Power To the Listener

I am listening to purely instrumental jazz. Without lyrics to act as the magnetized needle of the emotional-response compass, I am merely left with a circle marked with cardinal directions. Machete in hand, I begin to blindly hack my way through this jungle of screeching trumpets, slithering saxophones, pulsating basses, dancing drums, cascading pianos. The jungle is nature pure and lush, abounding with spontaneity and life, untouched by man (well, let's pretend that THIS particular jungle is). There are no signs leading my instincts forward, no tour guides to grab me by the hand. There is nothing, save myself and my senses (and sensibilities) and my past experiences and, of course, the jungle that I'm being swallowed by. How do I make sense of this whole thing?

This is a question I often find myself wrestling with. After all, jazz is all about being in the moment and being spontaneous, true to yourself, and genuine. As a listener, how am I supposed to replicate exactly what the performer's emotions and impulses were at the particular moment in which his fingers breathed sweet life into dead space? I have come to the conclusion after many cumulative hours of thought that it is not necessary for me to replicate a performer's emotions and impulses. Instead, I should just surrender to whatever I feel. People often talk about an improvised solo as "a story." I completely agree with this analysis. However, this story is not a concrete story. It is not as cut-and-dry as "I went to the store, bought some ham, and ate it at home." Rather, imagine a story with a plot line that progresses like this:

Sparse. Soft. Sudden. Dissonance. Tension. Dense. Release. Sparse.

This plot line is created spontaneously by the author reflecting his fluctuating impulses. Within this plot line are woven words that also reflect the author's fluctuating impulses. The only problem is that these words are full of double-meanings, connotations, allegory, figurative langugage, grammatical liberties. They are wide open to interpretation. How does one interpret this abstract language? By relating it to his own experience, his own sensibilities, his own thoughts, desires, and impulses. A good improviser can communicate emotion so pure and genuine that it transcends the absolute state of being "happy" or "nostalgic" or "melancholy." It simply materializes as "emotion," with no predicative strings attached. How many times have we heard a recording where we subsequently categorize the artist as "putting a lot of emotion into his/her playing?" What specific emotion? It doesn't matter. When the artist's emotion floats through the air and envelopes us, it stimulates our own emotions. It is not necessarily important what exactly the artist was thinking or feeling at the time. What is most important is that it has aroused our emotional faculties. Once this has happened, we will be able to interpret the flood of emotion in the manner most appropriate to ourselves. A line that may remind one listener of a heartbreak may cause another to pine for a long-since-passed childhood without cares and worries.

Of course, because of our Western aural conditioning, we may be predisposed to think of certain music as conveying certain emotions. But these emotions are often superficial. Major sounds "happy," minor sounds "sad." A fanfare sounds "heroic" or "glorious." But does culture have a predefined sound for "the time that I spent hiking in the Alps" or "the period in my life where I was uncertain of what to do with myself?" I think not. These experiences are personal examples, and each person has a different set of personal experiences. Thus, just as we all see the world differently, we may all interpret the raw emotion emanating from improvisation differently. We must not let cultural norms limit our listening pleasure.

Condoning Mediocrity

Today I went to my high school's graduation to see some close friends of mine walk/give speeches. I sat in the audience as the school principle addressed an audience of students, friends, and family with the message that, among other things, failing a year of school (though still ultimately graduating) or being put as an athlete into early-morning academic study hall to compensate for a sagging GPA were examples of "perseverance."

First of all, to me, "perseverance" is a strong word, implying passionate, devoted, unshakeable determination to achieve a goal. Apparently the principle didn't take into account the fact that kids were held back or put in academic study hall due to a lack of effort and motivation in the first place. At the risk of being labeled an arrogant elitist (or a nerd), I must say that I have yet to see a failing student who put hours of work into school or who places school at the top of their priority list.

The principle also failed to take into account in the case of academic study hall that the kids were forced to be there to stay on their respective sports teams. It is a form of discipline. To me, it sounds like the school is taking an begrudgingly-complied-to institution and turning it into some laughably glorious example of bloody, sweaty, nose-to-the-grindstone labor. If academic study hall is "perseverance," then detention must be too, right? And how about coming back to school after being suspended for a week and graduating nonetheless? Is that a heroic example of perseverance as well? Furthermore, has merely graduating high school in this country of relative ease and opportunity become such a high level of achievement in today's society, to the point where those who do are seen to be "perseverant" as though they had overcome some great obstacle such as famine or governmental repression or war that so often plagues children in other countries?

