Playing it by Ear
[When we grow up and get wideband access I'll post and this to music files. Until then you'll have to use your imagination.]
The promise of music has been part of our marriage from the beginning. Peggy was playing folk tunes on a guitar the night we met, and on our honeymoon we bought an old 12-string Goya in Montreal. I spent the rest of that journey trying to tune it, and work up “Tell Old Bill”, and “The Midnight Special”. Endlessly.
There have always been musical instruments in our house. They were generally
out of tune or half-broken, but still fit to make noise on. If we crossed
paths with a dilapidated instrument, we’d take it in and fondle it.
A busted wooden flute in London. Harmonicas. A Civil War Era fife. Tambourines.
A Sears Catalog mandolin circa 1910. Tourist maracas. Pennywhistles and recorders.
A kalimba. Handmade drums. A noseflute.
Whenever our musical friend Willy passed through with his acoustic bag of
tricks we’d haul out the noise-makers and frolic along with him. But
never in tune, and barely in time. I gave up trying to tune that 12-string,
and Willy bought us a yardsale 6-string which he converted into a partially
fret-less instrument – so tuning wasn’t an issue. I actually wrote
a cycle of Maritime songs on that thing, the recording of which is painful
to hear.
Sometimes I believed I could learn how to play – something, anything.
I’d strum or blow or thump it. But then I’d turn away from the
instrument at hand, in disgust. I made comic instruments in the shop. Carved
“bloats” (a diggery-do with finger holes you play like a bugle),
a duck-call trumpet, a dowel-guitar, percussive amusements – but nothing
in true temper. The best I seemed to do was quack along in time. I assumed
that was as close as I’d come to being a player.
Still, our life was full of music. In the 70s Rock and Roll was our daily
news. We’d pick up each week’s Rolling Stone and head down to
the record store to get the lowdown. FM radio played in our space whenever
the vinal wasn’t spinning, or the reel-to-reel cranking. I worked in
the shop under ear-phones, dancing and singing along.
Peggy abandoned the guitar, as she put aside most of her artistic passions,
in her 20s. The virtuosi effect at Dalton and Harvard had killed much of her
creative joy. In those hot-houses you were taught to believe creativity was
the business of professional geniuses. The rest of us should sit down and
shut up. Later, as her work began to swallow Peggy’s energy, she begrudged
herself the time to draw, or sing, or play. She didn’t “deserve”
those escapes, and anyway she wasn’t “good enough.”
My stumbling blocks were different. I’d always done the things I was
naturally good at, or fascinated by, and avoided the tough stuff. Particularly
the learning-by-rote. Anything requiring repetitive drill didn’t happen.
I struggled through Latin, and never really learned to speak another language.
I still don’t know my multiplication tables. And playing scales? Hah!
But mostly I hated sounding bad. Playing with others made me blush to my boots.
Fumbling along to a recording made my teeth hurt.
Somehow I kept on trying, though. One day at a flutist’s house I picked
up her instrument, noodled a bit, and she insisted on giving me her old Bundy
student flute. The first real flute I’d owned that actually played all
the notes. So I began again to pick out familiar melodies, and play along
with recordings. Pretty sad stuff. I could stagger through some basic folk
melodies in D by myself, play along in C, F and G, sometimes. But throw me
a few more flats, or a key change, and I was lost.
There was one character in the house who was finding his way, though. Growing
up in a home full of music and instruments opened the door for Seth, and the
guitar Peggy bought for me one Christmas very soon became his guitar. Seth
and his buddies were jamming in the house, and sometimes I’d noodle
along on that Bundy, finding my way into the 1-4-5.
Meanwhile we were hanging out with the local bands. Peggy and I were groupies
for the “Lawn Ornaments Band”, go-going to their rock with such
dances as “The Whirly-gig”, “The Flamingo,” and the
“Bent-over Lady.” If we couldn’t make the music, at least
we could get ecstatic on the dance floor. I was particularly drawn to the
“Blues Buzzards,” four old birds who could get in the groove and
rock all night.
I don’t remember when it happened, or how I found the gumption to approach
them, but one night I showed up at a Buzzard rehearsal and whistled a riff
or two. God it was painful. Those guys sounded so good, and I was just flubbing.
But (bless them), they said “cool” and asked me back. Worse yet,
they asked me to go on stage with them at a real performance. Aiieee. I still
wonder I dared. But it was a local gig, with a local crowd, and – what
the hell – I was 50. If you can’t make a fool of yourself at 50,
when can you? Maybe it was because I finally accepted my limitations that
I could risk looking like an idiot – and sounding worse.
