Moody's Mood of Positivity

Most of my Zen-like tweets were inspired by musical and career issues that I'm thinking about. These are not always things that I'm personally dealing with. In some cases, they are inspired by conversations had with students and other musicians. The one below is different because it's a riff on the Zen parable Moving to a City.

                    Moving to a New City

A person was coming to a new village, relocating, and he was wondering if he would like it there, so he went to the Zen master and asked: do you think I will like it in this village? Are the people friendly? 

The master asked back: How were the people in the town where you come from? “They were nasty and greedy, they were angry and lived for cheating and stealing,” said the newcomer. Those are precisely the type of people we have in this village, said the master.

Another newcomer to the village visited the master and asked the same question. To which the master asked: How were the people in the town where you come from? “They were sweet and lived in harmony, they cared for one another and for the land, they respected each other, and they were seekers of spirit,” he replied. Those are precisely the type of people we have in this village, said the master.

Now, let's do some unpacking!

This parable speaks to the simple idea that situations are what we make them. A picture-perfect scenario can merely be a state of mind. Some naturally see possibilities, others are programmed to only see obstacles.

In the early nineties, as a young whippersnapper trying to make it in the big city, I had the good fortune of running into James Moody at Sam Ash on West 46th Street. We struck up a very inspiring conversation.

First off, you might be wondering why a jazz legend like James Moody would strike up a conversation with a wet-behind-the-ears, recent Berklee graduate. Well, several months prior, we actually played together. Regrettably, it was a one-off, never to present itself again. Not during a public performance, anyways.

Almost one month after graduation, I started touring with trumpeter Donald Byrd, and our first stop was New York City. The Hudson River, more specifically. We performed on the NYC Jazz Cruise, and James Moody was the special guest with Byrd’s quintet. During four choruses of “Rhythm Changes,” Moody gave me a crash course on how to play the saxophone and how to play jazz. And little did I know, a more profound lesson was soon to follow.

When I bumped into him months later at Sam Ash, he actually remembered meeting and playing together.

Our conversation went something like this:

Moody: Hey, man, how’s it going?
Me: It’s OK.
Moody: Have you been working?
Me: Not so much.
Moody: Why not?
Me: No one’s been calling.
Moody: Have you tried booking your own gigs?
Me: Not really.
Moody: How come?
Me: I don’t have a demo.
Moody: Do you have a tape recorder?
Me: Yes.
Moody: Do you have a rhythm section you like to work with.
Me. I do.
Moody: Do this. Call up three or four cats you like to work with; rehearse a couple of times; record four or five tunes you like; take the tape around to these different clubs and restaurants and get some gigs. And if they don’t have music, offer music!

Hearing how he automatically went into problem-solving mode was very eye-opening. Back then, I walked conjoined with Mr. Victim Mentality like he was my Siamese twin. Moody, by merely being himself, enlightened me on the importance of personal responsibility. A lesson that has become the centerpiece of my very existence.

Back to the Zen parable. Here's what I took away: we see what we want to see. As I sometimes like to put it: how we’ve programmed ourselves to see. I prefer the word “program” because it does allow hope to peek from behind its mother’s dress. If something can be programmed, then it can be deprogrammed. In many cases, who we are and where we are in life is simply a choice or state of mind. 

"There I go, there I go, there I go.  There I go..."

Patience, Anyone?

First, check out this parable, and then delve into the piece. 

When we study music, most receive what I think of as a "good education.” Meaning, we learned to play our instruments properly, we leave with working knowledge of rhythm and harmony, and we know who the cats are, so if we need to grab some information off recordings--or books, for that matter--we know where to go. So from this perspective, it’s safe to say that most of us are taught well.

An area where most teachers drop the ball is when they don’t teach students the importance of patience. Of course, students have to also bare some of the responsibility. And I guess it shouldn’t be surprising. The whole idea of weekly lessons goes against the grain of patience. 

And before I continue, I’m reminded of a story one of my grad-school professors once told during class.

