I continued: “This is a legitimate question, though it seeks to legitimize an aspect of musical philosophy that has more to do with business than with art. Whatever your stance might be on ‘commercial’ music, ‘smooth jazz’ and the like, there’s no shame or argument in the fact that this is a music that’s designed to be enjoyed (or consumed) by the greatest number of people possible. And while I cannot get inside the head of musicians who choose this path, I should not doubt their musical sincerity. At the same time, it would be disingenuous for such musicians to deny that commerce is somewhere in the forefront of their creative impulses. That is not a crime, but I do consider it an upside-down way to make music.
“Regardless of motivation, let’s assume that a percentage of the improvised-music listening initiates who are digging on, say, Kenny G, decide to explore more in the way of instrumental sounds. My educated guess is that most of these listeners will seek out more of the same types of music that function as an ambient soundtrack for their life, as it were; music that makes, at most, a two-dimensional demand on the part of the audience. But, for the sake of argument, let’s say that many smooth jazz listeners decide to pursue the ‘jazz’ part of the equation with some good measure of effort. What then?
“Well, if a Kenny G fan found his or her way to my own music, I should be pleasantly surprised and grateful for the attention. Whether my music would prove to be of entertaining interest or not to that person would have to be seen. I’m not at all confident that the preparation provided by exposure to ‘smooth jazz’ would work in anyone’s favor in this case. The aesthetic choices between these two schools of music making are worlds apart. If you cherish unpredictability or space in your music, or the intelligent use of counterpoint, or bounce in your beat, then smooth jazz will usually miss the mark by a mile. Let me make clear: I do not doubt the potential intelligence or patience of these imaginary listeners, but their finding my music would most likely be the result of any number of circumstances NOT related to the fact that a Kenny G introduced them to the grooviness of ‘jazz,’ smooth or otherwise. So I find the suggestion that art which is half-way honest, authentic, or competent might possibly have a positive impact on art that is otherwise created with discipline, spontaneity, and a good measure of craft to be a curious proposition indeed.”
Espousing my jazz musician’s well-honed sense of musical mistrust on my kitchen stool-turned-pedestal, I heard myself saying all of this stuff and immediately wondered aloud, “What is it about these smooth jazz musicians that riles the aesthetic fur of so many jazzers?” Well, some musicians are simply envious when they see the cashing-in success of music that does not (in their opinion) aspire to any sense of vision or greatness but is merely an expression of (arguably) mediocre aesthetics and/or abilities. All discussion of which, admittedly, will have very little effect on the people creating or listening to smooth jazz. (It’s a circular argument. Oh, did I mention that my name once showed up on a list of eligible drummers to vote for in a Smooth Jazz Listeners Poll, based on my having appeared on a couple of particular albums? Yikes.) Psychology 101 instruction teaches that a person may express hostility at something or someone that has traits that are recognizable in them on a latent (hidden or dormant) level. In other words: successful smooth jazz musicians might represent that which us otherwise-artistic types might fear the most (or is it the annoyingly curly hair and the dopey-looking embouchure these guys all seem to share?).
I submit that a good part of our artistic conscience nags at every compromise we make along the way. We start out with the highest of aspirations and the best of musical intentions, however we’re wired or taught. And then… Well, LIFE comes along and causes you to change your plans. Life demands adaptation. Living in society demands the ability to negotiate and compromise. At what levels do we exceed our self-made promises? Does the “pure” jazz musician exist? And what was I doing in a Hollywood recording studio last week playing drums on a country-music commercial for Toyota trucks?
I turn to saxophonist and writer Dave Liebman: “To begin, it is necessary to make a distinction between art and craft. Craft implies mastering technique to the degree that a craftsman is competent enough to skillfully reproduce the artifacts of the given art form. For a jazz musician, this means that one can sound convincing using the rules and customs of the music — no mean feat, by the way. Art, on the other hand, utilizes and transcends mere technique to communicate the personal feelings of the artist in whatever manner (s)he chooses. As Aristotle wrote: ‘The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.’ For me, craft is a stage along the way, whereas artistic expression represents true individual freedom and the overall goal.”
