature and the past. With short-sightedness learning, it skews our ability to see the bigger picture, hence, making us less motivated to go beyond the call of duty.

Had I had the same love for learning when it came to these subjects that I had for jazz and improvising, I would have had an entirely different relationship with hitting the books, as they say. I would have read about history without being told to, or I would have practiced mathematical equations until they became easy, and maybe even fun. I would have studied different types of mathematicians and schools of thought on math until I found something that resonated with me personally--like the way I did with music. I went beyond the Neal Hefti stage band arrangements and discovered Count Basie and Duke Ellington.

When I discovered jazz and improvising, I was inspired not just by the greatness of the music and its players, but my relationship to it, and the small but monumental sense of ownership I felt from finding my own way of understanding it. And this certainly was not the case when it came to more traditional subjects.

My big "aha!" moment regarding learning came when I was in college. My roommate invited me to drive down to Yale University with him one weekend to visit his cousin, who was also our age. What struck me the most about his cousin and her friends was how passionate they all were about learning. They studied tirelessly during the weekend not because they had a test the following Monday, but because it was fun for them. And they conversed about the things they were learning with the same enthusiasm and curiosity than many young people their age do when conversing about current events and tabloid gossip.

Where I went to high school in Hampton, Virginia there were probably a few students like this, but they certainly did not exist in large numbers the way they did at Yale. This experience demystified my idea of the smart person, the natural academic genius if you will. What I discovered was that they were no different than the high performing students at Berklee who could really play. Both achieved exceptional levels of achievement through hard work and an unwavering passion for learning. It wasn't just something they were born with. None of my friends in high school ever discussed anything that went on in the classroom outside of the classroom, unless we were inquiring how each other scored on the test. There was certainly no intrinsic learning taking place. We were mostly incentivized by grades and report cards.

But I'm happy to say that today, even though I'm far passed worrying about receiving traditional grades for my intellectual and creative efforts, I do love learning, and I feel pretty confident that I can conceptually understand most subjects and see their relevance in the larger scheme of life. And it's not that I'm smarter,  I'm just motivated by a more love-of-learning-oriented incentive. More important, even if my understanding is unclear in the beginning, like when I first tried to figure out how to improvise, I now understand that I can examine things from many linear and non-linear viewpoints until I find what works for me. I've discovered that learning does not have to be a one-size-fits-all paradigm. Just as we all talk differently, walk differently, and think differently, it should be no surprise that we all learn differently. And I owe this new understanding to jazz.

Soprano Madness: A Straight Horn Meeting of the Minds

Tenor saxophone-oriented meetings of the minds are a dime a dozen. These types of musical encounters have been documented for decades. From the Lester Young/Coleman Hawkins Kansas City battles; to The Four Brothers with Stan Getz, Zoot Sims, Herbie Steward, and Serge Chaloff; and of course, the infamous Tenor Madness session between Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane--all of which has become the standard by which tenor saxophone battles are measured.

And contrary to popular belief there have been a few meetings of the minds amongst soprano saxophonists. The first being the classic 1987  Live Under the Sky concert, later released as a DVD titled A Tribute to John Coltrane, which featured Dave Liebman and Wayne Shorter on the soprano saxophones, with 1980s jazz icons Richie Beirach on piano, Eddie Gomez on bass and Jack DeJohnette on drums. This recording is a testament to the undeniable high-energy potential of the soprano, which is probably only rivaled by the trumpet.

Another such famous straight horn encounter amongst fans of the avant-garde is the 1992 recording The Three Blokes, which was recorded live by Jost Gerbers from September 25 - 27, as a part of the Free Concerts series at the Townhall Charlottenburg in Berlin, Germany. This three-night improvisational exchange between Evan Parker and soprano saxophone specialists Steve Lacy and Lol Coxhill certainly proved one thing: The soprano saxophone may not always be ideal as a single lead instrument, but it certainly works well as a part of a straight horn collective. The imperfections seem to compliment each other in a way that other instruments can't.

The Soprano Saxophone Colossus (a name coined by Dave Liebman) is another such meeting of the minds amongst straight horn enthusiasts. This performance took place on December 20, 2015, at The Cornelia Street Café in the West Village section of Manhattan. It featured Dave Liebman, French saxophonist Michel Doneda, who rarely performs in New York, Tatsuya Nakatani on percussion, one of Doneda’s frequent collaborators, and yours truly.

