bill benzon

These days there are many jazz musicians who can improvise in several distinct jazz idioms. If one wanted to, a classical-oriented musician could certainly learn to improvise in several different classical idioms. But why would one want to learn that? The repertoire doesn't require it, but one could learn to do it "just for fun." And one can also learn to improvise in a free-wheeling "no rules" way, but the "no rules" part is a bit deceptive. It takes a great deal of skill and practice to follow the "no rules" rule so that you aren't just coughing up one odd-sounding cliche after another.

ecarroll

Bill,

True, but I'd argue that what Jeremy is calling for is more awareness of the musical languages that surround us, rather than simply being a slave to execution. I'm astonished, as I travel around North America and the world giving masterclasses, how well many people play the trumpet but what causal listeners they are (listening to themselves, their collaborators, and the conditions of the music itself).

By the way, TMers, don't misunderstand what this thread is about. Nobody is calling for musicians to improvise in the style of Mozart, in the style of Mahler, etc. We are talking about improvisation in the style of ourselves (and, with careful listening, the style of others that we are improvising with).

Best,
EC

ecarroll

Bill,

Having re-read your post I can't agree more with the above.

Cheers,
EC

bill benzon

Well, Ed, free improv with others, as Vulgano Brother noted, can be marvelous. And it's demanding because you really have to listen to what others are doing and to what you are doing. In fact, I'd say that good improvising is mostly about listening. You play your horn by listening for what you want to hear; let the execution take care of itself.

Now, one thing I'll do every once in awhile, just for fun, is to see how many different variations I can play on "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." If it was good enough for Mozart, then it's good enough for anyone. Not that I try to make up a Mozart-style variation, but simply that I play as many variations as I can think up. And I do allow myself time to think and try this or that; it's not that I try to rip off the variations one after the other. But I don't spend a lot of time deliberating on them either. It's a good test of my active musical "vocabulary."

KRax!

Just for the record, in the legendary novel "Der Mann ohne eigenschaften" by Robert Musil, the pianist Walter often plays meditations and fantasies over themes, that is improvising.

We are for example told that he looks upon Wagner with disgust, but he cannot avoid himself picking up a Wagner melody and then spending a long time playing a powerful fantasy over that theme to get his emotions off his chest.

We are talking Wien in 1914 and from the novel that kind of behaviour seems to be the common way for the good classical musician, something which is expected from him/her, also to be able to do in front of a public.

Similar notes can be found in several novels from the 19:th century telling us it that it probably was not uncommon to improvize not only for personal practice but as entertainment for the "salon" during an invitation. It is my believe that the hired musician was asked to play a certain theme, did that, and then fell out in a free fantasy.

bill benzon

About free improv, in a group, from my notes:

On Wednesday 13 February 2002 I attended a workshop conducted by William Parker. It was held in downtown Manhattan at 228 W. Broadway. The participants included two guitarists (electric), a vocalist, a trumpeter (me) and, of course, Parker himself, playing tuba for this occasion (he’s best known for his work on stand-up bass). Not your standard jazz ensemble.

Free jazz was the idiom. Of course “free jazz” is a big territory, but it doesn’t much matter just where in that territory we were located.

Parker made some general statements about this and that, and had variously wry, witty, and informative comments about the working methods of many of the folks he’s played with – Cecil Taylor, Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, Muhal Abrams, and so forth. But mostly we made music. And it really was music that we made. And pretty good music at that. The kind of music where, when it’s over, you don’t want to talk. You just remain silent for a moment, collecting yourself, deploying your parachute so as to slow down your descent into lower Manhattan.

We started with something Parker called “Number 14” — which he concocted on the spot. As he said, it starts with four fours. “What’s that?” you ask. You play four notes at a rapid clip, and do that four times in a row. “What four notes?” you ask. “He didn’t tell us, and none of us asked.” We all picked the notes we wanted when it came time to play the piece. But there’s more to “Number 14” than four fours. After four fours there’s a pause that’s so, just like that, long. After the pause everyone picks a high note and does a long descending gliss(ando) to some low note. “What high note to what low note?” you ask. “Do you really think there’s a specific answer to that question?” says I. And then we play a long trill. “On notes of your choice,” you remark. “ Yes, that’s it.” After that, guitar one plays a simple one two figure and repeats it four times. Then the ensemble does another high to low gliss to trill. That’s the “head” to “Number 14.” After the head, it was up to us and the music to negotiate the flow.

So we went through the head a couple of times and then played it down. It must have gone for twenty or thirty minutes. It started out pretty raggedy, but then things started to settle in—though “settle “ is not a particularly good word to use here. There’s no easy way to describe the music that evolved. Sometimes there was a pulse, sometimes there wasn’t. Even when there was a pulse, there where times when some people didn’t follow it. Sometimes everyone was playing, sometimes only one or two were. Sometimes loud, sometimes soft, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, always shifting. Sometimes full-tilt bozo, sometimes approaching serene.

