No Beethoven: An Autobiography & Chronicle of Weather Report

by Peter Erskine

  I used the theatre music on my albums Transition (which has a front cover that’s later voted as one of the worst album covers of all time, but is a good album nonetheless, featuring a very young Joe Lovano; that album and subsequent New York promo gigs will help land Joe his record and career-making deal with the Blue Note label); Motion Poet (probably my favorite solo album, it features a great sound and wonderful arrangements by Vince plus great playing all around. It also features an ambitious arrangement of Zawinul’s “Dream Clock” from the Weather Report Night Passage album. This tune cost the most to record but seemed well worth it, and I could not wait to play this for Zawinul when I traveled back to L.A. from the mixing session. His only reaction after hearing it: “It’s too slow. Come on, let’s have a drink!”); and Sweet Soul (which begins with an exquisite quartet rendering of the ballad from William Walton’s score for Henry V, “Touch Her Soft Lips and Part.” Normally done as a strong chamber orchestra piece but not a jazz ballad, I am glad to put this piece on the map, while Lovano, Kenny Werner, and Marc Johnson play breathtakingly beautiful). Then the ECM era begins. No more arrangements from Vince, but I will ask him to contribute some compositions — and I might even try penning a couple for these albums myself. I will continue to work with Jack Fletcher over the years, providing music for several more of his Shakespeare play productions while he provides Vince and me with album and song titles. Other theatrical opportunities will present themselves in the form of a books-on-tape collaboration with actors John DeLancie and Leonard Nimoy (Alien Voices), actor Greg Itzin (President Charles Logan from TV’s 24 series), in several Andy Robinson-directed plays (Andy played the Scorpion killer in the first Dirty Harry movie), and so on. My favorite moment working with directors like Jack and Andy would be their patience with the actors, giving them the necessary time to discover an emotional truth about their character or part. Were it always so with music making!

  42. The ECM Recordings

  The inspired idea to work with John Taylor and Palle Danielsson results in four finely attuned recordings that create their own niche in the realm of recorded music. These are unlike any other recordings I’ve made or heard. Somehow, sitting in the “leader” seat creates a delicious sort of vulnerability, and while I hate the feeling at the time I also recognize that the birthing process has to be like this. “Machiavellian” does not begin to describe or do justice to the machinations that Manfred Eicher is capable of bringing to the creative process. That’s not meant to be taken as a criticism, by the way. The man has a strong vision. Musical X-ray eyes like Superman’s, only he is not necessarily fighting for the American way. In fact, Manfred has an antipathy common to many Europeans regarding the way we do things as a culture and as musicians. Jan Garbarek does his best to explain some of this to me during a post-concert hot chocolate soiree in Paris, while Manfred and drummer Daniel Humair argue about something having to do with jazz and American music in general.

  If nothing else, Manfred — like Zawinul — is a good button pusher. He’s also a genius when it comes to sound.

  John Taylor is a brilliant musician and prolific composer. The trio is naturally assumed to be “his,” but it is not and for a simple reason: setting aside the fact that my name was enjoying some marquee value while we were booking tours, I can at least lay claim to the guiding esthetic principle that would serve us well for most of our recording and touring work, and that was to treat musical events as non-events.

  Anti-playing, as it were. Whereas Mike Brecker was intent on the band hitting a homerun or getting the music into “5th gear” for pretty much every tune, I was more interested in exploring the other side and seeing if we could create a counter-tension and resulting (or relative) musical strength by going the opposite direction. This was accomplished by lots of post-concert discussions, usually in the touring van as we headed back to the hotel. These were the perfect guys to do it. Palle Danielsson was a terrific sport about all of this and was game to try anything. Both of the guys are great, and it’s really the top quality of their playing that made the trio sound so good. But the band definitely has a specific tone to it, and that was where my name came in; other trio collaborations by John and Palle, for better or worse, just don’t sound the same. This is all said with pride. (The leader has to take care of all of the business stuff, too.)

  The first album is not without its hiccups. Things are going smoothly enough until we reach this new tune of mine that has a spare and bare melody. “Perfect,” I’m thinking, “for the ECM sound” we’re getting in Rainbow Studio. We’re recording with all of the instruments in the same large room, a sonic strategy that forces the musical direction to go where it happens to go: drumming choices and dynamics must needs be specific and careful as hell! This is compositional improvisation at an all-new level, and if I’m not careful, I risk getting another Manfred “your drumming sounds like Billy Cobham’s drumset being pushed down a spiral staircase” comment — which he made during one of the Kenny Wheeler album dates.

