halloween and the past

    October is here at last. The cold weather came sweeping through the streets just before my band took the stage at the Pine Box last Saturday and it feels great to finally receive a break from the heat. With the cold weather comes what is becoming a yearly tradition: watching every horror movie that I can from the end of September until the start of the Christmas season. 

         Halloween and horror movies have always been a great passion of mine. It all started in elementary school with my older brother renting the scariest of the scary movie section in Hollywood Video, which wasn’t that far from our home if you could get a ride from mom or dad. We started with the classics—warhorses if you will—such as Friday the 13th, The Omen, Nightmare on Elm Street, and so many other films. Watching all of these classic horror films, of course, always sparked my brother’s interest in making his own slasher and monster movies, which resulted in me living out my nightmares as an under-ten-year-old. 

         Vividly, I remember goose bumps racing up and down my legs and arms as we listened to Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark on tape cassette in a dark room with a single flashlight as the only light source. Something about the ominous sound track and the inevitable scream at the end of every story always kept me up at night, afraid to dream bad dreams.

         Every Halloween brought another haunted house, another game of hide and seek in the dark; it’s because of that childish spirit that I want to keep alive, that my Octobers are spent searching every nook and cranny of the Internet for the best scary movies. It seems almost cruel—as if somebody is doing it intentionally to me—that a genre of movies that brings me such excitement and explores unwanted feelings in humans, has so many bad works. A great scary movie is a rare treat.

         The funny thing about my obsession is how picky I actually am about which movies I will even watch. I can’t stand vampires, zombies, or werewolves, but putting a finger on what exactly turns me off of these monsters proves to be difficult. It most likely has to do with the recent fad and rush of TV shows, movies, and books. For me, a good horror tale has to have ghosts or satanic figures. Haunted houses and demonic possessions were the movies and stories I grew up with. Slashers are fine every now and then, but I wouldn’t put them super high on my list.

         I think, as far as ghost stories are concerned, I like the history that develops with the plot. The idea that a single person experienced so much pain and injustice in real life that the spirit feels compelled to stay behind and seek closure is, in a way, an incredibly human quality. With Satanic movies—The Omen, Drag Me to hell—it’s always the mythological aspect that holds my interest. The whole idea about Gods and Demons has a very epic quality that I seek in science fiction as well as fantasy, and seeing that played out in horror is just, simply put, fun. 

         As I anxiously wait for Rockefeller Center to light up that big old Christmas tree, I’ll continue to Google “top 20 ghost and demon movies,” sit back, turn out the lights, and pop in a scary movie.

old school

In his recent post, Still On The Moon (http://dothemath.typepad.com/dtm/2012/09/still-on-the-moon.html), Ethan Iverson criticized The Thelonious Monk Contest and the idea of music as a competition in general.  Creating this game out of music has always been an idea that I have been aggressively hostile towards. It should go without saying that there are no true winners in an art form that is entirely abstract. Regardless of how I have always felt, throughout high school I was obligated to go out and compete to bring home as many accolades as possible to prove to our school district that music was something worth investing in. 

         Las Vegas—I am going to go ahead and apologize for the constant return to my homeland (but don’t think for a second that I won’t bring it up again)—has always been, in my experience at least, culturally dry and desolate. One of the few ways I was able to expand my musical desires was to audition for the local performing arts high school. Out of respect for the institution—since I am going to be criticizing it—I will not name names: however, I will say that there is only one performing arts high school in Las Vegas and it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. That aside for now, I entered the school beaming at the idea of actually taking classes in music. As a much needed step up from middle school, where beginners would play overtly simplified charts without ever actually learning about the theory behind the notes, it was to my own dismay that high school turned out to be more-or-less the same.

         The level of talent was immense and never-ending. My first year was spent in awe of the upperclassmen and sophomores who seemed to play their instruments—and I am including the voice in those instruments (the separation of instruments and the voice still seems silly to me)—at a level that I didn’t think I would ever be able to achieve. Almost immediately after stepping foot on campus, I started practicing to catch up to everybody’s ability; the level of drive I had then is something that I envy now and is something that was fundamental to my development. And herein lies the only enduring part of my experience: the passing on of knowledge from the older to the younger. This is absolutely one of the best and personally beneficial aspects of attending any form of music school. Nonetheless, the school could have been more involved in taking a hand in the development of each of their students.

