Returning to Jazz

In my Sociology of Cool class, we are reading David Amram’s book “Vibrations”. David Amram is a wonderfully accomplished jazz and classical musicians, and “Vibrations” is his memoir. David began playing trumpet and piano as a kid, and went to college for history (playing odd jobs and composing along the way). After college he played in an army band stationed in Germany, and went on to play with all the great jazz musicians of the time, become the first resident composer of the New York Philharmonic, make films with Jack Kerouac, and is today one of the most listened to living composers. He’ll be here in Potsdam next week, and I’m pretty excited to meet him. My sociology teacher says he’s really going to like me, and that I should play with him.

I really related to the first half of the book, where he was learning the french horn and started playing with amateur symphonies, and on odd end gigs in college. He says he wasn’t very good then, which I’m sure is partly because he’s a modest guy, but I saw his progression and was able to see that he is human. Not only did I see he was human, but I pictured my own experiences when I read it.

I’ve played with the Vassar Wind Ensemble, and community orchestras, and inside cramped stage pits. He also shows how successful you can be at music without going to a special school, and that success comes slowly. The movies always have one breakthrough moment for an artist, and it isn’t like that. It seems dumb to say that this book helped me realize that the amazing and intimidating musicians that I’ve met weren’t great once. You would think that’d be obvious, but it’s not something that’s always obvious when you’re sitting there.

I miss my standup now more than ever, and am really excited to play jazz again with this great musician. Dr. Sprenger has promised me time to talk with him, and that he’ll inspire me- I think he’s already done that.

My Invention

I was eating cookie dough ice cream, and thought of a great invention. Individual sized, hand held packages of cookie dough meant to be eaten raw. Eating cookie dough is something I think a lot of people do, but feel guilty about (like listening to pop music). Even though it’s alright to eat little balls of raw cookie dough in my ice cream, for some reason I’ve got the impression it would be frowned on for me to sit on my couch, watch tv, and eat cookie dough straight from the tube. I don’t know why, that’s society for you.

It’s not proper to drink milk or orange juice from a carton either, even if you live alone. Make the bottle more round and easier to hold though, and it becomes acceptable. Go figure.

The makers of “Gogurt” had a similar line of thinking a few years ago. They put flavored yogurt into tiny tubes. They came in a variety of styles- blue and red I think. You would open the tubes, and be able to eat it with one hand by squeezing the yogurt out of the tube with your lips. I don’t know what this solved though. How many people really thought “This yogurt stuff is great, but it would be even better if I could eat it with one hand”? I wonder which people were more grossed out at- the empty tube left over that had been entirely in your mouth, or the name “Gogurt”?

“More Sports, Less Politics”

I love the big screen tv in the student union. Late at night the sound is never up, and with nothing to listen to but my thoughts, something interesting always seems to strike me. Tonight the television was tuned to ESPN, and SportsCenter was on. I usually don’t pay attention to any sports, but I’ll watch the World Series every year. I know the rules of baseball, but nothing about the teams, or players. Even with my limited knowledge of the league though, I knew Saturday that it was a big deal the that Detroit Tigers beat the New York Yankees in the playoff match.

This was what was being discussed on the nightly sportscast. The main story was the Yankees manager Joe Torre. Apparently there had been speculation since Saturday that the owner would fire him (or at least, not ask him to return next year, if you’d like to put it that way). Today he decided to keep him on, then Torre answered questions posed to him by the reporters camped outside his house. He sayed how he’s disappointed about what happened, but he’s glad to be back for another year, and the owner put out a press release about his great hopes for next season. The Yankee’s star player Alex Rodriguez was the next story. He’s been playing well during the regular season, but hasn’t been able to win the team a championship. He said he couldn’t see himself playing for any other team, and really hopes to do better next year.

