The Sad Irony Of Imitation

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Throughout the history of jazz there have been various artists that have greatly influenced the direction of the music. We can feel the still-unfolding impact of these masters on the jazz aesthetic even though many of them are no longer with us.

What do jazz artists as diverse as Bill Evans, Lester Young, Michael Brecker, Louis Armstrong, Elvin Jones, Clifford Brown, and John Coltrane all have in common? They all have a sound and conception about improvising, about playing their instruments,  that (at one point in history, at least) has been highly imitated.

Of course there are many others, from Charlie Parker, Scott LaFaro, Freddie Hubbard,  all the way up to Mark Turner (widely imitated by young, up and coming tenor saxophonists these days). It’s not unusual for people to want to imitate those artists that inspire them. As the cliche goes, “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

We often feel compelled to try to create the same magic our heros have created. But there is something sadly ironic when we do this through imitation. You see, there is also another thing that all these above mentioned great musicians have in common: the sound of surprise. In a word, spontaneity.

The more we try to imitate them, the farther we get from the magic that drew us to them in the first place.

The compelling expressive abilities that all these iconic musicians have do not simply lie in how great their sound is, nor how beautifully melodic they negotiate the chord changes of a standard song. These are things that could be reduced to a “style”, something that could be reproduced by somebody else. The thing that really draws us to these great artists is how stunningly personal, clear, immediate and alive their self expression is.

What we’re really witnessing when we listen to the great recordings of these masters is self-discovery. We’re witnessing the artist discovering the unfolding of their ideas and passions. It’s not only surprising and thrilling to us as listeners, but to the artists as well:  the excitement of possibilities yet unexplored, the uncertainty of the process, the sound of spontaneity. That’s the magic.

This spontaneity stays fluid, yielding and expanding for their entire creative lives. It’s what makes them (what we deem) geniuses.

These artists rarely, if ever, aim for what might be called a “style.” They simply stay present with the possibility of exploring and manipulating the variables of their medium to express themselves. The moment they aim for a style, their spontaneity would be largely compromised, and they would lose the magic that reaches so deeply into us.

Yet this is precisely what happens with far too many aspiring jazz artists. It’s often not difficult at all to tell who’s been listening too much to whom when you go to many jazz performances.

I’ve been playing music enough years to see these trends of imitation as they change from one artist to the next. When I first started playing the tenor saxophone (in the mid 1970’s) it was nearly impossible to hear any aspiring tenor saxophonist under the age of 30 who wasn’t trying to play like John Coltrane.

Then it was everybody sounding like Michael Brecker (though still many trying to sound like Cotrane) in the 80’s and 90’s. Now (as I mentioned above) it’s many young tenor players trying to sound like Mark Turner (or other young tenorists who sound similar to him).

And it’s always the same outcome: the magic of John Coltrane, the magic of Michael Brecker, the magic of Mark Turner, all become reduced to a style. Something that can be imitated and codified. Something that hardens instead of staying fluid and dynamic.

Creativity in music, to me, is a series of problems that are to be solved. The artist feels something that is outside of reach because it’s never really been expressed yet. He or she works with the elements, see’s what works and what doesn’t, to bring their feelings, their imagination to life. There is, by design, a considerable amount of struggle here. It is through this struggle that the beauty emerges. Without it, there is never really a personal expression.

The great improvisers in jazz have paid this price to find their beauty, to find their voice. That is what thrills you when you hear them. The specifics of what they do (the things you might call their “style”) are almost incidental to this.

If you imitate them, you completely miss to point. As you steal their solutions, you rob yourself of the opportunity to solve your own aesthetic problems (and find the truth and beauty of your own expressive voice).  The very best you can be is a flattering imitation of your heros. In my opinion that doesn’t honor them. It exploits them.

If you really want to honor your heros, perhaps you should do as they did on a much broader level. You should sit down with your problems, with your love and passion, with your visions, with your imagination and find a way to study and practice to find your own voice.

Maybe you should not spend the majority of your listening time scrutinizing your favorite artists. Instead, broaden your listening experience  (as many of the great innovators in jazz have also done) to find not what (or whom) to imitate, but what touches you on the deepest level.