High school graduation is certainly a large step forward, but it should be an expectation rather than a distinction. If school officials are now condoning or even inculcating minimal achievement by making a Mount Olympus out of the molehill of mediocrity, then I would think twice about educating my future children in this country, or perhaps even this planet. But maybe I'm just being excessively fastidious. I tend to be. Woe is the poor, poor soul who must actually make an effort to succeed in the real world!

Incidentally, all the other speeches were great.

Aaron Parks

Aaron Parks has posted the entirety of his 2008 release Invisible Cinema on his MySpace profile. Just click on the "Albums" tab at the base of the music player.

Although probably at least in part a rather subtle marketing scheme of the outwardly-contradictory, inwardly-sensible strain designed to elicit more exposure, concert attendance, and even CD sales, I like to think that he is at least in part motivated by a genuine desire to place the sharing of his music with the world at a higher priority level than money-making. The cynical folk (a group I am selectively part of, depending largely on my fluctuating amount of hope for the human race) may argue that, as a professional musician, Mr. Parks's well being is directly proportional to his ability to "make bank." Therefore, allowing people to listen to an entire CD for free on online streaming audio could only be an attempt at further promotion, as without any inherent practical purpose it would otherwise be a professional death sentence by lethal injection, wherein the process goes awry and the subject suffers an interminable, excruciating departure, uttering useless cry after useless cry until the record label executioners compell him to cry no more. But of course, this is a misguided analysis.

If the human soul were able to be seen, I'd like to imagine it as the entire physical world compacted, consisting largely of darkened areas yet undiscovered, criss-crossed on the microcosmic level by highways of tendencies and thought patterns crossing at intersections and connecting countries of desire and emotion that combine to form continents of action and reaction surrounded by an oceans of experience and memory. Of course, the soul is not visible, but music is its aural extension. I am in no position to characterize Aaron Parks, as I have never met him (although I would very much like to). But one can learn a lot about what lies at the heart of a person by listening to him or her empty this heart into music, particularly when something as intimate and personal as improvisation is involved. Of course, this is not always the case. It can be very validly argued that music has a personality distinct from a musician's own personality (a topic for a future blog entry, perhaps). But nonetheless, it makes sense that the characteristics that make up an artist's music must be at least present, if not prevelant, in the artist himself. How can one inject a particular emotion into music without prior knowledge of what it feels like? With that said, Aaron Parks's music is some of the most mature, selfless, genuinely beautiful, and passionate music I have ever heard. At the age of 25, he has accomplished already what many would be lucky to achieve in a lifetime: he gives the music what it needs, not a drop more, and not a drop less. Every note has its purpose within the commune, and every note resonates with that purpose, propelled by his beautifully expressive touch at the piano.

What's the point? Well, first of all, LISTEN TO AARON PARKS. Second of all, if his person is as mature, selfless, genuinely beautiful, and passionate as his music (which it may or may not be), then it makes sense that his fundamental goal is what the fundamental goal of all musicians should be, that is to share the music with the world. Sure, it might help for promotional purposes to let people listen to an entire CD for free, but more importantly, these people are hearing and experiencing something they may not have had they been forced to spend money on a CD. Is that not more important? In a world where money reserves privileges to only those who can afford them, can't something as fundamental to human nature as music be accessible to all? From the musicians perspective, money should be a means, not an end. Of course we all want to make money, and we all need to be solvent in order to avoid the jaws of Social Darwinism. However an artist derives infinitely more satisfaction from the fact that people are listening to what he has to say, identifying with it, and having their lives changed from it. A businessman, on the other hand, sells out.