  Back to my tune: We play through the song, I’m liking the vibe, but it needs a bridge. Nick Purnell is there and he helps me to craft one. I am feeling a bit on the spot, and Manfred must be able to sense this. We figure out how to play the rest of the song and create a form, and so we decide to record it. First take. The sustain rings out to infinity, and we all take off our headphones and smile at one another and nod our heads towards the control room where we’ll listen back to the song. By this point Manfred has got the newspaper propped up in front of his face, always a bad sign (especially when he uses a Norwegian newspaper, seeing how he does not read or understand Norwegian). I ask him, “How was it?” and he lowers the paper and merely gives me a shrug. I venture further: “Shall we play it again,” to which he says, “What…for?” To which I can only start laughing, and I say, “Let’s listen to it!” My final verdict: “Fuck it, it’s good!” By the next day’s mixing/mastering session at album’s end, Manfred agrees and “On the Lake” makes the album. The title track is a sketch of John’s that we decide to run down. The song has that kind of sound and vibe that makes me immediately realize that I’m not going to play the bass drum even once during the entire tune. “Of course,” I think as we’re playing it, “Manfred’s probably going to start the fucking album with this tune.” And he did. And that’s much of how You Never Know was born. Add some brilliant Vince Mendoza tunes, one of them named by my daughter Maya: “She Never Has a Window.”

  I still enjoy listening to these albums, and many people became very fond of them. They are sonic adventures. My father was never enamored of these albums, though, as there wasn't enough drumming on them for his taste — him and a few others, probably. (Once, while getting ready to go onstage at a Modern Drummer festival with a U.S.-version of the piano trio, I am advised by one of the show’s producers just before we’re announced, “Oh, and Peter, don’t play too much of that sensitive shit.”) It’s a long way to travel for me, but we persevere as a trio, and we tour and record for some time in Europe. But the fourth and final album is no fun.

  I’m sending copies of the tunes to John but getting no response. “Is John’s fax machine working?” I wonder. “Yes” comes the reply, and so I don't think much beyond that and travel to Oslo from L.A., arriving in the late afternoon. I go from the hotel to the studio for a private evening rehearsal with John and Palle. “Let’s start with this tune of mine,” I venture. John then does his best Art Carney/“Ed Norton” imitation, looking at the music but not able to bring himself or his arms far enough down to play the keyboard. He tries and tries again but is not able to bring himself to play. Finally, after performing this pantomime several times, he turns to me and says “Peter, this would work perfectly in a Clint Eastwood film.”

  “Hmm. Oh yeah? Which one?” and John readily replies, “The one with the bridges in Madison County. After all, Peter, you HAVE been living in Hollywood for some time now, and...” I’m defeated. I can’t believe he’s pulling this. I finally suggest
that John play one of his new compositions, and after he runs it down I say, “You know, that would work terrifically well in an Arnold Schwarzenegger film,” and it’s all downhill from there.

  The next day Manfred asks me what’s going on with John, and I have no idea what to tell him. We finish the album, somehow, and that is that for that trio. By this point, I thought that Manfred and I were getting along real well.

  Enter Alan Pasqua and Dave Carpenter, my American saviors. No need to travel, and these guys swing and they’ll play my tunes and trust them and not worry about trying to be too clever with the music. Of course, Manfred expresses no interest in recording this band, and so I decide to make a trio album on my recently-begun Fuzzy Music CD label — a move that Manfred seems not to have been too pleased about — and that’s it as far as any other ECM work goes. But I’ll always be grateful for having gotten to play with Palle Danielsson and John Taylor.

  43. Competition

  Recently, I went down to the swimming pool in a hotel in Europe, and it was filled with young parents and little babies: it was a baby swimming class. I was expecting an empty pool, so that was a very big surprise. But what truly surprised me was how much I enjoyed being in the pool with all these little babies, and how fearless they were! A slightly older baby —a girl, who was maybe one-and-a-half years old — was much more tentative and fearful compared to the newborns who were just so happy to be in the water. I thought: It’s interesting how fear comes along in your life and creates uncertainty and doubt and unhappiness. When you get much older, you lose that fear; maybe you get another kind of fear, the fear of dying, and then you accept that, too. Fear is the troublemaker, I think.