I never really understood sports before tonight. Certainly playing sports can be fun when you’re playing them, but I didn’t get the point of watching other people play a game. Seeing this evening’s SportsCenter though helped me realize what it’s actually about. As a political science major, I saw the reactions to this event- this crisis for the team- and thought that the various player and staff reactions were much like what happens in Washington when something embarrassing happens to a party. The members put on a show of solidarity, try to spend as little time in the news as they have to, and then later when the attention is off them they’ll make their changes.

This must be what attracts people to sports. I’ve sat in enough barbers chairs to know that sports fans love to talk about the politics of the game. People certainly don’t watch baseball because of it’s fast paced excitement- it’s the drama that must be in a game when the long time manager has only one more chance for a championship, or the excitement felt when strategic trades are made and old rivalries flare up. It’s the same love that political junkies have for tight primaries, negative campaigns, and long nights spent watching results come in precinct by precinct. They’ve got their team they want to win, and they like to read about what the managers are doing and discuss with one another what they think should be done. Backing the right horse is exciting, and it’s fun to think how things will be different next time when you lose.

The next thought I had was “That’s a waste of time, isn’t it? At least politics actually matters- why are so many people wasting time worrying about a game?” I realized though that while the results of political races have real and important implications for people, that’s not why people become addicted to CNN and political blogs. It’s because they want to root for a team. They want to feel passionate about something, and share that with other people. It’s an opportunity to feel full fledged, real life emotions without leaving your house.

There is no harm that comes with passionately cheering for a sports team. The guys that paint their faces and chests may look a bit ridiculous, but so long as riots don’t break out it doesn’t matter- it’s just a game. Political junkies though, they become completely entrenched in their team lines. People don’t listen to each other, they think about what they’re going to say next- how what their opponent is saying is wrong. Candidates and platforms are supported because they’re on the team, and not because people have thought about all positions and made ration decisions. The political fan is absolutely terrible for governing, which is what politics is supposed to be about.

If people have a need to feel that they belong to a team, then I think it’s better for them to watch ESPN and talk passionately about whether Joe Torre should be back as Yankees manager next year, than how Republicans are christian nuts, or Democrats are baby killers. People should not involve themselves in politics just for sport.

“My Julliard Jazz Experience”- Revised

This too has been edited for use as an English assignment:

When I was in high school I discovered and fell in love with two things that together became the tools I used to express myself- the bass, and jazz. They gave me a musical freedom I never had before. In orchestra I was taught to sit and play notes on a page. A classical musician takes lessons and spends years learning how to play exactly what someone wrote on a page and that was boring to me. When you play jazz the only thing that has been predetermined is the song’s melody and harmony (and sometimes not even that). The rest is up to the spontaneous imagination of the musicians, and learning how to play great jazz is really learning how to control and express your creativity.

This was what I wanted to do. Even if it didn’t bring much money, and even if it meant living in a tiny studio apartment my entire life I would be happiest going out and playing music every night. It gave me a sense of purpose, and all my actions were aimed at becoming a great jazz musician. As I improved I got more and more ambitious, and when it came time to apply to schools I threw myself towards the most challenging goal I could think of- to get into the prestigious Julliard school.

Not many people get to do what I had in mind, and a lot of really talented people try. I thought that I would use admission as a litmus test to see if I was cut out for the jazz life. The school is very selective- people from all over the world apply and they only had one bass seat open. If I got in I would get to learn from some of the best jazz musicians alive today, tour with the band around the world, and play in all the famous jazz clubs in New York City. Going there and living in Lincoln Center became my dream. If I could get into the school after only playing for three years, I knew I had a strong enough foundation to make it as a jazz musician.