Apparently, there was this one guitar teacher in the area, sort of your typical guru-type: eccentric but brilliant. One day he agreed to take on a new student who had been hounding him about lessons. Much to the student’s surprise, the lesson surpassed anything he ever expected. They delved into all sorts of chords, reharmonizations, fingerings, obscure tunes, different rhythmic interpretations, the wholes nine yards. The lesson was easily three hours long, packed with educational gems. So the student, very satisfied and excited, pulled out his wallet to pay for the lesson. And after giving the teacher payment, he pulled out his datebook to see when they could schedule another lesson. As far as he was concerned, this was “the best lesson ever.” 

Their exchange went something like this:

Student: When can we get together again? 

Teacher: (Looking perplexed) Why would we get together again? 

Student: For another lesson. I want to learn more.  

Teacher: There are no more lessons. That was it!

So as you can see, this teacher was ignorant of the concept of meeting every week. His approach: teach them what you know and send them on their way. Plant the seeds of knowledge and leave the harvesting to the student. 

Of course, this is more applicable to advanced level students. But it does speak to my broader point about patience. Sometimes, it’s not about continuing to give students more information. At some point, time must be allowed for the information previously received to be absorbed. And for students to figure out what their relationship is going to be with the knowledge. My theory is that many students seek lessons, not because they lack knowledge, but because they lack patience. 

So before you plop down $150.00 for a 60-minute lesson with your favorite jazz cat, you might want to continue watering what’s already in your garden of knowledge. 

Another Bad Review...

This particular tweet is one I often have to revisit.

Getting reviews and having aesthetical assessors rate our work is par to the course of being in the performing arts. It doesn't matter if you're a musician, actor,  playwright, or a choreographer, at some point, you'll have your publicly released work reviewed by appointed experts in the field.

I think I share the sentiment of many when I say receiving a great review can make you want to hold your head high and shout to the world, "See, I told you so." Adversely speaking, having your work misunderstood or worse, publicly picked apart will breed feelings of resentment, despair, or flat out anger. One can make you feel like the king of the mountain, the others like you want to crawl under a rock.

I see it like this: we need both. It helps to know what folks like about our work and what they don't. Or if they're getting it at all. The words written are not as important as how we respond to them.

The fact of the matter is that the opinions of no one should drastically swing our pendulum of self-worth in one direction or the other. The most relevant review is the impact that your work has on listeners when performed live. This is the review we should be concerned with.

Which matters more? The laughter a stand-up comic receives after telling a joke, or what someone writes about the joke the next day?

I feel that this is one of the reasons that musicians who perform frequently are less concerned with the later. They're often getting the validation that they need in realtime: from the musicians that they play with and the audiences that they play for.

Moral of the story: All of these factors play a role in our musical journey. All that we have to decide is who's playing the lead and who's merely an extra.

Shredding: A Saxophonist’s Dilemma

Do we, as saxophonists, have a shredding complex? Before answering this question, you probably want to know what shredding is? Shred is defined as a verb meaning to "play a very fast, intricate style of rock lead guitar." Jimi Hendricks probably comes to mind for most. The saxophone, second only to the electric guitar, is perhaps most shred-friendly. I feel this is why saxophonists receive the brief 8 and 16 bar solos in big bands. Saxophonists are more trained at turning that shred button on at a moment's notice.

Shredding was never really my forte. I did it to the best of my abilities when the situation called for it. In general, I'm more of a thinker. I guess I still am. I've always tried to milk each note for its sonic worth, and sometimes it's swing currency. This goes against the grain of shredding. I don't mean to knock this performance practice. There's nothing like a shred moment to breathe excitement into an improvised solo.

My biggest issue is that musicality often takes a backseat. 

Of the saxophone family, alto and tenor players probably act on their shred impulses most frequently—tenor players maybe slightly more. I could be wrong. Soprano players, we tend to be a different breed. We're often more economical and conceptual in our approach. Unless one is doubling, then there's a tendency to approach the instrument with a shredder's mindset. This is also how I often discern the straight horn visitor from the specialist. Straight horn specialists are rarely shredders.

Coltrane can be credited with bringing shredding to the soprano—Dave Liebman and Steve Grossman coming a close second. I'm not sure it was necessarily a good thing. I'm not knocking them; they're all great. However, the door was opened for others to take up the soprano solely for its ability to cut through unapologetic bashing and high-intensity band interplay levels. Consequently, saxophonists began to favor a one-dimensional vision for the instrument: top-register heavy, bright, and pitch optional. While it did increase the instrument's popularity, longterm, I felt a negative stigma was attached to the instrument that it still has not been able to shake. The soprano became unconsciously thought of as an instrument of lesser importance.

