Thinking in Jazz

by Berliner, Paul F.

  The dynamic interplay that characterizes the artists’ manipulation of the linear arrangement of their musical ideas in relation to one another in the solo line is comparable to their manipulation of these components in relation to the formal structures of pieces, whose elements are also subject to variability. In infinite permutations, improvisers alter particular features of compositions as they explore their maneuverability with fixed features of their vocabulary, and vice versa.

  The Creative Interplay between Vehicles and Ideas

  Just as the value of the ideas in the artist’s storehouse lies both in their intrinsic interest and in the ongoing models they provide for invention, so, too, the value of pieces’ distinct musical environments lies in the continuing stimulation they provide. Improvisers commonly find the impetus for musical discovery in the creative interplay between the two. For instance, although a recurrent block of chords in several pieces can invite the use of the same complementary figure, musicians can uniquely transform the figure by joining it with quoted material from each piece’s melody in that part of the progression where the block occurs. Moreover, from one progression to the next, features of the block’s surrounding harmony may suggest entering and leaving the figure through distinct pitch collections or particular vocabulary patterns, in the process creating different phrases.

  If at times soloists agilely adapt their vocabulary to the precise features of compositions, at other times they transform the compositions’ features in order to suit their evolving melodic ideas. Even with all of his experience, James Moody says he still “looks at a chord progression sometimes and sees a new pattern that goes with it or sees somewhere else it can go, like some chord substitutions in place of it, that I never saw before.” In like manner, Charlie Parker describes an eventful December evening in 1939 during a period in which he had “been getting bored with the stereotyped changes that were being used all the time . . . and I kept thinking there’s bound to be something else. I could hear it sometimes but I couldn’t play it. Well, that night, I was working over ‘Cherokee,’ and, as I did, I found that by using the higher intervals of a chord as a melody line and backing them with appropriately related changes, I could play the thing I’d been hearing. I came alive.” 1

  In a comparable light, performers interpret their music’s historical developments as a function of the interplay between ideas and vehicles. Some musicians hold the view that after Parker and others perfected the vocabulary of bebop and mastered its application within blues and show tunes, the artists and their disciples challenged themselves further by using their language within the novel settings of original pieces.

  The harmonic motion of new compositions has been especially varied since the forties. According to Howard Levy, “Trane wrote ‘Giant Steps’ after he had mastered all of the common progressions in the bebop repertory and had tired of them. I heard that ‘Giant Steps’ just grew out of the exercises he had been practicing at the time, exploring different kinds of harmonic movements and trying to make his lines resolve to different places:” Don Friedman praises the subtlety of Booker Little’s varied resolutions of a two-bar chord pattern within one of his compositions: initially the pattern, Fm–E–A–G, resolves to a D chord; in another part of the progression, it resolves to an F minor chord. Such formal variations challenge soloists to think differently in each instance, thereby avoiding the possible repetition of composite vocabulary patterns when negotiating the same chord sequences. Pieces whose progressions consist of non-repeating components or whose harmonic chunks display minimal similarity are, for the same reason, uncommonly demanding.

  Still another procedure involves the radical transformation of one composition’s structure by superimposing structures of other compositions upon its frame. Larry Gray sometimes performs the kinds of motion associated with Coltrane’s “Countdown” within the simple framework of a blues, “alternating minor third and perfect fourth movements in different cycles.” Spanning the tonic and subdominant chords in the first and fifth measures, he creates progressions like B to D, G to A, D to F, A to E, E; or B to A, B to E, G to B, D to E, E; or, at a slower rate of change, B, D, G, B to E, E. Gray likens such improvised movement to the chess player’s calculation of alternative moves on a chessboard: two squares forward and one to the side carries the knight to the same place as one square to the side and two forward. Creating unique harmonic routes between the pivotal chords of a composition is effective “as long as you’re moving in a logical, sequential manner so that the listener can hear a progression.”

  The use of unconventional meters as frameworks for jazz improvisation also creates special opportunities for invention. Teachers like Lennie Tristano have directed students to practice composing melodic patterns in 3/4, 5/8, and 7/8 to prepare themselves to handle comparable forms as improvisers. Kenny Washington, for instance, learned a variety of “Latin rhythms in 6/8” from one of Dizzy Gillespie’s drummers.

  Unusual harmonic-rhythmic schemes present additional stimulation within the respective meters of pieces. Wynton Marsalis once told me of his satisfaction at mastering the asymmetrical form of an original composition that required him to phrase his lines and color them harmonically in relation to “odd-numbered” groupings of measures rather than to the standard symmetrical groupings of two, four, and eight bars.