Have confidence in your own artistic vision and ideas. Trust yourself as to what is beautiful. Do so without asking why. Let yourself stay open, curious, passionate and disciplined. Let yourself stay  spontaneously you at all times. To paraphrase the great Duke Ellington, “I’d rather listen to a musician that’s a number 1 version of himself than a number 2 version of somebody else.”

I would too, no matter how great the musician being imitated is.

 

 

 

Managing Performance Anxiety

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Performance anxiety, whether mild or debilitating, is nearly a universal human condition. It is not only musicians who struggle with it. Anybody who has had to “deliver the goods”, on the spot, in real time, has probably experienced some anxiety. Performing artists, athletes, as well as business people, educators, (and just about anyone else) have all probably felt anxious before an important performance, presentation, or public appearance.

Many musicians are reluctant to admit to having performance anxiety. They see it as some form of weakness, or character flaw. I’m here to tell you that there is no shame in being anxious about a performance.

There might be a variety of reasons why you become anxious before a performance, but that all have one thing in common: your love for music. You want to put out the best musical expression you can. In short, you get anxious because you care. If you didn’t care you wouldn’t become anxious.

You probably wouldn’t perform that well, either. Because if you don’t care, you won’t play well. You must care. So if you do care, but have problems with performance anxiety, read on.

In the language of the Alexander Technique, performance anxiety occurs because of “end-gaining”. When end-gaining, you take yourself out of the present moment, and bounce back and forth between regretting what you’ve already played, and dreading the unknown outcome of what you will be playing. You stop paying attention to process, and place too much of your attention on expectations and results.

It’s important to realize that a musical performance, like all other human activity, is a step into the unknown. And the best way to step into the unknown is to remain in the present moment, always paying attention not only to what you’re doing, but also, to how you’re doing it.

You can’t control the unknown, but you can control to a large degree your reaction to the unknown. The first thing to do is to accept whatever feelings you have in the moment, whether it’s fear, worry, enthusiasm, anger, or anything else that might arise in you. That way you can observe the changes in your body as you react to those feelings.

Performance anxiety, which triggers a fear response, manifests itself as a series of challenges or obstacles that interfere with your ability to perform to your fullest potential. Some of these are:

  • Shallow and uncontrollable breathing
  • Overly tense muscles
  • Loss of balance
  • Unclear thinking
  • Dry mouth
  • Moist hands
  • Impaired sense of time
  • Trembling

The list could go on, I’m sure.

From a practical point of view, a primary interference in your ability to perform well is excess muscular tension. If you’re causing your muscles to become unduly tense and rigidly over-reactive, you seriously impair your ability to create the necessary movements to play music.

And when I say movement, I mean all movement, including the movements involved in breathing. If you’re interfering with your breathing, you face even more problems. (If you play a wind instrument or sing, I don’t have to tell you why that’s a problem.)

But even if you don’t play a wind instrument or sing, there is another equally serious problem that arises when your breathing is uncontrolled and shallow: Your thinking becomes unclear. When this happens, you forget important details of the music, lose touch with time and pitch, and make mistakes that you never made during practice. We’ve all been there before.

If you’re going to reach your potential as a performer, you must learn to prevent some of this excess muscular tension.

So what causes these symptoms of performance anxiety to arise in you? The answer is simple: your thinking does. If the thought of performing causes fear, a whole host of changes will take place in your body.

The good new is that you can also use your thinking to prevent (or at least attenuate) these conditions that arise in you that are counterproductive to performing at your best.

I’d like to offer some ways you can redirect your thinking to help you better prevent the negative manifestations of the fear reaction that accompanies performance anxiety.

I’m not telling you how to stop being afraid. Rather, I’m giving practical advice that will help you perform better, even when you are afraid and anxious. Though this might seem like a lot to think about, remember that most of these things can be thought of in an instant, and in that instant you can make a huge difference in how you perform.

Before the Performance:

Acknowledge your fear (as opposed to denying it), and notice how it specifically manifests itself in you physically. How is your breathing? Where are you tightening up in your body? This will give you an idea of what specific responses you wish to prevent.