         I was quick to notice that the top band really relied on a few key players to carry the rest of the band. Essentially, as long as there were a few good musicians in certain spots—first and second trumpet, first and bass trombone, first alto, tenor, and bari sax, and a great drummer and bassist—then the rest of the band just had to have music driven into them day in and day out. 

         The major high school jazz festivals, Reno Jazz Festival and the Monterey Next Generation Festival to name two, required a three piece set: no more, no less. Our teacher knew that fact from day one and began, almost from the beginning, to get an idea of which charts would be best suited for that year. A majority of my senior year was spent on three pieces. I will repeat myself for emphasis: a majority of my senior year was spent on three pieces. The logic, or lack thereof, that was applied to this atrocious use of time was the poorly conceived idea that to play a piece that was more difficult—more difficult technically that is—than the piece of another high school band at the same level would give us a better rating, thereby allowing us to win the competition. This should leave any musician utterly offended at the thought that technicality and virtuosity is the end all be all measure of defining good music.

         The difficulty of jazz—and I’m saying jazz because these are in fact jazz competitions—is not only due to the increasing emphasis that the modern scene—shamefully I might add—has been putting on rhythm, odd meters, and virtuosity. Its mastery is in the level of competence and experience that a musician must be at in order to convey a good feeling that even the most simplified version of this complex art form requires. If these “festivals” truly want to provide an event that will encourage students to develop this craft, then they should put a restriction on how difficult the music can get. Honestly, if these festivals limited the number of works a high school can select from when programming—focusing on, for big band, Duke Ellington and Count Basie, and, for combos, Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie—then students would realize that making 4/4 feel good is ultimately a better goal than being able to play a patter over 11 or 13 or whatever the next fad is in time signatures on the contemporary jazz scene. I digress.

         As I direct my memories towards high school, I remember running sections over and over again, essentially allowing the lesser musicians to practice their parts in class since none of them had the dedication to their musicianship to work on it at home. Looking back, this was not only a disservice to those musicians, but also a disservice to the true level of ability that the program could have actually achieved. 

         If, instead of running the same odd-meter charts over and over again, time had been spent on teaching improvisational, harmonic, and rhythmic theory, those students who spent their time at home as time away from school might have possibly been inspired to work on music. Had they known the deeply rich history that shows jazz rising out of an incredibly juxtaposing combination of strip clubs and Baptist churches, maybe they too would want to find even a small way of contributing to an ongoing tradition. And, perhaps, if they had been exposed to a live performance of a world-class jazz musician then they too could have truly come to appreciate the hours upon hours that it takes to find the perfect quarter note in a medium tempo blues. But alas, they were only asked to loop this or that section in hopes that they would be able to master their parts by the time the bell tolled.

         It should come as no surprise when I tell you that when I talk to other alumni about how the music program was ran, I invariably get this answer: “I could run it better.” The obvious problem that everyone, except the people actually in charge, picks up on is that there is no true educating of the student body; instead students are simply expected to know their parts. Countless times I saw students being verbally attacked for messing up parts without any good criticism on what it was they were doing wrong. I myself have been a victim of this thoughtless harassment. One time in particular, I was only a sophomore in high school and I had recently switched to piano—mainly because there was no pianist and a plethora of saxophonists—when the band was asked to sight-read a chart. The piano part was full of six note voicings in complicated rhythms that were, simply put, beyond me. Instead of being given techniques to read written chords at first sight, such as looking for the shape the notes make against the staff to make an educated guess as to what the voicing was as opposed to literally reading each note, I was chastised in front of the class for having “murdered”—murdered having the opposite meaning of killin(g)—the chart; “murdered” being stated three times for emphasis. This belittlement, which I saw more times than I would care to remember, did little to actually inspire me to practice. The theory behind belittling students is to motivate with fear, but in reality, when I came home after being denigrated in class, the last thing I wanted to do was work on music. Inspiration was the only factor that ever motivated me to be the best musician I could be and honestly, I blame these competitions for how poorly high school programs are run.