I think this is changing for many reasons, which I'll get into in a later posting. 

With the criticisms of smooth jazz, one positive aspect of this subgenre is that it created a platform for the soprano where sensuousness was valued. In most instances, smooth jazz is a little too sweet for my taste. Nonetheless, it was a welcomed non-shredding alternative.

One reason I put down the tenor was that I didn't want to feel compelled to create in the expected spirit of competition. I figured it had to be more to music than alpha male domination. 

Becoming a soprano player, I discovered a world of sensitivity, nuance, and texture. Of course, the alpha male shred monster always lurks within. The difference is that it is no longer my default creative mode. 

Let me also note that players like Evan Parker made shredding on the soprano into a unique and attractive art form. And Branford Marsalis introduced a shredding approach that was less shrill, more nuanced, and swinging. So I'm not saying it's always a bad thing. 

Again, do saxophonists have a shredding complex? Absolutely. Cynically speaking, how else are we going to command attention in this era of limited attention spans? If we want more saxophonists having the courage to step forward as musical poets, not only musical slayers, we need to start celebrating the former. 

Sometimes we all need a reminder, myself included, that it is ok to leave rose petals on the bandstand. It does not always have to be rolling heads!

* This post was inspired by a thread on SaxOnTheWeb.net titled Do sax players "shred"?

Prepared Saxophone with Balloons: Getting a Default Multiphonic Response

As some of you may know, I've been working with balloons for the past few years as a means of arriving at unconventional sonic outcomes. I recently had a two soprano gathering with Toronto-based soprano saxophonist and improviser Kayla Milmine. We tried out one of her discoveries using balloons which I jokingly called "The Milmine-Method."

In describing how this works, Kayla said, “... basically half of the hole in the neck of the horn has to be uncovered in order to get the sound to play. Also, I cut the part of the balloon off that you blow the air through because it was too tight around the cork - I place the mouthpiece on the very end of the neck so that the rubber and cork don't have too much contact, as it squeezes the cork, and causes it to chip.” 

In describing the different sounds produced, Kayla said: “I especially like the multi-phonics in the low register." 

When playing the soprano in this prepared state, multiphonics is the default sound between the range of Bb1 - Ab1. Of course, this can vary between set-ups. Also, note that conventional multiphonic fingerings don't work in this context. It is only necessary to use conventional fingerings.

Please see the three-step preparation process below:

STEP 1

STEP 2

STEP 3

This performance was recorded on January 10, 2020, at LIU Brooklyn in the Barbara Elliot Performing Arts Studio. 

And thank you to Kayla for sharing her discovery!

Suite No. 1 for Four Prepared Soprano Saxophones

The following is a new work that I've been working on with my ensemble Chaos Theory Unit (CTU). The current working title is "Suite No. 1 for Four Prepared Soprano Saxophones."

The ensemble features:

• Caroline Davis, soprano saxophone
• Catherine Sikora, soprano saxophone
• Don Chapman, soprano saxophone
• Sam Newsome, soprano saxophone

My simplistic way of understanding the work is that it is a four-dimensional perspective of the soprano saxophone. Each dimension being channeled through a different player. The piece is composed of the following parts:

Introduction:
Part I: Doppler
Part II: Birds
Part III: Balloons
Part IV: Drone
Part V: Drum
Part VII: Doppler Revisited

The titles of each of the sections reflect the horn preparations as well as the deliberate sonic realms that players are instructed to improvise within. There are no pre-composed parts. The compositional arc and incidental harmonies that ensue stem from the improvisational interplay.


Below is the video of our performance, along with a listening guide further detailing the musical activities throughout.