I like to consider myself a craftsman as well as an artist, one who is still on the path towards becoming a better musician. I try my best to aim high when it comes to those things that matter the most to me (my family, my music, my ethics, and my friends). I’m a husband, father, and a professional musician — one who enjoys the variety offered by the free-lance musical life. Like a doctor who has sworn to obey the oath of Hippocrates, I shall always strive “to do no harm” in my dealings with people or with notes. Each experience informs the next. My advice: Don’t be afraid to try out different kinds of music as a player or listener. But always keep your eyes and ears on the musical prize that honestly feels right to you. You’ll know it when you hear it.
I’ve been working on a pet theory of late, one that attempts to explain when and where music took a bad turn, or put another way, why the music I hear today does not seem to have the magic of the music I heard when I was young. Lest the reader think these are the ramblings of a mid-life musical malcontent, I wish to assure one and all that I am still a fan and lover of music. But a palpable change took place in contemporary music, just around the time I was beginning to make a name for myself in the world of music. Am I being nostalgic? Let’s see where this goes…
The world was a different place not so long ago. It wasn’t as easy to find something new, different, or unheard, like music-seekers today who have the World Wide Web at their fingertips, and I applaud the democratization of information access. But wait a sec; we did have the radio, with 24/7 jazz stations in just about every major city. We had television, too, with a fair amount of jazz on it from time to time. And we had The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show, their 1964 appearances and the song “I Want to Hold Your Hand” helping to lift America out of its post-Kennedy assassination funk. There’s some magic for you. One thing that made the sudden discovery of new music so wondrous was that it was not on demand. One could not download a song; one had to wait by the radio or TV (or go out to the nearest vinyl album shop) to catch a listen. Hearing a good tune was much like finding a four-leaf clover.
Meanwhile, jazz had been undergoing some groundbreaking changes. Without attempting to offer a definitive mini-history of the music, the following chronology should prove accurate and useful: after the Second World War and out of the Swing Era came bebop, where rhythmic, harmonic, and melodic conventions were challenged and turned on their head. Different “schools” of modern jazz developed, characterized by the hot bop playing of Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie in contrast to the “cool school” of the early Miles Davis and West Coast groups. Some of the great bop drummers were Kenny Clarke, Max Roach, Art Blakey, and Philly Joe Jones. Post-bop came into being by the forays made by explorers like Sonny Rollins and John Coltrane, followed by Wayne Shorter (with Miles Davis, who again was at the forefront of the musical vanguard), Eric Dolphy, and Freddie Hubbard; some notable drummers in all of this included Roy Haynes, Elvin Jones, and Tony Williams. Other musical giants of the late 1950s/early 1960s included Thelonious Monk and Charles Mingus. The avant-garde was (literally) making noise in the late 1950s, where conventions of the norm were deemed “square” and irrelevant; Ornette Coleman led the charge.
Parallels can be found in the worlds of visual and literary art, and modernity was bustin
g out all over. America was rebuilding as much of the world as it could after World War II, out of generosity as well as in its own interests and image, while most of us were being taught to “duck and cover” should a nuclear missile find its way into our neighborhood. Racism was still overt in this country, but change was underway. Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream, The Beatles wanted to hold our hand, and Sly & the Family Stone were getting ready to take us higher. Pop music crossed over from safely-packaged/produced fare to experimental soundscapes. Young people everywhere started asking more and more questions: of their leaders, of their parents, of the system, and of the very society they were in. Music was right there alongside, not attempting to provide any answers, but fueling the questions with more of its own.