I became a fledgling Buzzard. That put the pressure on me to really learn
their tunes. The band had a sampler tape and I’d practice to it in the
woodshop, working out a riff here, a melody line there, a fill. It helped
a lot the Buzzards are loud and electric. They could cover my squeaks and
squawks, and – I suspect – Earl would turn down my mike those
nights I was really off.
Self-conscious? Painfully. Some tunes I’d go right into fugue –
my anxiety resonating with my mistakes. But the magic of those old buzzards
is they are totally un-judgmental. They’re playing for the fun of it,
so why sweat the small stuff? I learned to turn fluffs into chromatic improvs,
bluesy accidentals, or rhythmic discordance. As if I meant it. And I began
to learn the tunes.
I was learning a lot more about playing music, too. That it’s about
listening. I could play a tune a dozen times, following the melody I heard
in my head, only to discover this note was actually flatted or that one bent
– when I listened closely. If you are playing by ear, you better listen
up.
The more you play, the better you hear. It’s probably a good thing I
didn’t hear with acuity at the start -- if I’d really listened
to my discordance I’d have thrown in the towel. At each step I’ve
sharpened my hearing, and had to hone my facility.
Playing is totally right brain for me, which may be why I love it –
being in the music shuts down the rational observer. But it’s a delicate
juggle. You need to think your way into new routines in the woodshed, practice
them until they are reflex, then forget to think about the technical details
while you’re playing out. Work on the flatted keys and chromatic runs
with the observer turned on – then just play. Those old buzzards let
me flounder around finding the melody, the riff, the flute hole, until I get
in the groove, without critical analysis. With them I can feel my way into
the music without thinking about it. Slowly I became a player.
I discovered ensemble playing is a distinct skill, and an endless political
balancing act. As my hearing clarified, the instruments separated from the
sound of the band, and I could hear the individual voices. Listening to music
had been a gestalt experience – a roomful of blues. Then I began to
follow the conversation. And realized I’m temperamentally suited to
some kinds of converse, and not others – which parallels my musical
taste.
Rigorous order doesn’t do it for me. Which is why, though I can appreciate
classical music intellectually, it leaves me cold. Playing to a fixed score
has none of the spark of improv, for me. Perhaps my hearing will perfect to
the point where I’ll be thrilled by the personal interpretations of
great artists, or moved by the harmonic subtleties of composers.
But my nature thrives on variety. I never play a lick the same way twice, and the perfection of a score is like a fly in amber for me. Let it out. The trend to classicalization in jazz – the Wynton Marsalis effect – where young virtuosi play the masters’ riffs note for note, feels like a violation of ethos to me. A triumph of left brain over right.
So I’m drawn to folk idioms. Blues, early jazz, singer-songwriter stuff,
60s R&R. Tunes in constant evolution, passed from band to band, player
to player. Folk music doesn’t suffer from too much self-importance,
which suits me. I don’t believe in a hierarchy of music with Mozart
or Coltrane at the top. Maybe my lack of technical skill or theoretical expertise
means I’m more comfortable with the simpler forms of music. No blame.
At my level of playing I can feel my way into folk tunes without intellectual
angst.
My aversion to hierarchical values carries over into ensemble politics. Some
bands have a designated ego. A leader who has a vision, or a gift, or a greater
need to be out front. If Rock and Roll has a teenage ethos, you’d expect
it to foster egotism, and an electric guitar band breeds inflation –
especially of lead guitar players. Earl is no exception. He plays a hot lead
and sparks the ecstatic energy. But the magic of the Buzzards, for me, is
their absolute egalitarianism. They let me in, after all – because I
had a new sound to add to the mix, even if I couldn’t play for beans.
So there is a constant push-pull between the egotism of lead guitar and the
ensemble egalitarianism.
A band is society in microcosm. The Buzzards are the kind of village I want
to live in. I find us juggling the voices in a tune like a Dixieland Jazz
band. All jiving together on separate paths, trading leads, doubling and dividing,
only the groove holding us together. To be sure we do lots of tunes which
have the traditional form of lead vocal and guitar in front with everyone
else behind, but on the good nights Hal starts talking on the cymbals, BJ
goes a little wild on the bass, David walks up the fingerboard, I start cross-talking
Earl’s lead, and the hierarchy breaks down. Nobody is in charge, and
the music plays. My kind of town.
Earl keeps trying to make a studio band out of us. Get just the right sound.
Dub in better tracks. Control the production. But he’s shoveling against
the tide. Whenever we get into the studio we go nuts with the lush sound and
jam away the session instead of working the tunes Earl has in mind. The rawness
of free play enlivens all of us. When we try to settle down and make a perfect
take, the music disintegrates. The studio work makes us hear all the details,
and improves our performance, but the orderliness of the setting can freeze
the dance. Put your right brain in, put your right brain out. Directing old
buzzards is like herding cats.