Fifty People, One Question

http://fiftypeopleonequestion.com/locations/1-new-orleans-la

I was introduced to these videos a couple days ago, and I've been obsessed. Basically, the people shooting the video go to a city, ask random people on the street the same question (in this particular link, the question is "What would you wish to happen by the end of today?"), and film their responses. I have often found myself walking through the streets of Boston or sitting in a café window looking at the people passing by: hurrying, strolling along, large groups, individuals, tall, short, white, black, tan, fat, skinny, eccentric, composed, bubbly, reserved, well dressed, raggedy. The list could go on forever. It is during these times that I feel very isolated, in my own cast-iron safe that is filled with my own experiences and emotions and interests. When I open the door, too often I get into the habit of lumping the people in the world that I don't know or don't have a connection with into the massive amorphous entity of the "populace," when each individual has their own safe filled with riches beyond my imagination. How to get at those riches? Crack the safe, as the makers of these videos have done. The code? A simple question. You may be surprised at what you find.

Skylark

My first year of college gone like those half-asleep dreams we try in vain to grasp, vanquished like the Umayyad army at the Battle of Tours, evanescent like the droplet of water the child watches race down a rain-soaked window. And now, sitting here in my pajamas in the comfort of my own home, eating and sleeping too well to be living any semblance of a self-actualizing life, I wonder what I've learned from it all.

Well there's the obvious. I've learned a lot about music, but I will not subject you all to hair-raising accounts of my close encounters with contiguous dominants, or my death-defying victory over Karnatik Solkattu, or my harrowing escape from odd-meter conducting. Perhaps someday I will document these on a recording to help insomniacs fall asleep, but for now, dear reader, I would rather you stay awake.

I guess I've learned a bit about living independently. That's pretty cool, I guess. I can go wherever I want, stay up late, abuse this crown jewel of consumer culture known as the credit card, not go to the hospital when I get sick, etc. In short, I've learned how to live in order to not live (for very long, anyhow).

I've learned how to meet people, or at least I've gotten better at it. I can introduce myself without stuttering and actually think of things to talk about with someone who I've just encountered for the first time. I no longer have qualms about going out of my way to meet someone. In fact, I have come to love meeting new people, and try to do so everyday. Again, a major accomplishment: I've learned to do what some people have been able to do since the day they could talk.

One legitimate thing I have learned, however, is that I am in the right place. This was not always an easy concept to grasp. I am a jazz musician attending the Berklee College of Music. "Jazz musician" is often synonymous with "dirt poor" and "drug rehabilitation" and "living in a cardboard box." "Berklee College of Music" is often synonymous with "dropping out," "the alma mater of all the homeless people in the Back Bay" (not really, though), and "John Mayer." (Just kidding, I'm down with John Mayer). Of course, these are exaggerations, but the pathway to success in music is certainly steep and bear-infested.

However, being at Berklee this year has made me realize that music is the one and only thing I would ever want to pursue. With all the the constant interaction with fellow musicians, the nonstop discussion and learning of music, and the constant playing of music I never grew tired. Instead, I realized how essential music was to my very existence and how I couldn't even picture myself doing anything else. I'm no expert, but I'm guessing if two people can spend hours a day together and focus their lives around each other and, rather than grow bored, fall more deeply in love, then they should probably get married. Well, I am proud to announce my engagement to the music profession. Every profession chucks its own derisive mockeries at those struggling to win them over. Why let obstacles deter me from pursuing my Elizabeth Bennett?

There is an old Hoagy Carmichael tune in which a lonely narrator asks a skylark if, in its travels, it has seen where his heart should reside. The narrator expresses his desire for the bird to lead him there, to wherever or whomever it may be. Thank you, freshman year at Berklee College of Music, for being my skylark.

Passion

I have been thinking a lot lately about what drives humans to do the things that they do.  Why do a mother and father sacrifice endless hours, relaxation, opportunities for personal gain, and money to make sure their child has an easy life?  Why does an athlete or a musician practice himself till exhaustion on a daily basis?  Why does a lovesick romantic go to any lengths for his object of affection?

It is my belief that the human propensity for growth and development is at the root of all of these.  As a person advances in years, progress is inevitably made in temporal things.  This is natural.  A person will get taller, more intelligent, more skilled, more worldly, and so on.  Perhaps this progress in temporal things is equivocated by a desire to progress spiritually as well, which is a different matter.  One can grow to a certain height, amass a certain amount of knowledge, be able to do things he could not before, and see whole new layers of the world around him.  But is he satisfied?   In other words, is his spirit quenched?

