The Jazz Jam Session: Using the Wally's Model in the Classroom

The jazz jam session is a very important entity that has been instrumental in shaping the very essence of the music: the ethos of fierce competition wrapped in benevolent camaraderie. The jazz jam session can be so cut throat that I could see certain musicians "cutting" their own mother if she didn't ascent to the musical occasion. It truly is survival of the fittest being acted out not in the jungles of the Amazon, but during the democratic forum of the bandstand. Not to mention, it's also a great model for teaching in the classroom.

The classroom is often looked at as a safe haven for intellectual nourishment. But sometimes safe is not always a good thing, especially if it means stunted growth and an unrealistic perception of one's abilities and understanding of the material being taught. A classroom that's too safe won't give students a realistic perspective of their capabilities. And this is where the jazz jam session becomes a great model for learning and self-assessing.

While I was a student at Berklee, my saxophone instructor Andy McGhee always encouraged me to go and play at Wally's Café, a nearby jazz club located in the South End section of Boston, affectionately known as just Wally’s. The club itself was not very impressive aesthetically, as is the case with most jazz clubs, but it's role and importance in the development of generations of jazz players is immeasurable. In fact, the smoke in Wally's was so thick that your clothes would be un-wearable the next day due to the stench of cigarettes and cheap cologne.

Typically the musicians who played there were juniors and seniors, who in my opinion at the time already played at a professional level. I used to think, "Why are they even in school. They should be in New York making thousands of dollars." I was so naive back then.

But they all were excellent players. Most of them did go on to do great things. While I was in Boston, we used to sit in with people like Bruce "Bud" Revels, James "Saxmo" Gates, and Ron Savage. They sent me and my Berklee classmates home many a night depressed and hopeless that we would never learn how to play. We called it being sent back to the shed.

What's most revealing about jazz jam sessions, like those that took place at Wally's, is that your strengths and weaknesses become very apparent--much more than when you do a regular performance, where you are well-rehearsed, knowing exactly who you're playing with, and how long you'll be playing. Jazz jam sessions are more about surviving than just showing off your talents. You're constantly on your toes, never quite sure what’s coming down the pike. You're forced to improvise. So after a jazz jam session you know if your sound is big or small, if your rhythm needs improving, and how well you can hear chord changes--especially at those sessions where musicians are playing songs in unconventional key signatures. Most of all, you come away knowing that you have much work to do.

How can this understanding help you in the classroom?

The jazz jam session in many ways is nothing more than a pop quiz. A pop quiz on how well you know jazz tunes, how well you can play in different keys, how well you can play fast tempos, etc. The one thing that jazz jam sessions and pop quizzes teach us is where our strengths and weaknesses lie. We know exactly what we need to do in order to improve those areas in which we are deficient. Wally's taught this to me more profoundly than any of my final exams at Berklee. 

As educators, we need to take our students to the bandstand of the classroom and put them in situations that challenge them and force them to assess the various aspects of their learning, the way that a jazz musician does when confronted with the challenge of having to play "Cherokee" in the key of B major. I'm not just speaking of music-related learning, either. And these pop-quizzes can come in many forms of assessment: written essays, oral presentations, multiple choice, fill-in the blank, or sometimes just talking off the cuff. Comparable to when we're performing at a jazz jam session, we can even have students collectively elaborate on a related topic--complete with background figures and all. 

As a teacher, your main job should be to get your students started, or count off that metaphorical tune, but then let them intellectually fend for themselves. Like the jazz jam session, this is an opportunity to take information and deal with it in an informal way. This is a chance not only for the students to take chances but also for teachers. In order to create new perspectives on learning, you have to just try things, you have to experiment. Otherwise, you’ll just keep repeating the same thing over and over. In fact, the jazz jam session is one of my favorite contexts to hear musicians play. Not only do they sound more relaxed, but they are often taking chances in ways that they don't when performing during more formal settings. I have fond memories of hearing many of the jazz stars of today at Wally's in a relaxed and informal setting: Wynton and Branford Marsalis, Greg Osby, Gary Thomas, Don Byron, Jeff "Tain" Watts, and numerous others. One night, Freddie Hubbard even stopped by and played a couple of tunes. But, unfortunately, I was working elsewhere on that particular evening. 

Besides, as professors, due to the fact we are a part of the university paradigm, we can't totally replicate the informality of the jazz jam session--particularly 1980s Wally's.  After all, we have various members of the administration to answer to. Be that as it may, just by merely borrowing from the jazz jam session’s model of informality, it will allow us to get away from our syllabus just long enough to take notice of the latent opportunities for learning just waiting to reveal themselves. Frankly, speaking, If we aren't putting ourselves in the position where we are always the smartest ones in the classroom, we will allow ourselves to also learn while teaching. And as teachers, anytime that we can replenish our pedagogical licks, we, too, will become more inspired, and maybe even more inspiring to those around us.

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."