Meanwhile Peggy was finding her way back to the music. About the time I went
Buzzarding she joined a woman’s choral group. But Peggy has an edgy
voice that jumps out at you. When she’s in full throat it can knock
you down. Not the kind of voice for multi-part harmony, unless you want to
sound like The Band. After a couple of years rehearsing, the chorus asked
Peggy to leave. Her voice didn’t “blend,” they said. I wrote
a little rocker called “My Baby’s Not A Blender.” She ain’t
a toaster, either, but she’s hot stuff. And I love her voice.
We kept the faith. Just before Christmas in ’99 we were driving home
from a do when Peggy asked me if there was anything I wished I’d done.
Any millennial pledges. I said I wished I’d learned to play piano. Bingo.
Exactly the right answer. When we got home Peggy took me into the front room
where our friend Jim the auctioneer had installed an old upright that evening.
So I made a promise to put more music in our life, and face up to the 88s.
The first thing that happened was Dr. Bob wandered into the front room and
began wailing on the keyboard. He’d played in an R&R band through
college, and though his chops were rusty, he sure could pound out the 1-4-5.
Next thing you know we were practicing a couple nights a week, piano and flute,
working up rock and pop standards. We might cross paths at lunch time in the
restaurant and find ourselves making afternoon tunes instead of paying attention
to business.
Bob had just enough theory to prompt me, and by pushing each other along we
began to find a sound and tighten our technique. The Dr. is much more rigorous
in his approach to making music than those old buzzards. He likes to have
all the details worked out before playing with others. He hears the original
recording as the “right” way to do a tune. My impulse to improvise
is a nice counter-balance to Bob’s rigor, and he salted my tail with
a bit of discipline. I began putting together play-books of lyrics and chord
changes, burning practice CDs of material we wanted to work up.
When Peggy unplugged that blender she started singing with the two of us,
turning my solo leads into duets – voice and flute. We invited other
players to come jam, and began to have regular Monday night sessions. Peggy
would lay on a big spread, then we’d get up from the table and make
loud music.
So what are we playing for? For the fun of it certainly. And to learn more.
But when a bunch of players begin to work up arrangements, get a sound going,
find the groove – what then? Are we going to play out, throw parties,
find paying gigs? We batted the perennial question back and forth. Dr. Bob
was uncertain about adding audience to the mix. He wanted to sound “perfect”
before he went public. Other players felt that putting together a performance
set is necessary to the next step. Getting it tight.
After a year of jam sessions we had a band together. Bob on piano and bass,
Peggy on vocals, David on rhythm guitar and vocals, Hal on drums (can’t
get enough of those buzzards), Craig on lead guitar and vocals -- and me whistling
Dixie. Each player brought a different sensibility to the mix. David is the
rock-steady groove and the bluesman. Bob tends to structure the arrangement,
and likes the top of the pops, circa 1970. Hal is a genius rhythm improviser
who jazzes the hell out of any number. Craig had been performing bluegrass
on mandolin and acoustic guitar, so he added folk-rock lyricism and a stunning
voice – not to mention some hot licks on electric ax. Peggy has that
torch voice, and her harmonies with Craig and David could make your hair stand
up. I played around on top, finding flute holes and melodic riffs.
Then we played out, and it all fell apart. We couldn’t finesse the lousy
acoustics in the Town Hall, and sounded awful to ourselves. Other gigs were
a bust because events went on too long, we got shunted off into a corner,
there were conflicting musical additions and subtractions, yadda-yadda. Typical
playing out stuff, but it was more than our fragile alliance could sustain.
The sound was embarrassing. Egos collided, old wounds started to bleed –
and we were out in musical limbo again.
Without the good doctor to lay down a frame for me to whistle around, and
Peggy to sing to, we were cast onto our own resources. Peggy started strumming
a guitar again, and I began fingering the ivories. A spacey bass and piano
player blew through town promising musical delights in perpetuity, and stayed
long enough to give me three “lessons.” I must have been ready.
Elizabeth showed me just enough of the elements that I immediately saw how
it works. The rest is just playing. When I’d encounter a puzzle, Dr.
Bob would stop by and ‘splain me. I stopped pounding the computer keyboard,
and fooled with the black and whites. When my father died, and I was swallowed
by depression, I found solace in the music, and might spent upwards of 3 hours
a day clunking through the blues. Didn’t matter how bad the playing
– it eased me.
Trying to work up duets with Peggy was tough. There were too many undercurrents
– often the vibes got in the way of the vibe. With both of us trying
to learn our instruments, and sing together, it was like a four-headed monster
butting brains. But we know the music is in there somewhere, and when it does
come out there’s nothing sweeter. So we kept keeping on.