         If it wasn’t for the pressure band directors are faced with from these competitions to produce a band capable of playing three difficult charts at a professional level, then they would focus more on actually educating young musicians.  Of course, I only have the disadvantage of my own point-of-view. Maybe performing overly difficult music at festivals gave me confidence to perform overly difficult music in less stressful situations; maybe being yelled at and humiliated did have some twisted effect of making me practice to avoid another thrashing; or maybe all of these facts are the reasons why I feel so fucking bitter about my experience and would have given an arm and a leg to have had a teacher who used positive motivation instead of fear to push me to my potential.  My high school—focusing on performance over education—was a joke. So it goes. 

composition or the lack thereof

Frustrating is the word that comes to mind when I think about setting notes down on a page. Composing music has always been a passion and struggle of mine. For me, the combination of inspiration and motivation to write comes in great big bursts only to be followed by almost nothing for months on end. Most people know this as writer’s block, but I call it process. Ever since I started attempting to formulate melodies, I’ve always been met with very focused, yet short, periods of intense musical output. Sadly, most of what’s created is garbage and thrown away as it should be, but I have come to realize that what you throw away is just as important as what you hold onto.

         All throughout my time at the New School for Jazz and Contemporary Music, I always had a lot of difficulty composing in the practice rooms. There’s something about the faint sound of a saxophone in the next room over that I still find incredibly distracting. Perhaps I should have tried earplugs, but there is no sense in dwelling on the past. What it really comes down to is not the distraction of sound, but the distraction in work. It seemed that every time I went home for the summer or to celebrate the holidays, the creative bursts always found me again. The comfort of my own home always brought out the best in me as a composer. This changed though, in my last semester at the New School. With a recital approaching, I realized that I needed to immediately start preparing a set worthy of four years worth of work. All this time I thought I needed home, a comfort zone, but all I really needed was a spark to light the fuse. That spark turned out to be Nachmanovitch’s Free Play-Improvisation in Life and Art, which was recommended to me as an optional class reading assignment. 

         For any writer, musician, dancer, etc, who is struggling to find inspiration, I highly recommend this book. It is an incredibly easy read that touches on all art forms to exemplify different strategies to overcome writer’s block. Reading this book led me to an immense creation period where I was able to work out a set of music for my senior recital that I was overtly proud of. In retrospect, I’ve realized that I would have had a completely different recital if it had not been for that book. Now I know that I don’t have to trek back to the desert to write: I simply need to be inspired – for me, by another work.

         Obviously, everyone is different; that is key to knowing and understanding your process and the different forms that it takes. While studying film composition with Gary Pozner, film composer for countless documentaries on Discover and National Geographic, he once told me that he has a terrible time writing music in his apartment, so he takes long walks around the city with a small book of staff paper to jot down ideas as they come to him. This is a method that even Gustav Mahler used when retreating to the mountains to spend his summers hiking by day and writing by night, and something I have experimented with success.  Some people take long periods of time to craft out single pieces of music, while others, such as Bach and Mozart, seem to draw from a bottomless well of inspiration and creation, writing countless works. It doesn’t seem fair that some should get the chance to be so prolific while others can only create so much, but those seem to be the rules of the game.

         I wonder if there is a way to spark more immense periods of working that are met with more usable material? This past summer—finally being fed up with a period of dryness—I forced myself to write down notes and ideas; any and all that I could come up with for the sake of eventually writing something worthwhile. Unfortunately, after producing bars upon bars upon bars of sketches and short chord progressions, nothing substantial revealed itself. There is nothing more frustrating, to return to that word, than spending three hours one night writing a piece, only to wake up realizing that every note and idea is useless. But of course, for the bottom of every valley, there is always the top of every mountain.

         Putting forth effort with less ideal results makes the work put into the pieces you grow to love and treasure that much more worth it. Remembering what I can about my periods of intense output, it seems that there is a melody behind every note on the piano at any given time of day. Sometimes it’s what wakes you the morning, it’s the only taste in your mouth after a big lunch, and it’s the one thought that always keeps you turning on the lights at all hours in the night just to sketch down a four measure diatonic melody; pencils can’t be sharpened fast enough and there is never enough manuscript paper. It’s a wonderful feeling – inspiration, excitement, power – you are creating something from nothing. Sadly, it seems to only come twice a year for me. The struggle reveals itself to be one of the main reasons that hearing finished works can be so satisfying, or dissatisfying, to the composer. 