The human spirit is restless.  It is a clock that keeps ticking.  The hour hand may reach twelve o'clock, but it continues on, never settling, forcing us to continue a relentless search for the means of stopping time.  Of course this is futile.  We may progress to one o'clock, five o'clock, nine o'clock, but we will soon be taken back to twelve o'clock, feeling as if we have made no progress spiritually.  We may, however, have made progress temporally, and this feeds our spiritual dissatisfaction, for, if we have done this and done that, why are we still unfulfilled?  Why is there still so much to do, and was recognizable progress really even made from a given point?  

Naturally occurring temporal progress breeds the expectation of commensurate spiritual progress, which is not always the reality of things.  The subsequent sense of longing, desire, unsettlement, emptiness, and frustration is, in my opinion, what breeds passion.   It is, if I may be so cliché, the fuel that ignites the flame, the spark that revives the dying heart.  Someone who is passionate about something, whether it be a form of art, knowledge, a hobby, or another person, is always searching for something.  The parent puts aside her own life for her child because she is searching for any opportunity to assist her child, and she will never complete this search because the desire of spirit for her child's happiness has no boundaries.  The musician or athlete practices for hours because she is searching for an unreachable higher plane, and, though temporal progress will be made, she will continue searching because the spirit knows that there is always more.  Someone who is in love bends over backwards for another person because he is searching for reciprocal love, and even when he may receive that love he continues to bend over backwards because the spirit knows that love is endless.  

Once the spirit stops searching, passion ceases to exist.  Though we may often be frustrated with aspects with our lives, it must be considered that, without such a yearning for abstract progress, life would be meaningless.  The world would be a stagnant cesspool.  The greatest works of art and literature, the most olympian feats of human effort, the greatest triumphs of human love and intellect, the religions of the world, and so on would not have ever come to fruition.  The "human" aspect of the "human race" would not exist.  Dissatisfaction, spiritual emptiness, and frustration may not be the most pleasant of feelings, but without them, the essence of life would be lost.  Life must not be based alone on such feelings, for one will lead a miserable existence.  However, without them to balance everything out, misery will nonetheless be the result.

Life Is

I recently ran my first marathon. It was a cold, February morning, and according to my peers (and here I take paraphrastic liberties for dramatic effect) I was a deranged masochist. But you may all rest assured that I did not enjoy the cold nor did I enjoy the pain.

I did, however, learn a lesson.

In addition to a marathon, this event also featured a half-marathon and a 10k. For the marathoners, the course consisted of two 13.1 mile loops. The half-marathoners would finish after one lap, and the 10k-ers would break off after roughly six miles. Regardless, we all started together.

When the gun went off, so did my competitive spirit. Oblivious to the fact that those around me were mostly running the 10k or the half-marathon, I went with the pack, which was going at a much faster clip than I could hold for a full marathon. When I reached the halfway point (and apparently regained the capacity for rational thought), I thought to myself, "Whoops."

13.1 miles and a foot injury later, I finished, but barely.

Well, great. I just told my marathon story. But what is this talk of a "lesson"? As I plopped down in a conveniently-provided chair at the finish of the race, unable to move, I realized two things:

1. A marathon hurts a LOT more the second half than the first.
2. The discomfort could have been significantly reduced had I gone at my own pace.

And here I realized an aspect of my life that I needed to work on changing. The competitive spirit may be a good thing, but too often I feel that I am hindered by it. It fosters motivation, innovation, and productivity. However, as I learned, it can also breed irrational behavior, unnecessary stress, and exhaustion in this race that is life. Here the question becomes age-old: what is life really about?

I suppose in the end we all want to do great things, and that takes motivation, innovation, and productivity. But also I know that I don't want to be irrational, stressed, and exhausted my entire life while I am busy being motivated, innovative, and productive. I guess the key, as with all things, is balance. Yin and Yang. Splitting the competitive spirit into its yolk and its whites and using them properly in the mix. Easier said than done, of course.

However, one thing I can say for certain is that life is a race. If one goes at his own pace from the beginning rather than basing his pace off of others who are running their own races, he will most definitely finish strong.