Again, you might not be able to prevent the feeling of fear, but you can gain control over many of the tense response patterns you make because you are afraid. That in of itself will significantly improve how you play. As a bonus, when you consciously reduce your tension in this way, you gain an immediate kind of confidence that helps you regain your clear thinking.

If you have a chance before the performance, calm yourself by being relatively still and restful. Let yourself stay present with this stillness and restfulness.  This is a great time for constructive rest. Also, some breath work (such as whispered “ahs”) is helpful not only to control your breathing by lengthening your exhalation, but to calm your nervous system as well.

At the Start of the Performance

Before you actually play that first note:

  • Bring your attention to your breath by noticing the air moving in and out of your nostrils, and  see that your breathing is quiet (no gasping or sniffing).
  • Bring your attention to your head, neck, shoulders and back , noticing (and releasing) any excess tension
  • Check that your knees are not locked, and that your legs are not overly tense. Think of your knees as releasing away from your hip joints, and away one from the other. In other words, let your knees soften.
  • If you are standing, bring attention to your feet, letting your weight go completely through them so that you can release up and stay in balance. Think about your heels as releasing down into the floor, and let your toes spread out onto the floor. (Don’t curl your toes.)
  • If you are sitting, let your weight go through your sitting bones, letting your feet rest easily on the floor. Again, don’t curl your toes.
  • Let your arms and hands soften, releasing any unnecessary tension. You can think of your shoulders as releasing away one from the other.
  • Shift your emphasis from trying to play well, to using yourself well while you play, breathing and moving easily. Remind yourself to take your time.

As you perform, and as time and circumstances permit, refresh some of the above thoughts. The most important are:

  • Awareness of breath (allow it to move in and out quietly)
  • Head, neck and back, releasing unnecessary tension
  • Softening your knees.
  • Letting your heels release your feet into the floor
  • Letting your arms and hands soften
  • Return back to your breathing

This is something that needs to be practiced. After all, I’m asking you to pay attention to yourself primarily, as you perform music (not so easy at first). The great educational philosopher, John Dewey, called this “thinking in activity”, and it is what the Alexander Technique is specifically aiming for. You are developing a highly valuable skill.

I can assure you from my own experience, that when you learn to pay attention to yourself in this way as you play music, you will play better. You are the primary instrument. You make the music. Keep that in mind.

If you take advantage of each performance as a chance to practice some of these things, and develop this skill, you’ll greatly improve your ability to manage your anxiety (and will greatly improve the quality of your performance).

Check with yourself, asking a basic question: “Am I enjoying this or am I afraid of something?” Pay attention to your reaction to this question, and see if you can notice how your reaction might interfere with your ability to perform well. Be patient, evaluate yourself with kind discernment, and allow yourself to grow and explore.

Listening Beyond Your Instrument To Open Up Your Musical Imagination

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“Some of my favorite saxophonists don’t play saxophone.” I remember saying that once, some years back, when I was being interviewed on a radio show. The host asked me a simple question, “Who are some of your favorite saxophonists?” This is a logical question to ask a saxophonist (me). But truth be told, at that point in my life, I wasn’t much influenced by other saxophonists. (My answer was quite spontaneous and sincere.)

I was more interested in listening to guitar players. I was crazy about a wide spectrum of improvisational guitar playing: Jimi Hendrix, Ralph Towner, Nels Cline, Wes Montgomery, Django Reinhardt, Jim Hall, Mike Stern, Derek Bailey, Charlie Christian, John Abercrombie, and many, many more. ( I still love this music!)

At that time I was listening to a large variety of music, and certainly a fair amount of that music involved the saxophone. But I continually gravitated toward the guitarists. You might be wondering why I just didn’t switch from playing saxophone to guitar. But truth be told, I wasn’t interested at all in playing guitar.

I was drawn to many of these guitarists because they played their instruments in such a way as to inspire me to think differently about playing the saxophone (my true love!) The first time I heard Mike Stern play, for example (with Miles Davis), I thought, “Now that’s how I want to play the saxophone!” The way Stern was thinking about his sound, organizing his melodic ideas, and using space and density was markedly different than any saxophonist I’d ever heard.