  During the sixties, modal pieces accommodated other aspects of improvisers’ evolving concepts. One interpretation holds that John Coltrane began working with modal pieces because he had become so fluent within the rapid movements of standard chord changes that they no longer “gave him enough room to express all the ideas which came to him with each chord.” The newer forms allowed him to “stretch out the harmonic rhythm of each chord to give himself more time to explore each tonality before moving on to the next” (HL). Harold Ousley discusses comparable procedures:

  What Freddie Hubbard and other guys usually do today is to make a scale out of certain intervals, like alternating seconds and minor thirds, and make up a tune on that scale. Then they work out lots of phrases on that scale—their own licks—that they can run all together when they play. They will basically play that way through the whole tune. They also structure the chords so that they lend themselves to playing those kinds of patterns. The chords probably aren’t any more minor than they are major. When players like McCoy Tyner use this approach, the whole song basically lias the sound of that scale. There is a modal kind of sameness because they are working within the context of one or maybe two chords. Things have moved in that direction since Miles Davis and others moved it that way.

  Alternatively, artists “work and rework a mode” by superimposing different theoretical models upon its simple frame and by embellishing it with elements outside its tonality, applying, in a sense, the same concepts of inside and outside playing that characterize the improviser’s formulation of melodies from chords. 2 James Moody considers that

  the challenge with the modal thing is to make your playing sound complex and intricate when you’re staying in one key. The way you achieve that is that when you’re in the key of C, you have different chords that you can use in the same mode—C major, D minor, E minor, F major, G major, A minor, B diminished, and C major again. You’ve got to use all of them, rather than just playing C major all the time. Also, while you’re working off all of those, you must remember that if you’ve got a C, you’ve also got a C#; if you’ve got a D, you can also use a D#. What you’re really doing is working toward a kind of chromaticism.

  Representing even more radical developments, the free jazz movement gave soloists the license to apply conventional jazz vocabulary and other materials to improvisation outside the constraints of harmonic form. Kenny Barron first encountered “the challenge of learning how to play free things” when he joined Freddie Hubbard’s band. At the time, Hubbard “was flirting with the avant-garde,” performing music that was quite different from that which Barron had previously played with Dizzy Gillespie. “I learned how to pla
y melodic lines that were very free atonally, without any kind of harmonic reference,” Barron recalls. “The only reference was the tune’s melody.” In some such cases, artists adopt the melody’s rhythmic span as a formal guideline for their improvisations.

  In other situations, musicians perform a composed melody at the opening and closing of their renditions, but do not draw upon its formal properties when improvising. The lack of harmonic and rhythmic reference allows players to create their parts without concern for moving from one predetermined harmonic goal to another or remaining within particular tonal centers for designated periods. Accordingly, Gary Bartz creates

  a chord pattern that is my own when I play free—still playing chords in the sense that if you play three or four notes, you’ve played a chord. It’s just that it’s not part of a chord pattern that’s the same each time you play it. So, that’s free. I’m making up the chord pattern as I go along. You just keep going on and on; it’s one long melody. I don’t think it’s that different from how I ordinarily play because it’s the same music, just another type of song, really, where you don’t have the structure set up before you play. So, you work out your own structure as you play, really taking improvisation to the epitome.

  Some musicians who are influenced by free jazz avoid using formal compositions altogether. Others maximize the harmonic tension of their solos by superimposing atonal melodies on the frameworks of conventional pieces, playing vocabulary patterns and pitch collections that are only loosely related to the underlying chords. Still others vary their performances by combining or alternating different methods. Ornette Coleman’s improvisations sometimes take extensive liberties with a piece’s tempo, meter, and chord progression, momentarily departing from the latter, or, perhaps, relating only to a segment of it. The harmony implied by Coleman’s solo on “Congeniality” remains largely in B but oscillates at times between B and C minor, and occasionally ventures into extended sequences such as D–B–Cm–B, or even F#–Cm–E–D–A–D–B–Cm–B.3

  Similarly, Joe Henderson improvised “more freely with the structure of the tunes” than many other players Rufus Reid worked with. If Henderson played a piece like “’Round Midnight,” he would “play for a while harmonically, and then he’d play freely, just on sound. At that point, you couldn’t relate what he played to the harmony of the piece.” Sometimes Henderson would play the melody of the song “real pretty,” but at other times he would “take all kinds of liberties in his solo. He’d take things outside, playing notes from chords superimposed on the original chords of the piece.” Throughout, however, Reid “could always hear the phraseology of the song underneath it all. That was a great experience.” Reid explains that after a master like Henderson has performed the same composition for thirty years or more, it becomes “like Silly Putty in his hands.” No matter the direction in which he stretches it, nor how far, Henderson never allows it to break, but returns it always to form.

  Like different improvisation methods, an artist’s choice of repertory is itself a highly personal matter requiring considerable experimentation. It is sometimes only after years of experience that soloists determine which are the compositions, traditional or original, that serve as the most sympathetic vehicles for their improvisations. While continuing to try out new pieces, they retain favored selections within the core of their repertory. To this day, Benny Bailey “tries to find different ways of playing” the pieces in his repertory by experimenting “over and over again, soloing on a standard tune for hours and hours” until he creates “something that’s interesting and sounds good.” For Kenny Barron as well, “musical knowledge is an ongoing thing. I’m continuously learning things about chords and voicings,” he observes, “and the different kinds of melodic lines that you can play.”