This is my guess: As older jazz styles merged with the new, and jazz collided with pop and rock sensibilities, music found itself in a cornucopia of genres. Free jazz met free love. Man, anything was possible. Recording technology was just getting to the point where musical searching could take place in an environment where a lot of new things were possible: multi-tracking, electronic effects, the separation and joining of instruments combined with the layering of sounds upon sounds, etc. What a laboratory! And each new recording seemed to herald yet one more advance into the unknown. As such, chances were pretty good that every new album purchased would deliver something new, something never heard before, and something that seemed to say, “Here is what’s possible, but we’re not really sure yet.”
Music was asking questions. Upon hearing the recording Now He Sings, Now He Sobs by pianist Chick Corea (with Miroslav Vitous on bass and Roy Haynes on drums), I felt that I had been lucky enough to receive a postcard from the future that said “here’s what’s possible.” The first couple of Weather Report recordings said the same thing to me. Even the titles of the songs reflected the mystery of not knowing: Corea’s “Steps – What Was” to Weather Report’s “Unknown Soldier” to Corea’s “What Game Shall We Play Today?” Each new listen was a shared experience with the composers and musicians on recordings from this era (mid-to-late 1960s to early/mid-1970s).
It seems that by the time America had pulled itself out of Vietnam, we began, possibly, to tire of asking so many questions. We wanted answers but didn’t want to think too hard to get them. Music obliged. It only took a few years to go from the syncopated boogaloo funk that challenged straight-laced/white collar/corporate imperialism to the relentless and mind-deadening pulse of disco that pounded the beat into each listener, turning anyone into a dancer. Jazz tried merging with this, most often with musically dismal results. A neoclassicism emerged, jazz started sounding suspiciously like bebop and post-bop all over again, only this time the music and its media messengers (a/k/a the critics) were TELLING us that this was how jazz was supposed to sound. Music stopped asking questions. While all of this was happening, a lot of jazz got smoother and slicker, and most every musical venture began to appear as if it were driven by money rather than by art.
Disclaimer: the above is a highly truncated, bastardized, and biased history of recent music.
This brings me to an interesting point, best expressed by the late Canadian percussionist and composer John Wyre. John was a great musician: timpanist in several major orchestras and a founding member of the percussion group Nexus. He organized many world percussion symposiums and musical get-togethers. He explored sonic landscapes in his improvisations and compositions. John cared deeply for all of those good things that were possible when people and sound were brought together. In a documentary film that was made about John, Drawing on Sound, he quotes an ancient Chinese proverb: “The bird does not sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song.” Hearing John utter these words in the film brought back tremendous memories of this great person. John defined himself as an explorer, but one who was more interested in the journey than the destination or outcome. In other words, his music was always about asking questions. Like John and our fine-feathered friends, shall we strive to create the kind of music that we must create while leaving the answers to those who listen?
54. Wayne
photo: Peter Erskine
The first time my parents came to see a Weather Report show, I introduced them to the band onstage during our afternoon soundcheck. At some point I glanced over at my mother, who was engaged in conversation with Wayne. She was smiling her big, beautiful smile while Wayne spoke, looking very animated and happy. “Good,” I thought, “they’re getting along really well and she likes Wayne!” About a minute or so later she walked over to where I was standing and, still smiling, said in a very low voice, “Is that guy for real?”
Wayne was (and is) the Mysterious Traveler.
Interesting thing
One interesting thing about Wayne was that, in all of the time I was in the band with him, he never once referred to Miles or his time in Miles’ band to serve as any sort of example, musical or otherwise, to us; meanwhile, he never failed to mention Art Blakey at least once a day when we were on tour or in the studio. I found that fascinating. Wayne was the quietest member of the Weather Report quartet, but easily the most profound when he wanted to be.
Scene: The University of Weather Report. This freshman class of 1978 is taking place on a Shinkansen ride from Tokyo to Osaka. The guys have noticed some heavy-handedness and slack in the way I’m hitting the drums; not enough “snap” to the sound or the beat in enough places to warrant their concern — something that Joe would comment on immediately following a performance, but not Wayne, who seems to always be watching but not saying anything during one of these post-mortems. At any rate, I am telling a story to Joe, Wayne, and Jaco, who are standing around me in the snack-bar car of the train, and when I get to the part of the story where I say, “And just like that,” with a mild slap of my hands, muted in part because I do not wish to disturb any others on the train, Wayne reaches out and stops me, rewinding the story a few seconds so he can go, “Not like that, like THIS,” and he whips one hand towards the other so that he produces an intense slap of the hands while looking triumphantly at me. “Like this…,” I repeat as I, too, slap my hands with tremendous vigor and velocity. Wayne smiles, nods his head, and backs away.