It was easy for me to imagine that coming out of a saxophone, spelling out a whole new musical language for the instrument.

Fortunately for me, I didn’t scrutinize and imitate his music. This is always a great temptation. We hear somebody who has really “solved” the musical problems we’ve been considering, with great clarity, originality and stunning self-expression. Why not just do what they did?

Well, I won’t digress here as to why that’s not a good idea. Suffice it to say that the whole point of this creative process is to solve the problems in your own way. That’s where the beautiful music comes from.

It’s not hard to understand why guitarists think differently than saxophonists: They play a different instrument. They have different challenges, limitations, possibilities, physical requirements, etc. They think and function within the world of the guitar. No matter what, part of what influences their creative thinking is the nature of their instrument.

And so it is for all instrumentalists. Because of this you have saxophonists listening to a disproportionate amount of saxophonists, as do you have guitarists listening to a disproportionate amount of guitarists, and so on with all instrumentalists.

There’s nothing wrong with that, for the most part. After all, you learn what your instrument can do. You learn about sound, articulation and other aspects of technique. You learn the history of the improvisational language as told through your instrument. All of this is good. It creates a context through which to explore and grow.

But if you really want to start thinking about your instrument in a different way, in a more expansive way, you might consider carefully listening to and studying musicians who play (or sing) an instrument other than  your own.

I remember once talking to the great tenor saxophonist, Bennie Wallace, about his influences. He was sort of amused that many critics compared his playing to Eric Dolphy’s, because Bennie’s improvisational language involved the use of “wider than usual” intervals (as did Dolphy’s).

But Bennie never really listened to Dolphy (although he greatly respected him). Instead, Bennie became highly inspired in his saxophone playing because of the way Thelonious Monk played piano. Bennie didn’t copy Monk, but he was led to think and imagine (through careful observation of Monk’s music) of an entirely different way of playing the saxophone.

Interestingly enough, Bennie was influenced by the sound that Monk could get on the piano (which was due in a large part to Monk’s more “vertical” conception of tonal organization throughout his instrument).

When I think of the greatest tenor saxophone sound I aspire towards, it’s the sound of Johnny Hartman’s singing voice. (Yes, I know he’s a baritone, not a tenor). Listening to him sing has influenced my thinking about the sound of the saxophone more than any saxophonist ever has. Again, I don’t try to imitate him. It’s just that I imagine that concept through the tenor saxophone. Flutist James Newton also has a sound that has deeply opened up my own conception of the tenor saxophone sound, as has the sound of Elvin Jones’ drumming and Bill Evan’s piano playing.

Sometimes it’s a good idea to think far outside of the world of your instrument. Let go of the “trumpet-isms”, “piano-isms”, “guitar-isms”, or whatever kind of “isms” you might hold on to.

Becoming inspired by another instrument can help you to imagine the “impossible” on your instrument, and make it possible. (Sometimes the “impossible” is nothing more than a limited imagination and the unwillingness to carry out a new idea to fruition.)

So see if you can find an instrumentalist or singer that really inspires you. Listen…frequently, mindfully, openly, joyfully. Try to imagine their sound, their conception, coming through your instrument. At the very least, you’ll deepen your listening skills and imagination.  You might even open up your creative world in a huge and unexpected way.

The Sum Total Value Of Non-Doing

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Some years back, after I’d been studying the[ for a couple of years, a friend of mine, George McMullen (a highly accomplished trombonist), came to hear me play saxophone at a concert in West Los Angeles. He hadn’t heard me play in quite a while (since before I started studying the Alexander Technique).

After the concert ended, George came to talk to me and said, “You’re sounding great, but very different from the last time I heard you play. What are you doing differently?”

I remember answering him, spontaneously and without hesitation, “The real difference in my playing is not because of what I’m doing. It’s because of what I’m not doing.”

And that’s about as truthful as I could be. You see, what I wasn’t doing anymore was playing with all my old habits of tension: I wasn’t tightening my neck as I pulled my head back and down into my shoulders. I wasn’t tightening my left shoulder as I pulled my arms in toward my rib cage. I wasn’t thrusting my pelvis forward. I wasn’t locking my knees. I wasn’t clenching my jaw to produce my sound.