         Hearing completed music always puts one on edge. Still to this day, that little voice tells me that everybody is going to reject my work as illegitimate and that anything I do won’t be taken seriously. That is half the battle of presenting new works, unless they are completely polished up and ready to go. Really, it would be better, less pressure to present a piece in an early stage and slowly go back and forth from making changes and corrections to presenting the updated piece again. All arts are works in progress, at least up to some point when you have to just let it live.  I remember in high school having a teacher tell me that once a piece is written it cannot be corrected. Looking back, I laugh at what seems so obviously wrong. There are so many opinions on what a good process is, there is no right way.

         Before I head back to banging my head against the piano until something falls out of my ears, I’ll end this exposition by giving off the little bit of advice I have to offer from my few years of experience. Be creative with everything that you do. Always think about your craft and apply it to everything as often as is applicable. Make the space in which you choose to create feel like a temple rather than a practice room. There has to be a little bit of a feeling of spiritual devotion to one’s craft to really be able to break through brick walls—and, most importantly, never be afraid to take time off and approach old problems with a fresh mind. Accepting that your process is your process and there is no wrong or right may lead you to a new sense of freeness, a less frustrating experience in creating. 

new jersey: there and back again

A certain rite-of-passage for every New Yorker is to leave the city, if only for a few hours. I found myself in the suburbs of New Jersey the other day.  The change of scenery, not far from the endlessly buzzing streets of New York, left me beaming with excitement and an unexpected sense of relief.  It’s a simple thing, to put yourself momentarily in a new place, but it’s amazing what a difference it can make, how it puts your everyday perception of life into a new prospective.  I’ve taken breaks from the city before; the transformation of skyscrapers to town houses is always refreshing, but ultimately doesn’t satisfy me the way the city can.

         As radically different of environments they are, being in the small, seemingly simple Jersey suburb tapped into a personal connection that made me think of Las Vegas, my hometown. Maybe it was the similarity in restaurants, shops, or the beer that you can find in any convenience store in every part of the country. Maybe, though, it was this dark feeling I had that with its on-the-surface simplicity, I felt nothing artistic happens here. That’s not at all fair to say, as even the smallest town probably has somebody creating somewhere, but it definitely brings to mind one of the most important reasons that led me away from the desert I used to call home. 

         Las Vegas is home to some of the most incredible musicians I have ever met. Fundamentally, these professionals are able to sight read any piece of music put in front of them, always show up on time (if not early), and above all take nothing but pride in their musical day jobs. While there is definitely a really high bar set to get any work in the smallest casino, amazingly, there is a lack of creativity that is plaguing one of the entertainment capitals of the country, if not the world. A small handful of musicians in Vegas, that I am proud to call friends, have taken the road less traveled and are creating some incredibly intriguing music that the rest of the country could benefit from. Sadly, however, most will never hear this music because the majority of creative types turn to New York City or Los Angeles to hear the cutting edge. Because of the infestation of Broadway shows and Cirque Du Soleil that has taken over The Strip, Las Vegas has earned itself a reputation as being a cheap thrill.  These established big name monopolies are, in my opinion, removing the opportunity for creative expression from so many world-class musicians. 

         Maybe I’m being unfair. Broadway shows and Cirque Du Soleil are both imaginative, creative, and extraordinarily produced works that require a high level of understanding and craft to execute correctly night after night. Taking out my own frustrations with the Las Vegas scene on these shows seems unreasonable as they merit a substantial achievement in art. My problem with these shows is that locals created not one of them. My key point here is that Las Vegas—as well as most towns, big and small, around the country—don’t lack musicians as much as they lack strong personalities—bandleaders, composers, and the like that are required to motivate a strong local scene to emerge. I’ve always felt that because of the plethora of musical day jobs, Las Vegas has become a city of sidemen. While there are some great bands and composers, there just aren’t enough for the number of fabulous musicians that reside in the valley. I’m waiting for the day when I get off of the plane at McCarran airport to be greeted by a newly discovered renaissance. Feeling so strongly about this issue, I feel guilty for having jumped ship to the metropolis.