The first step of the audition process was to choose six songs from a list of twelve, and record myself playing the melodies, soloing, and walking basslines for each tune with a band. My teacher Mr. Osborn got me in touch with the pianist in his wedding band, and the pianist suggested a drummer. We set up in a little recording studio the piano player had built in a spare bedroom, and things got off to a shaky start. We only had the one session to record everything, so there was a lot of pressure to get everything right the first time and it was affecting my playing. Everything sounded awful on the playbacks, and there was a moment that I just thought “this isn’t going to happen”. It wasn’t until I took a break, had a drink of water, stopped looking at the music, and just got totally involved in the music that we got any usable takes. I was able to find the groove that I think all jazz musicians aim for- when you trust your knowledge of the instrument, close your eyes and become just a passive observer. I felt the music inside of me, and could hear what should come next. My fingers took the concepts and translated them into notes on the fingerboard effortlessly, and I was dancing in my seat and just enjoying everyone’s playing by the end of the session.

I sent the tape off and didn’t hear back until January. Three long months I waited until I finally got the invitation to audition live in front of the whole jazz faculty in Manhattan. I was so thrilled- I could see the dream becoming real and it was so close. All I had to do was reach out and grab it. The audition was at the end of that month, and I had to learn four new songs they sent, brush up on the six I had played on the tape, and commit all ten to memory. I had to know all the parts of the songs inside and out and I wasn’t allowed to bring any sheet music with me. Three hours each day after school, and six on the weekends I was in my room practicing. I would take four measures in a song and just practice them over and over until I could play them without looking. Then I’d take on the next four measures and add that on to what I already knew. It was a long process, but it felt so good every time I had another mastered because that meant I was one step closer to getting there. I put the ten songs in a playlist and that was the music I listened to all month long. I sang the songs and went over the notes in my head when I was in the shower, driving in my car- over and over wherever I was, if there was a bass there or not. I had never worked for one thing so hard my entire life. The audition absolutely consumed me all month, so when it came I was confident that I was as prepared as I could possibly be.

There were four other players auditioning. Just four. I was told that out of the hundreds of applicants I was one of five bassists invited to audition for the professors. We all warmed up in the same room. It was obvious they had been playing since they were kids, and I was behind them by six or seven years. Two of the players were going for the graduate program. We played together in that warm up room though, and I began to grow confident that my philosophy to playing jazz would overcome their technical proficiencies. These guys all had amazing grasps on the mechanics of playing, but they weren’t dancing in their seats. They tried playing as fast as they could at the cost of being musical. Good jazz is laid back, melodic, and they didn’t get it. Nobody had told them that jazz is about expressing yourself, not impressing people.

I grinned the entire way home, because I knew that I had gone in the room and had played very maturely, with an emphasis on musicality, rather than showing how many notes I could play. I had been able to find that magical groove in front of all the great musicians, and I had danced in my seat. I thought I expressed myself better, and more clearly than any of the applicants, and that the great musicians I played for must have appreciated that.

I don’t know if they did or not, but in another month I got my rejection letter from Julliard. I was certainly disappointed my dream was not coming true, but not as sad as I thought I’d be. There was a great satisfaction that came knowing I had pushed myself as far as I could have. I began to realize that I don’t need to prove myself. Art is not a competition, but an expression of your ideas. I had expressed my ideas through music, and nobody could say they weren’t as good as anyone else’s. If they didn’t get that, then I didn’t really want to go there anyway.

“The Young Bobby Fischer” Revision

I ended up revising the original essay and used it for an english assignment. I called my grandfather and verified some facts, and made a few other improvements. I wasn’t going to post the new version because I didn’t figure people would care, but since my family’s started to visit this site and they’re featured in the story I think I’m obligated. A chess club in Massachusetts linked to the original version and I thought that was pretty cool too.

Here it is:

When I was maybe nine or ten I was visiting my grandparents at their beautiful handmade post and beam house in the woods of Pennsylvania. I was bored with myself, and my grandfather looked at me through his reading glasses and asked me if I had ever heard of chess. I had, somewhere, but I didn’t know what it was, or the slightest idea how to play it. We went upstairs and found his board in a desk. It was made of gray and black metal tiles, in a big metal frame. He told me that he had made it when he was my age (it now sits as a proud piece of history in my bedroom). The pieces were kept together in a long octagonal tin, with romantic paintings of minstrels playing to women in long dresses on the side. I knew it had to be old, and imagined that it was something my great grandmother must have had lying around when my grandfather needed a box. The set itself was wooden, carved by some ancient machine and glued to base pieces a long time ago- they would come apart if you dropped one. We went downstairs in the living room in front of a big stone fireplace they have and set them up. Then he slowly began going over the rules, explaining what all the pieces did, and the object of the game.