I was playing well, playing better than before, because of the sum total of what I wasn’t doing. F.M. Alexander (the founder of the Alexander Technique) said, “If you can stop doing the wrong thing, the right thing will do itself.” This turns out to be especially true in the act of playing music.

By playing my saxophone without my habits of tension, I become free to play in such a way that is in concert with my human design. I Become free to direct my energies most efficiently toward the act of producing a sound, and otherwise playing my instrument. And the results, as my friend could hear, are palpable.

And as I continue to teach the Alexander Technique I’m rewarded with seeing remarkable improvements in musicians as they learn the art of non-doing. Practically any musician, on any instrument (including voice) can improve how they perform by following this principle.

An example that comes to mind most recently is my experience teaching a young violist who plays in the local youth symphony. He came to me (as do an alarmingly growing number of young musicians) because of chronic tension and pain. His condition was worsening to the point that he couldn’t practice more than a few minutes without experiencing rather significant pain and muscular exhaustion.

As I observed his playing in our first lesson, I could see the manifestations of the tension that was causing his problems: stiff neck with his head pulled forcefully downward onto his instrument; left shoulder being pulled tightly upward and inward (impinging the muscles at the shoulder joint); breath being held; torso being twisted and held rigidly too far back; knees locked as his legs stiffened.

Though these are different things to observe, they’re all really part of one entire pattern of tension that is brought about by my student’s reaction to the thought of playing his instrument.

So I proceeded to help him the same way I helped myself (through the principles of the Alexander Technique). I helped him to become aware of all the unnecessary “doing” he was bringing into his playing (tension!), then I taught him how to change his thinking so he could stop doing so much (playing without so much tension and misdirected effort).

This is a process that takes persistence and time to make lasting changes. (But lasting changes are made!) He has to keep coming back to his tendency to go into his habit of tension, then make a conscious decision to not indulge in his habit as he proceeds to play his instrument. Simple in principle, but not always immediately easy to carry out. Again, persistence and time.

It’s been a few months since I started working with this student, and already things are much better for him. No more shoulder pain. No more neck pain. No more exhaustion. And what makes it all even better, is that his sound, intonation, technique and even his artistic expression have all noticeably improved.

So at our last lesson, in which my student was playing particularly well (easily, expressively, joyfully), I asked him if he could tell me what is different about how he was playing now in contrast to how he played before taking lessons with me. He, too, without hesitation answered with a list of things he wasn’t doing anymore: “I’m not scrunching my neck; I’m not pinching my left shoulder; I’m not twisting my body downward; I’m not locking my knees…” And so on.

He (like I was/am in my Alexander learning process), was very clear about why he improved, and that improvement had a great deal to do with non-doing. When he stops doing the wrong thing, beautiful, expressive, easy music is free to come forth.

And that’s the way it always is with musicians (and non-musicians) who study the Alexander Technique. They become very clear at why they are improving, at what they’re not doing anymore.

So if you notice yourself playing with great effort, notice yourself stiffening up as you play, feel blocked expressively, feel unstable as you make music, or lack confidence in your playing, consider the idea of non-doing. Notice what kinds of tension you begin to create in yourself as you go to play, and simply ask yourself if it helps you play better, or interferes with your playing.

Understand that all the the necessary skills to play your instrument well are already there, waiting latently. All you have to do is stop doing the things that interfere with this skill.

Of course, you can be greatly helped with this by a skilled Alexander Technique teacher. Consider taking a series of lessons from a qualified teacher. Allow yourself to discover the value of non-doing, and experience the possibility of positive change.

Artistic Growth: Looking Inward, Looking Outward

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For serious musicians, artistic growth comes in many forms, from many sources and from a variety of motivations. As I observe and ponder some of my favorite musicians, I notice that they tend to aim their growth primarily in one direction or the other. They either expand upon what they do by looking ever outward, or expand what they do by looking ever inward. I’ll explain what I mean.