Section	Time	Musical activity
Introduction	00:00 – 03:03	Solo improvisation by Newsome. The improvisation is multiphonic-centered.
Part 1: Doppler	03:03 – 05:58	The ensemble joins in playing sustained tones centered around concert C Phrygian. The ensemble sways instruments from side to side to create the Doppler effect.
	5:50  - 05:59	Ensemble sustains an impromptu chord.
	6:00 – 08:54	Davis begins an unaccompanied solo.
Part II - Birds	08:55 -11:04	The ensemble begins improvising bird sounds underneath Davis until she fades out. The ensemble morphs into collective improvisations of bird sounds
	11:05 – 14:23	Newsome and Davis begin improvising against the bird- sound backdrop without their instruments being prepared.
	14:23 – 14:34	Newsome and Davis conclude their improvisations playing sustained tones.
	14:35 – 15:40	Sikora and Chapman continue the bird-sound backdrop, while Newsome and Davis setup with balloon preparations
Part III - Balloons	15:41 – 19:22	Sikora and Chapman end playing bird sounds while Newsome and Davis begin to assert the balloon rattlings, which morphs into a sparse collective improvisation, featuring Chapman playing against a backdrop of balloon sounds and sparse ensemble improvisations.
	19:23 – 20:24	Chapman solo concludes, and the ensemble continues to play the balloon-rattling backdrops, while Newsome prepares his instrument with the tube extension to begin the drone.
	20:25 – 21:56	Newsome begins drone against the balloon-rattling backdrop
Part IV: Drone	21:57 – 23:40	The ensemble joins Newsome playing drone-like sound while instruments are prepared with tube extensions.
	23:41 – 26:44	Sikora begins improvising against the droning backdrop
	26:45 – 27:43	The ensemble fades out and Sikora continues her solo unaccompanied. While Sikora is improvising, the ensemble begins to make preparations for the next piece entitled "Drum.”
	27:44 – 28:24	The ensemble begins playing drum sounds as Sikora fades out her solo.
Part V: Drum	28:25 – 29:30	The ensemble plays drum sounds, while Chapman continues the drone.
	29”31 – 30:18	The ensemble begins to play sparsely over the drone while continuing to play drum sounds.
	30:19 – 33:18	The ensemble begins to collectively improvise over the drone.
	33:19 – 36:45	The drone ends and the ensemble plays as a collective. The ensemble builds gradually.
Part VI: Doppler Revisited	36:46 – 40:18	The nsemble morphs into "Doppler Revisited." The ensemble plays sustainethed tones over the C Phrygian scale until the end.

My Four Epiphanies

During my 40-plus year relationship with music, I recall four distinct epiphanies that have come to define my career path.

The first happened at twelve years old. 

During our winter concert at Benjamin Syms Middle School in Hampton, VA, I was one of the featured soloists with our jazz ensemble. After I stood up and played an improvised solo for the first time in front of a live audience, I experienced such joy that I was on a natural high for three days. I can’t say for sure that this is when I decided to become a professional musician, but it was a defining moment where I realized that music would forever be central to my life. 

The second happened when I was thirty years old.

As many are aware, this was the age where I decided to switch from the tenor to the soprano saxophone. Until this day, I’m still unable to say exactly why I did it, other than I was able to arrive at a sonic clarity on the soprano, almost immediately, that was not achievable on tenor, even after having tried for so many years. It is also the moment at which my path veered from trying to be a great jazz musician, to aspiring to become more of an artist. I knew if I did not seize that moment, it would be forever lost.

The third happened almost a decade later.

After hearing Steve Lacy’s Snips: Live at Environ, a double-CD solo saxophone recording,  I truly understood the melodic potential of the soprano. I realized that solo saxophone would be the best way to express my musical concept with the most clarity and the least compromised. There's also an addendum to this epiphany. I knew there would be career consequences pursuing this path. Venturing down this path, I probably lost more supporters than when I first switched to the soprano. But I knew the artistic rewards would be too satisfying to care.

The fourth happened around four years ago. 

While recording Sopranoville: Works for Prepared and Non-Prepared Saxophone, my first foray into the realm of prepared saxophone, I realized that the essence of my vision is sound. Sound, as I discovered, does not always have to function as a means to an end. It can be equally profound as the means. This enabled me to speak not only a broader musical language, but one that’s heavily informed by my everyday environment. I’m no longer limited to the influences of other musicians, but have become equally influenced by life. Sound, I discovered, is my artistic truth. This, of course, has led to the many experiments that I frequently explore. It may not win me many accolades with jazz purists, but I'm in total alignment with the spiritual purists.

I’m not sure where it will all lead, but I do like where it’s going.