Meanwhile, here I am every night getting ready to play a duo with Wayne Shorter. Mind blowing! What am I doing up here playing with Wayne Shorter? Enjoying it, that’s for sure. But I had a lot to learn. For example, Wayne would launch into a rhythmic figure while soloing, and I would hear it and then play it in unison with him. This occurs on the 8:30 live album that we made, and while mixing the album, it was just Joe Zawinul and me in the studio with the engineer listening. Joe is standing by these big speakers, I’m standing next to him, and we’re listening to the track. Wayne and I are playing on the tape, and Joe turns to me and says, “Sounds good.” I feel proud. Then, just at that moment, Wayne did this whole sequential ascending pattern thing, and I caught it. Zawinul hears that on the tape, turns to me with a really sour look, and says, “Uhm! Too bad you had to do that.”
Later, during a rehearsal, Wayne stopped playing when I did the same thing, and he said, “Don’t do that.” I began to understand that the role of the rhythm section is not to play in unison, but to provide the constant as well as the contrast, or counterpoint. So if the soloist starts playing syncopations, maybe you can do counter-syncopations as long as they don’t get too busy. Or just keep doing what you’re doing, because the soloist is cutting across the grain: that’s what makes it cool. Imagine the rhythm section is a bright blue background, and the soloist cuts a brilliant red diagonal stripe across it; it makes no sense for us to turn red. (Drumming for me is all about balance. You’re balancing dynamically, but you’re providing a counterweight to things, and if something is happening in the band, you’re either providing a steady pulse or coming up with rhythmic counterpoint that makes the stuff dance.)
When I joined Weather Report, my only thought at the time was to play my heart out. This quality, combined with
enough experience to be able to pull off most of what I could hear inside of my head, stood me well during those first heady weeks of touring. The four of us — Joe Zawinul, Wayne Shorter, Jaco Pastorius, and myself — were thoroughly enjoying the newness of it all. Every relationship, however, be it between members of a band or a man and woman, undergoes the dynamics of change, and so it was, as I entered the second phase of my tenure with the group, that I had to learn how to become a more mature and contributing member of the ensemble. Joe, of course, began telling me more and more about myself: how I looked when I walked (“You take these funny little steps when you walk, man. You should learn to take bigger steps; it will make you a better drummer!”), how I paused too much when I spoke; my stroke on the drumset; my sense of time; and the velocity as well as the veracity of my beats — all “fair game” for discussion. And, as proud as I remained throughout all of this, I also realized and knew that these musicians knew much more about all of this stuff than I did. And so, I listened.
Throughout all of this and for all of their association, Joe and Wayne were the yin to the other’s yang. And all of us benefitted.
photo: Shigeru Uchiyama
55. From Fearless to Self-conscious
Weather Report performed an intensive soundcheck every concert day on tour. The purpose of most soundchecks is to check the sound; our soundchecks became rehearsals, most of which morphed into what Jaco called “the drum lesson.” Joe had this or that idea about how something I was playing could sound better, and he was not too shy to tell me! Trying to incorporate his suggestions out of respect as well as some sense of professionalism, I began thinking of all of the “do this” and “don’t do that” demands. I went from being fearless to cautious, encouraged to discouraged, spirited to perfunctory, and so on. Being in the middle of the storm, though, did not make it easy for me to spot the spot that I was in! Meanwhile, Jaco and the band’s crew were wondering, “What’s happening with Peter?”
No Beethoven: An Autobiography & Chronicle of Weather Report Page 19