  Lee Konitz has performed standard compositions “like ‘All the Things You Are’ for over forty years now” because of their unlimited substance as frameworks for invention, inspiring him to probe ever more deeply into their “possibilities.” And Charlie Parker explained to Red Rodney that he routinely practiced formulating solos “on the blues, ‘Rhythm’ and ‘Cherokee’ in every key.” Over artists’ lives, mastery of form resulting from the repeated performance of favorite compositions obviously contributes to their extraordinary fluency as soloists. Konitz adds that improvising on familiar repertory also serves players “as a measuring device” for assessing their creative powers “at that moment” in relation to their recollection of their past improvisations on the composition.

  Figures, Patterns, Phrases: The Lives of Licks

  When musicians conceive satisfying patterns in their practice sessions, coining new words for their improvisational language, many stop their performances and work on absorbing the patterns outside the formal context of pieces, adding them to their storehouses. Some players notate their inventions so that they will remember them. Lennie Tristano, in fact, required Lee Konitz and other students to bring written versions of complete solos to lessons for evaluation. Others tape-record portions of their practice sessions for later evaluation, studying their best phrases and disregarding less successful phrases. Most typically, musicians etch patterns in memory through repeated performance. When Harold Ousley “comes up with new things that I can do on a song, I’ll keep going over them,” he says, “so that I can approach my solo from that particular angle.”

  Once thoroughly absorbed into a storehouse, new patterns take their place beside the multitude of other set patterns—the precise shapes from which musical thoughts are fashioned. There, within the artist’s imagination, they lead a rich existence, continuously transformed in relation to other vocabulary patterns. As soloists call the figures repeatedly into action and redefine their relationships, however, they sometimes find that the figures occur to them more frequently in some settings than others, interact more comfortably with certain other individual patterns, and even evolve increasingly consistent forms of usage with specialized syntactic functions. 4

  Artists appreciate some figures for their special catalytic powers at the beginning of phrases. Their strong rhythmic qualities inspire the soloist to extend the patterns imaginatively, or their striking melodic contours and intervals suggest endless possibilities for motivic development. According to individual taste, musicians consider other patterns to have cadential qualities suited to concluding musical lines of thought. Once when Barry Harris composed “a perfect answering phrase” for students, they generated numerous possibilities for antecedent patterns and discovered that each worked well with it. Yet other figures, intricate and fast, serve to display the technical prowess and virtuosity of the soloist, as well as adding contrast and excitement to the performance. In Dizzy Gillespie’s big band, “the guys always were working on tricky rhythmic phrases that were like an optical illusion on the ears. You could never figure out how they played them unless they showed you” (BB).

  Patterns with low melodic content, such as untransformed scales, commonly assume a traveling function, providing the musical means for moving from one register to another where more substantive melodic material is introduced. They may also serve as efficient routes between and among discrete sections of an instrument’s terrain where the player can manipulate tonal material most agilely. When interpreting tunes, artists use comparable gestures as fills. At one workshop, Barry Harris recommended the use of an ascending major scale to approach a particular phrase within a ballad. Students practiced the run repeatedly until they could articulate it with a precise crescendo and accelerando, leading smoothly into the phrase’s performance. Some patterns carry out holding operations. They may repeat a pitch rhythmically or alternate it with different neighbors, reinforcing the same tonality until the music proceeds to a different key or until the artist thinks of another idea to play. Yet other patterns are negotiators, guiding the player through difficult waters within a progression.

  Episodic figures also lie readily at hand within the player’s store. These include pairs of call and r
esponse patterns, sequences, or other short chains of ideas that work especially well in succession, conveying a sense of flow and logical development. Also maintaining a significant presence within the improviser’s vocabulary are little turns and short musical maneuvers that may never stand alone as discrete ideas in solos, but routinely serve as embellishments and connections, enhancing and joining together other patterns in the creation of longer phrases. Simple idiomatic gestures for wind instruments—like a gliss or a rip—used to join discrete vocabulary patterns favored at different pitch levels are also effective in this capacity, as are fragments of theoretical models like chords, scales, and short chromatic movements.

  The performance histories and associated meanings of figures can also influence their applications. Players feature traditional patterns that have special emotional intensity—like repeated riffs in an instrument’s highest register or expressive blues cries—to evoke dramatic power. Correspondingly, learners must master figures and specialized performance techniques that re-create the associative shapes of verbal language and abstract vocalizations, which in some instances convey specific meaning to listeners.5 At the same time as these allusions inspire new ideas, they may pay homage to the soloist’s predecessors and contemporaries. Other, less dramatically expressive patterns can also assume this role for soloists. Harold Ousley has “recently been using the ideas of Freddie Hubbard and Woody Shaw, playing off modal scales, like a pentatonic sort of scale. I wasn’t familiar with Woody Shaw’s sound when I first heard him,” Ousley recalls, “so I bought his first two albums and started listening and finding out what notes he used, what intervals his phrases were composed of. I took those phrases and played them in different keys and began to get the essence of it. I try to use that now to a certain degree. I try to incorporate it into my style.”