And the beat goes on. The Buzzards keep on buzzing. Earl’s gig as the
music teacher at the Hyde School provides him with a recording studio and
excuses to bring his buddies into the school performances. He’s turned
me into his utility flute player, to dub in a line on a recording, or stand
up with a young performer on the school stage. Earl keeps upping my ante,
setting me challenges just beyond my musical competence. And I’m a quick
study when I know I’ve got to stand up in front of a crowd, and do it.
The summer of 2003 saw another bend in the river. Giovanni de Basso came out
on the Toad lugging his stand-up bass. In no time yarting cruises turned into
musicruises, with the artists putting down their tools to tune up, and stray
musicians showing up at the dock. John is a musical magnet, and a man with
a gift.
John learned how to tune piano by ear as a kid, from his grandfather, and his aural acuity is so fine as to be contagious. He immediately tuned our old upright, giving me a lesson in acoustic theory, and sharpening my hearing noticeably, in the process. He started giving everyone hanging with him lessons on their instruments, and pushed us way beyond our limitations. Peggy’s guitar playing took a leap. Dr. Bob began dissecting the details of the Billy Joel songs he’d aspired to play. Craig was playing jazz and picking up the fiddle. I started to hear the leading tones in a tune and grok on the theoretical structure. John would drop a truckload of theory on you in one session, and when you’d dug out you were higher up the hill.
John would play with us on the Toad, or in the front parlor, or wherever there
were instruments lying around – very quietly. Savoring each detail.
And we began to hear structures behind the music. When he’d come out
and play lead, which was rarely, we’d marvel in the richness and inspired
variety. It didn’t seem to matter that we were such tyros in his presence,
he was up for giving master classes whenever musicians were at hand. And he
could weave the mix together. One September day on the Toad he had Craig and
Hope on fiddles and me on flute following his bass in a classical quartet!
John lifted us to new levels of playing, and the beat goes on. Earl proposed
we work up a new trio, with me on flute and Kent on stand-up bass, featuring
him singing and playing acoustic guitar. In typical fashion he asked us if
we were up for it a week before the first gig he’d booked. We had one
rehearsal (which we recorded so I could learn the material – thank heaven),
and wung it. Naturally Earl had picked a handful of new tunes which pushed
my envelope. Who knew The Girl From Ipanema had such a strange chord structure,
and a melody touching every chromatic note except B natural? “Soft and
tan and young and lovely..” So now I’m playing in an acoustic
trio doing standards, and there’s no place to hide. That’s Earl’s
method. Put you right out front and make you perform. It sure focuses the
energy.
We’ve resuscitated the Monday night jams at chez Muir, on Tuesdays.
We’re getting in the groove again, overhauling stacks of new material.
It’s all cross-fertilizing. Bob brings a new tune to me when we’re
playing duo, Peggy learns the words and chords, we work it up as a trio and
in the Monday mix. David, Hal, BJ and I take it to the Buzzards, and round
it goes. David plays a new song at his Thursday jam at McBeans and I pass
it on to Bob. I’ll figure out a standard on piano, dump it into the
hopper, and then learn the flute line in ensemble. David and Kathleen and
Peggy and I will rummage the songbooks after dinner, Kathleen will start off
a tune on mandolin, and away we go. Who said homemade music is dead?
No matter where the musical energy erupts it feeds the fire. I can hear a
lick on a recording, and it will come out on the stand in a different tune.
I can fumble my way down a bass run on the piano and play a cross riff on
flute when that song comes around in ensemble. I think I’m learning
the chords, and suddenly I’m singing the lyrics. I’ll not fool
on the flute for a couple of days, pounding the 88s, and my playing will have
taken a turning. Now all music is grist for my mill.
Not that I’m grinding especially fine. I’m still a raw recruit
in this army, but I’m learning the basics. As the new year approaches
we seem to be crossing musical thresholds. I find I can almost jam along to
any tune, in any key. That’s been my ambition for a long time now. Almost.
I’m now willing to play piano and sing in the ensemble. A little. And
Peggy and I seem to have jumped the hurdle, and can now play together without
incendiary friction. Most days.
A while back I read a fascinating book called “Beethoven’s Anvil.”
The author is a neurologist and jazz horn man. He contends the conventional
model of musical perception – musicians out there, listeners in here,
or vice versa – doesn’t cover all the bases. He says our brainwaves
entrain with music and we are actually functioning as part of a larger neurological
net when we are “musicking.” Whether we are playing and/or listening.
This certainly fits with the experience of ensemble playing. As a solo visual
artist, I find it very different to be creating music with a group of people.
Nice, nice, very nice. If you think you are all alone, get out into a musical
scene – as a player or as a groupie. You might just lose your head and
start musicking.
Next Dispatch | Previous Dispatch | Dispatch Index | Home Index |