         It’s impossible for me not to ponder what life would be like currently had I stayed home…what kind of music I would enjoy and how differently I would look at the piano, let alone play it. My music took a big turn after I moved to New York because I was able to go see Paul Motian play at the Village Vanguard, Ethan Iverson do a solo set at Le Poisson Rouge, or any of the other countless shows that left me struggling for sleep at three o’ clock in the morning on a school night. A third train of thought has me contemplating the idea of going back to Las Vegas and starting a fire that the city so desperately needs. I tried it once before. With the help of fellow hometown musicians, we created a concert series consisting solely of original creative works – music, poetry, and art.  This was met with success and a feeling of momentum, which I saw simmer within months after I had left to continue my own studies at the New School. As much as I can’t let go of these feelings for Vegas, New York City won’t let me go either.

         Having the Village Vanguard, the Metropolitan House of Opera, and the Comedy Cellar all within reach is something, right now in my life anyway, that is impossible for me to grasp the idea of being without. If I were to leave right now when my band is finally getting on track, my reputation as a sideman is building, and I have access to countless musicians and resources that call New York home, I would be a fool.

         I think about going back to Vegas often to give back to where I’m from, but every time I leave the city I always arrive at the same conclusion: this is where I need to be, at least right now. I still have more to take in and learn here.  The big city is definitely not for everybody, but to anybody who might be reading this I recommend that at some point in your life you take the time to come experience it for yourself. It’s the world in its smallest form. As I previously said, it’s a simple thing to put yourself momentarily in a new place, but it’s amazing what a difference it can make, how it puts your everyday perception of life into a new prospective.  My brief trip into the Jersey suburbs allowed me to reflect on where I’m from, where I am, and where I’d like to go, and as the PATH train pulled into the Harrison station and headed back to the city, everything started to feel right again    

my first fall

Fall has always been my favorite season. Nothing can teach you to appreciate the heat cooling down quite like growing up in the Mojave Desert like I did.  As in countless movies and songs, Fall holds a romantic place in my heart. It’s a time when horror movies don’t stop until Christmas movies start, lights are restrung throughout my apartment for the coming year, a time of thanksgiving, and of anniversary. This year though, it seems to be a little bit more exciting than most. This excitement may be the result of a plethora of upcoming releases worth mentioning as well as the fact that it’s the first fall I’m not enrolled in school.

         It’s odd seeing some of my friends returning to school. What’s even more odd is pondering how the time has passed, and that my little brother is now attending his first college classes in Boston. I only graduated last December, but working on an almost daily basis already feels completely natural. Admittedly, I much prefer it this way. I enjoy the freedom to practice what I want to practice, listen to what I want to listen to, and to only be playing and performing in groups that are solely put together with artistic integrity at the forefront of conception.

         My friend Owen Dudley—who is one hell of a guitarist and bandleader—once came up with the simile that, “Playing music is like coming up for a breath of fresh air after drowning at work.” This comparison, although an extremity, turns out to be spot on. Every chance I get to play or rehearse with different bands—be it my own group, Dog Adrift, or just a causal session among friends—I count myself lucky. To quote the late Christopher Hitchens, “How terrible it is that we have so many more desires than opportunities;” even the most thrown together of sessions is an opportunity to create and I’m grateful for that.  As I am inching towards adulthood, falling into this groove of work and play, I am realizing more and more that I need to pay more attention to play and less to work as I continue to seek a financially independent life as a musician. However, until the day comes when I can utter the words, “I quit,” with a shit-eating grin on my face, I just have to find ways to remain content with the peaks and valleys of the day job; one way of dealing with this problem is simply by remaining a fan of creative works.