You might say that this performance had the energy of the 1987 Liebman/Shorter encounter and the enumerable sonic nuances of The Three Blokes, channeled through each of our own unique voices--individually and collectively.

There was no discussion of what we were going to play. In fact, most of what was said before our performance was along the lines of “Nice to finally meet you,” "Glad we’re finally getting a chance to play,” and “How long will you be in New York.” After that, it was pure musical telepathy.

And I’m not sure when, or if ever we will play again. I’m just happy that fate allowed us to meet on that memorable evening.

My 2016 New Year's resolution will be to decipher some of those interesting sounds that Dave and Michel were getting. They were certainly going beyond the original scope of the instrument. I hope to have it figured out before 2017.

Enjoy!

P.S. You're about to hear why I called this blog post "Soprano Madness."

The Soprano Colossus: Michel Doneda, Dave Liebman, Sam Newsome and Tatsuya Nakatani

"...a master of navigating musical extremes: chaos and subtle nuances, obtrusive noise and beautiful melodies, layered textures and open space--all through the scope of a singular musical vision.  'Free' is not just a musical approach for Mr. Doneda, it is the philosophy by which he lives and embraces life."

  - Sam Newsome, Soprano Sax Talk

French soprano saxophonist Michel Doneda is probably one the most idiosyncratic figures in free jazz--if you can even call him a free jazz player.  What he does is beyond free jazz as a style--sound art is probably more accurate. He has turned the flutter tongue and air sounds into high art. Michel Doneda has gotten to what most only aspire--one's essential self.

A frequent collaborator of a Doneda is percussionist Tatsuya Nakatani. Nakatani is equally innovative. Just like Doneda has redefined the soprano, Nakatani has redefined the role of the drum set. In the hands of Nakatani, the drum set is no longer a contraption for keeping time. He has turned it into a one-man orchestra of sound and texture. This is a perfect match for Doneda's singular yet expansive sonic universe.

On Sunday, December 20 at 8:30 pm at The Cornelia Street Cafe, Doneda, Nakatani, Dave Liebman and myself will convene for a first time gathering that Liebman has appropriately called The Soprano Colossus. 

All of my forays with Liebman at The Cornelia Street Cafe have been nothing short of improvisatory, sonic marathons where everybody comes out on the other side a better person, more enlightened, and a little less afraid of the unknown.  And I'm sure Sunday's meeting will be no less cathartic. 

Below is a repost of an interview I did with Michel that I posted originally Saturday, May 5, 2012. Fascinating words by an equally fascinating artist.

Your musical concept seems to extend beyond you just being an improviser. You’re also a performance artist, where the visual component is just as important as the aural. Do feel this is true?

Since early in my career, I have played and collaborated with artists from other disciplines. First it was actors and poets; then I began collaborating with dancers, painters and filmmakers. It is suffice to say that those experiences are fully integrated into my life and career as an improviser. I’ve also found that playing outdoors in an open space is just as important as playing indoors in enclosed spaces.

Do you feel that being self-taught has enabled you to develop an approach that’s more personal than if you had served an apprenticeship under someone?

Yes, my approach is very personal. Fortunately, I never needed to try and find myself. And even though I’m self-taught, I do not absolutely reject music education. I regard it as a precious treasure in our society. However, for personal reasons it was not for me. It goes without saying that others often revealed themselves as teachers to me, even though I did not realize it at the time. As a result, there are some things I lack. For example, I would have liked to of spent more time studying and playing contemporary music, especially the Giorgio Netti pieces for soprano sax. But I'm constantly learning and moving forward, even though on the horizon I do not always see the finish line. Let me just add that no matter how personal one's approach is, you should always look to play and communicate with others. And this requires reflection, musical exchanges, and personal and interpersonal confrontations.

Have you always played free/improvised music, for lack of a better term? For some players, it’s more of a gradual progression.

I still remember the first sound that I played on the soprano in April of 1968. It was the discovery of this sound that made me want to continue exploring the instrument. There were attempts to play more conventional music. But I never really had the desire and strength to pursue it. Admittedly, each style requires a lifetime.

Are there any recordings of Michel Doneda playing standards?

I have not made any recordings playing jazz standards, but I have recorded two projects playing traditional music. The first was on the Nato record label, a collective album called Flight Sidney. I recorded a theme of Sydney Bechet’s called "Egyptian Fantasy" with drummer Elvin Jones. I had never played that song before and I never played it again.