You need to understand that this is different from, say, your standard mainstream jazz quintet (there were five of us) in various ways. For one thing, the head wasn’t particularly definite; and there were no set chord changes or modes, no set back-up figures or ensemble passages. But, major though that may seem, those differences from the mainstream are, in fact, secondary. More profoundly, the traditional instrumental roles were gone. Traditionally there’s a rhythm section (piano and/or guitar, drums, and bass) and a front line (horns, vocal, guitar). The front line players do the head and then they play solos; meanwhile the rhythm section provides support (and gets a bit of solo action as well, depending on the format). Within the rhythm section, the drums, bass, and piano each has a role to play.

Well, in our music, all that disappeared. There’s no distinction between front line and rhythm section, and no fixed division of rhythm section responsibilities. It’s all up in the air, to be negotiated and reconfigured moment by moment. What this implies is that the old head-solos-head format disappears as well. There are no solos as such. This is collective improvisation, a conversation among equals, true democracy (to put a Ken Burns twist on the proceedings). Now, at this or that moment, one player might be more out front — either because she stepped out there or the others stepped back — but this is not dictated by any plan. It just happens. So we’ve got a floating mélange of quasi-solos, duos, trios and quartets all within the framework of the overall quintet.

How do you cope with a situation like that? I can’t answer the question in general, but I can say a little about how I approached it: With my ears. I’m always aware of what’s going on. Now sometimes I’m focused on what I’m doing and not so much on anyone or everything else. But I’m aware of it nonetheless. And when I’m focused on my own playing I might be doing complex stuff, or I might be repeating a simple three-note riff, or even a long tone. But I also make it a practice to spend some time explicitly focusing on what each other player is doing and to orient myself to those sounds in some way. Perhaps I’ll imitate them, or play an answer to them, or support them, or create a counter line. There are lots of ways to orient yourself to what other people are doing and it’s very important that you do so with each player, one at a time. It’s part of your responsibility as a citizen in this improvisatory democracy.

To return to traditional ways of thinking, what this means for me is that some of the time I’m thinking and playing like a soloist — my instrument’s traditional role in mainstream jazz — but that I spend more time thinking and playing like a bass player (though the trumpet is a soprano instrument, but that’s no reason I can’t provide an anchoring ostinato) or pianist (playing arpeggios) or even like a drummer (playing staccato hits). And when the vocalist would sing long tones, I might support her by playing long tones (more or less) with her.

It’s like going into a theatrical costume shop and trying on all the different costumes. Everyone else is doing the same thing. You meet in various configurations and improvise a little skit that’s consistent with your costumes. Then you change costumes and do it again, and again.

Until it’s over. And that’s the interesting thing. How do you know it’s over? Since there’s no set plan, no check list of things to accomplish (as in the head-solos-head format), you need some other way to end it. You might think that, since William Parker was leading this workshop, that he ‘d end it. But he didn’t. We all ended it, and at the same time.

That was the first time through “Number 14.” We did it a second time. Then we worked on some conceptions from other workshoppers. And then it was over. We didn’t have time for “Number 15.”

A most satisfying experience.

trumpetlore

Bill,

Thanks for that very personal account. I believe that many people who approach free improv under the watchful eye of a musical great achieve what you speak of.

My personal experience begins with Markus Stockhausen, but has continued here at Eastman with a free improv ensemble. We gather somewhat infrequently, but really enjoy playing together. Instrumentation often varies, but the goals of becoming a collective music making force do draw us together, and we begin to make successful music.

And what defines success for us? The same moments you describe. The moments of unspoken cooperation where everybody knows what came before, what comes next, but mostly, what comes now.

An important question is how this freedom can release us to perform the "old music" with renewed energy, vision, and life. How do we communicate to an audience the story we're trying to tell in the music?

bill benzon

Here Victor Borges improvises an accompaniment to a Czardas by Monti. He'd heard the piece, but never played it. For the most part, his accompaniment is "straight," not comic.

ecarroll

Bill,

I was part of a group of musicians on a chamber music cruise on the QE2 back in the 90s (great fun -- Panama canal, etc.) and Victor Borge was with us as well. What a fabulously literate musician he was and an absolute hoot at the dinner table.

Best,
EC

bill benzon

I can imagine, Ed. Borge really is a gem. I don't think we quite know how to value an artist like him. His musical comedy does a fabulous job of revealing the conventions of classical music in a useful and illuminating way. Funny, yes. But educational as well. He's more than a comedian, but then the best comedians are always more than . . .