My friend, multi-woodwinds virtuoso Vinny Golia, is a classic example of a musician who is constantly motivated to grow by looking outward. Vinny already plays a vast array of woodwind instruments: all the saxophones (and I mean all the saxophones), clarinets, flutes, some double reed instruments and a ton of so called “ethnic” wind instruments from around the world, like the Bulgarian kaval (end-blown flute) for example.

Vinny can make compelling music on any of these instruments in a large variety of improvisational music settings, from modern jazz to chamber. He is also one of the most musically literate people I’ve ever met. He’s listened to (and continues to listen to) every kind of music imaginable. If you mention a seemingly obscure artist or recording to him, he’ll go on for 10 minutes with insights and knowledge (and his love) about the music as if he were getting ready to write a book about it.

Besides having the privilege of performing and recording in some of his ensembles, I also had the pleasure of spending about 4 weeks with him out on the road many years back while touring with the Michael Vlatkovich Group. We roomed together quite a bit on that tour and talked every night about  music.

At the time, I was transitioning from being somewhat of a doubler (only playing 4 or 5 different saxes and flutes) to playing the tenor sax exclusively. To Vinny, this seemed curious to say the least, almost like I was moving backward instead of forward. Not only that, I was narrowing my scope of study and even my scope of musical interest. Again, why?

We talked long about this, and about our own personal paths and musical curiosities. For me, I had lost any expressive passion or interest in my woodwind doubles. I simply wasn’t feeling or hearing it any longer.

By contrast, my interest in going deep into the sound possibilities of the tenor saxophone was nothing short of an obsession. Also, I was singularly interested in developing a specific type of tonal language based upon wider intervals that supported the kinds of tone colors I was exploring.

Because of this, I was practicing in a more narrow way than ever before. I was no longer interested in developing my harmonic capabilities, no longer interested in adding repertoire, no longer interested in exploring new styles of playing.

In essence, I was looking inward. I was looking toward ever increasing depth, exploration and expressive possibilities with fewer and fewer elements and influences.

Vinny on the other hand, was adding more instruments, listening to and studying more musical genres, studying more compositional disciplines, pushing more boundaries. He was looking outward for his musical growth and expression.

We talked further about this and came up with the terms  “macro-growth”, and “micro-growth”. Macro meaning to look outward, globally as it were, at a bigger, ever expanding  picture with increasing elements. Micro meaning to look inward at ever increasing details, possibilities and meanings from the elements already at hand (micro-growth, too, is an ever expanding picture, just expanding inward).

Vinny is a macro-growth kind of artist. At the time, I was squarely from the micro-growth school. Prior to that, I had been a macro-growth artist, too. I was listening to and studying as wide an array of jazz and other improvised music genres as I could. For a while, I was even playing around with some ethnic instruments and was studying contemporary chamber music. Then, as I mention above, it all changed.

Since that time, I’ve flowed back and forth from the micro to the macro, spending a lot of time, for example, studying Balkan folk music, and 20th century American classical music (I especially love Charles Ives!)

Now I’m again looking deeply inward, at developing a very particular type of rhythmic control and imagination that requires  a very narrow, focused discipline. I find myself practicing a lot over a handful of jazz standards applying what I’ve been studying, with no real intention of ever performing these tunes. They’re just templates for inward exploration.

The point is, you can grow either way. I think of artists like Warne Marsh and Thelonious Monk, who, toward the end of their playing careers, seemed to play fewer and fewer pieces. They just looked further into the expressive possibilities of what they had know for most of their creative lives. Deep knowledge.

In one of my earlier blog posts, I mention a story about Monk playing one tune (Rhythm-n-ing) four times in a single performance. Each version of the piece more amazing than the previous. This can only happen through that kind of inward exploration, finding more and more possibilities. In one song exists an entire universe, if you’re open to seeing and hearing it.

I listened to a recent live concert recording of Lee Konitz playing Too Marvelous For Words, a song he’s been playing for probably 60 years or more. I was astounded at his brilliance and endlessly playful imagination. Each chorus was a matter of him looking more and more inward to discover yet un-played musical treasures.

So how do you grow as an artist? Are you adding more elements, or eliminating elements and looking at the possibility of doing more with less? Maybe you’re doing a little of both. Either direction is a valid path toward growth.