The second was a record called General Gramophone, which I co-lead with saxophonist Daunik Lazro. We played melodies from India, Eastern Europe, a Lee Konitz tune, and a choro piece. All of this happened back in the late 80s and still remains a rarity for me in my career. However, I do continue to play and study choros (a style of Brazilian popular music from the 1940s), but this only for my pleasure.

Having recorded close to 50 CDs, do you ever worry about repetition? If not, how do you keep it fresh?

My improvisations and recordings are collective processes. By collective process I mean: the decision (making up my mind to do something), the process (the act of doing it), and the organization (the logistics of doing). Even my solo recordings have never been only me making my own decisions.

And I don't talk about the music. I hope this is clear. I just always record music that I want to record. And I’ve never had any producer.

Why did you decided to make the soprano your main instrument? Or as some musicians say, maybe it chose you?

I cannot say why I chose the soprano. There may be reasons--perhaps some unconscious influences. But so far I do not know. However, I do know that the soprano saxophone resonates a particular feeling in my body that I like—both tension and calmness. These are two qualities I cannot separate. I don’t know if this is reason enough to pursue a lifetime of learning. But I do feel that the demand of the soprano is perfect for me.

You have a pretty vast vocabulary of extended techniques. Do you, or did you at one time, spend several hours a day exploring new sonic possibilities on the instrument? And where do you get your inspiration for new sounds?

I spend time with the soprano everyday--as a discipline and for pleasure. My musical inspiration comes from the instrument itself. My musical language results from the dialogue between the instrument and myself. This is why I have no a preconceived notions about "my" music as such. My perception can change with my understanding of the instrument.

And I do not like the term “ extended techniques” because it standardizes an approach that is very personal. In fact, the instrument processes both cerebral and organic musical terrains. And I’m constantly going back and forth between these two poles. Of course, there are technical things to master, but one’s state of mind also grows with this research.

I should also mention this excellent book on “multiphonics” written by Marcus Weiss and Giorgio Netti: Techniques of Saxophone Playing.

Most of the music I’ve heard you play is often sound based and textural. Do you find yourself ever having to balance working on more conventional things like playing chord changes, scales, and line oriented ideas, along with you sonic approach?

I do so much with improvisational music that I find that I have to be fully dedicated to that style of playing. Let me also add that I am fortunate to have many musical partners who inspire me as well as keep me satisfied musically. What I do takes a lot of practice, time and effort. You might say that I have made a commitment to dedicate my life to being a contemporary improviser.

I am not talking only about musical things, but also the organization of my professional life—which means looking for concerts as well as organizing them. Everyday I have to spend time for these kinds of things. It is always a struggle to play this music.

Who are some of your influences on the soprano?

I listen to Sidney Bechet, Bhob Rainey, Steve Lacy, Evan Parker, Lol Coxhill, Alesandro Bosetti, Marcus Weis, and many others. All these wonderful artists have influenced me throughout my career, and it’s been a pleasure to listen to as well as play with many of them. And let me give you the name of a Japanese shakuhachi player, Watatsumi Do, whose musical expression touches me deeply.

Myself, being someone who has a pretty straight ahead past, I know that most straight ahead players care a lot about pleasing the audience and presenting a well-balanced, varied performance. However, free players, tend to only care about creating an experience for the listener—whether good or bad. Do you agree? If so, do find this to be more liberating or a hindrance?

I see improvisation as a listening experience--an experience that takes place at a certain moment, at a particular place, with a specific group of listeners. For me, all these components are equally important. I'm not trying to control what happens. I just try to make sure to be focused and present so I can make the best of my opportunities. Again, discipline and pleasure.

Even in a free context, do you ever put limits on yourself just to inspire different kinds of ideas?

I am under no mental suggestions before playing. I am prepared to be in attendance at whatever is there in that moment. This way there is always potential, limits, accidents, and most of all, discoveries!

Please join us for what I'm sure to be a memorable experience.

WHO:

The Soprano Colossus

Michel Doneda, soprano sax
Dave Liebman, soprano sax
Sam Newsome, soprano sax
Tatsuya Nakatani, percussion

WHERE: 

Cornelia Street Cafe

29 Cornelia Street

New York, NY

10014
(212) 989-9319

WHEN:

Sunday, December 20, 2015 at 8:30 PM