         This Fall I find myself waiting on the release of several movies, albums and books. As I write this, the final book from Christopher Hitchens, Mortality, has just been released. It is a collection of essays that he wrote as he waited for cancer to take his life, and if it proves to be anything even remotely close to his command of the English language that his other works contain then I am sure it will make quite an impression on whoever can get their hands on a copy. As far as movies are concerned, The Hobbit comes out in December, Lincoln in November, and—most anticipated in my mind—Paul Thomas Anderson’s newest film The Master arrives in October. Over the past few weeks, P.T. Anderson has quickly become one of my favorite directors as I took the time to go through and watch—if not consume—all of his work. From Hard Eight up through the more recent There Will Be Blood, it is almost impossible to find a bad choice in the mix; he even brought out an outstanding dramatic performance from Adam Sandler in the movie Punch-Drunk Love (not an easy task by any stretch of the imagination.) His movies pack in ambiguity like no other, and all have incredibly compelling scores from his two chosen composers, Jon Brion and Johnny Greenwood. While Hollywood is promising quite an inspiring season, the music world is proving itself just as ambitious. While everybody in my circle of friends, myself included, is looking forward to a new release from the Bad Plus, I also have my eyes set on the fourth studio album from Las Vegas’s own, The Killers.

         I must digress, if only for a moment, to discuss my obsession, if not addiction, to the arena-rock Nevada-bred band The Killers. It is not an easy task to tell your friends in jazz school that your favorite band used to be high up on the MTV video charts, so for the first couple of years I treated Brandon Flowers and company as a guilty pleasure; trying very hard to ignore the overwhelming desire to blast Sam’s Town at least once every month or so. Being primarily a jazz musician, people have a hard time understanding why I could be so interested in music that is derivative of other rock music masters—Bruce Springsteen and U2 come to mind here—and my only reply is that the qualities I seek in great music are those that find a way to tug on my heartstrings; this music almost always contains a strong melody. Brandon Flowers has proved himself time and time again to be a master of writing well paced music that builds and builds, musically and lyrically, painting a scene residents of the Mojave Desert know so well when the dark clouds come rolling in before finally climaxing as a downpour of rain wipes the dryness away. On a more personal level, nothing is quite as inspiring for a prospective musician growing up in Las Vegas than seeing at least one successful group of young artists launch themselves out of that two star town. I have been waiting since 2008 to hear a follow up to the disaster that was Day in Age, and, based on the single The Runaways, it sounds like the band has learned from their past mistakes in production and is finally narrowing in on what they do best. September 18th cannot arrive soon enough.

         So as Summer gives way to Fall, I am thankful for where I am in my life: at the beginning looking ahead as opposed to the end looking behind. I am very privileged in the respect that of all the lives on the earth that I could be living, I am living the life of a musician in New York City. To end with a quote—something that I was trained never to do by my high school English teacher—from tenor Luciano Pavarotti, “A life in music is a life beautifully spent and this is what I have devoted my life to.”

an introduction

    It seems to be only a matter of time before I get upset with both my output as a composer and improviser, as well as my output as a businessman trying to promote myself on the internet. My first attempt at blogging was a short lived project entitled The Bargain Bin that didn’t live to see a second post. The second and most recent attempt was the podcast Piano Eats Man which simply became too much work for me to keep up with when my life got even a little bit busy. Now, with almost half a year of time past since the last Piano Eats Man was uploaded to Youtube, I’m starting to feel restless once again. With that being said, I extend you an invitation to read my brand new blog; Piano Eats Man—in written form.

         Man has an advantage—I admit this is going to sound somewhat morbid—in coming to terms with the concept of an inevitable death.  There’s a certain amount of pressure created that gives every human being this natural urge to leave behind an everlasting legacy. With most people it typically comes down to the passing of genetics through children, but right now in my life I am simply trying to write and create as much as I can. You can easily make the argument that this blog will ultimately end up like my other attempts at creating a strong web presence, that I have a rather long history of coming up short when committing to smaller projects. However, I would like to counter that thought with a simple idea; creating is always better than not. If, when this blog ends, I have only completed five or even four posts, then I would consider it at least some minimal experience in writing. But enough about what I don’t want to happen—instead let me tell you what I do want to happen.

         I would like to use this blog to capture the bohemian lifestyle that I have created for myself here in New York City; a lifestyle that requires late nights and late mornings, moments of rowdiness as well as moments of solemnity. New York City— even more specifically, Manhattan and Brooklyn—is an overwhelming population that exemplifies the American melting pot, which is why artists flock en masse to claim this small bit of land as home. I want to, at the very least, attempt to capture that elusive energy that artists, musicians, and writers have been trying to figure out for centuries now. 

         This blog is not about music; it’s about living. I hope that my thoughts prove to be interesting enough to keep you coming back for more. All I ask is that if you like it…pass it on.