He didn’t dumb anything down for me- he didn’t call the knights horses or go easy on me, and I appreciated that. I lost my first game, and my second, and he told me that he learned to play when he was a kid growing up with my great-grandmother in Queens. He started working in a radio and television repair shop owned by a man named Gene Russell when he was twelve, and when it was quiet Gene would teach him chess in the back. They played for years, and my grandfather got better, but never beat his boss. When my grandfather finally won his first game, Gene declared that he had taught him all he could, and they never played again. This made me realize that I must follow in my grandfather’s footsteps and surpass my teacher, just as he had.

I fell in love with the game. The idea that two people start off on an equal field, that there is no chance involved, and it’s just your mind verses your opponent’s thrilled me. It’s how life should be. The only person I played with was my grandfather- we’d sit in his warm living room with our chins in our hands, the only sound coming from the burning wood. We looked at the whole board and saw what pieces threatened what while my grandmother cooked pasta. Inevitably I would lose, and afterward my grandfather would try to explain to me where I had gone wrong. In between visits to my grandparent’s I would go to the Adriance library in Poughkeepsie and check out books written by Larry Evans and Bobby Fischer, the great masters of the game. I read and read and began seeing past what was on the table, learning strategy and philosophy. Finally I got good enough to beat my grandfather and I was so pleased with myself- I had beaten the best player I knew- accomplishing my goal in a few months where he had taken years.

My family’s always embraced whatever I’ve been interested in, and my grandparents offered to take me to a local chess tournament near their secluded house. We arrived at the tournament, which was held in a church activity hall or something, paid the twelve dollars and I was assigned a match. The room was bare and cold, the carpet dirty. It was filled with strangers, sitting and playing, with only an occasional cough breaking the silence. You didn’t even hear anyone telling the other that they had put them in check- it was just assumed that they saw. I sat down across from my opponent- a man probably three times my age, with the flat dinner mat like chess board in between us. We began, and three moves in I realized this was a different kind of game. His clock had a few seconds detracted from it, mine was ticking away and I was stumped. We weren’t both sitting and pondering the board with our chins in our hands. I felt a huge lump build in my throat as I realized how awful I truly was.

The clock ticked away. It forced me to take moves I didn’t want. I had plenty of time left to think, but I didn’t want to look like I didn’t know what I was doing. I entered into traps I saw but didn’t know how to avoid. I would punch my clock and he would return with his move in a second or two. His speed just mocked my ignorance. I was no Bobby Fischer, I had left the safety of my grandfather’s living room and this wasn’t fun. Within eighteen moves he had beaten me.

I may have begun crying while sitting at the table. Certainly the tears were gathering in my eyes. My grandparents guessed what had happened when I walked past them, when their cheery questions about how the game went were answered with me walking past them quickly, without a word. Seeing them and hearing their excitement just made my throat tighten harder. I walked into the bathroom there, and began sobbing. I knew I couldn’t win a single match here, and I had tried so hard to be good. They came around the door and asked if I was all right, and I thought of all the players in the club standing around the door laughing at me. Laughing at me, or feeling sorry for me- either thought was unbearable, and a circuit was created where I’d think about how embarrassing crying in the bathroom was, which would make me cry more. After a nearly silent car ride home, I stopped playing chess outside of my grandparents house, and over the years the feat of beating my grandfather became less and less glorious.

The worst feeling in the world is finding out you’re not as special as you think you are. The thought that even after trying my best I couldn’t make it past the first round killed me. This was my first experience of that, and not my last. It’s the only thing that can get me close to crying anymore.