  Quite a few years ago I was invited to appear at Modern Drummer magazine’s drum festival, a two-day affair held annually in New Jersey; this was one of the earlier events. I was flattered and pleased to get the call, entered it into my datebook, and then pretty much forgot about it. A couple of weeks prior to the festival I got a call from the magazine’s managing editor who was handling all of the programming and logistics for the show. He informed me that I would be following Dennis Chambers, and I thanked him and hung up. Dennis was pretty new on the scene at the time, but I was already one of his biggest fans. Talk about prowess! This guy was the Mike Tyson of the drum world (back in the days when being compared to Mike Tyson was not such a bad thing). However, the thought of having to follow Dennis in a drum solo environment was, well, intimidating! And so I turned to my wife and told her that now I was not really looking forward to traveling back east to New Jersey to do this show. She asked me why, and I told her that I had just found out that I would be following Dennis.

  Mutsuko: So? What’s the problem?

  Peter: Well, you see, Dennis is just… He’s just so strong.

  Mutsuko: Hmmm. Use his strength to your advantage.

  Of course, you could watch the film The Karate Kid and figure out the same thing, but when my wife said that to me, good ol’ “Mr. Lightbulb” lit up above my head.

  Could I possibly “out-drum” Dennis? No. I couldn’t, I can’t, and I never will. And, heck, I wanted to be able to enjoy his performance as much as everyone else there, too. So, I decided on three things: One, prepare to sit back and enjoy his great drumming, even if it was five minutes before I would go on. Two: Approach my solo piece in an opposite manner from what I figured he would do; i.e., I knew Dennis would be slammin’, so I started off my set with a pair of brushes and played as simple and as softly as I could. And three: Practice anyway!

  Dennis DID play great that day. And I enjoyed every bit of it. I also managed to enjoy every bit of my own solo spot, because I was determined to. I was not out to be better or to get more audience response; just determined to try my best and to make some music on the drums. I should add that Dennis and I are very close friends, and I am grateful for his friendship as well as for the fact that we seem to have a mutual-admiration society going.

  Okay, so maybe I was clever enough to follow my wife’s advice. Her wisdom would prove to be the saving grace for the day. But I was also inspired by the sense of good old-fashioned competition. I WANTED to do well and to show what I could do: who wouldn’t? So, part of what I did was to create a musical balancing act to what the audience had just heard; but my competitive juices were flowing. In other words, competition need not be considered a dirty word. A sense of competition is a healthy thing: it motivates us to strive, to excel, to become better, and in some cases to survive. It may help prove us to be fit enough to do what we do, and to do it enjoyably and with confidence. Meanwhile, after Dennis’ amazing performance, I started my one-hour presentation by simply playing the brushes, and then I let the music take me to where it was going. This involves LISTENING to the music — even when it’s just yourself; the sound of the drums and the sound of the room and the motifs that you play and the variations that you can come up with are all interconnected, and if you connect these things to your imagination, then there’s no time or reason to experience fear or insecurity. It becomes ALL ABOUT THE MUSIC.

  As a young drummer I was always worried what other people thought of me, just like most drummers and most young people worry about. But I had more anxiety, perhaps, than some. My psychiatrist father sent me to a psychologist, and I read the report years later: the psychologist was concerned about my anxiety, considering how much and how well I was accepted. Growing older yet joining all of these bands as the youngest member, I usually felt that I had something to prove, and I was very aware of people listening to me as such: maybe enjoying it, but half the people maybe in judgment or jealousy: Why does HE have this job? You acquire defensiveness to deal with that. And while I would always show respect to older drummers (without fail, even if I didn’t like the way they played; they were older, they’d been doing it, they deserved respect — that was an important part of the tradition), I wasn’t always so ready to “give it up” to my colleagues. You know, competition.

  So a few years ago, when my son was in high school, he came home and he said, “Dad, can we talk?” and I said, "Sure.” He said, “Can we go into the studio?” “Of course!” So, we go to the privacy of my studio and I’m thinking, “Wow, I thought we already had this discussion, but maybe, hmmm, something’s come up.” I’m wondering what he’s going to tell me, he’s struggling to speak, and I say, “Come on, tell me, what’s going on?” He finally said, “Uh, okay. My good friend Matt came up to me and said, ‘No offense, dude, but Jeff “Tain” Watts is a better drummer than your old man!’” So I smiled, and I said, “Yeah, well… I agree.” “DAD! NO!”

  I continued, “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He desperately said, “B-but you’re more sensitive, right?” and I said, “Well, that depends on who you ask, son, but don’t you worry about your Dad. Your Dad is doing just fine.”

  A few weeks later I’m in Copenhagen at the airport with a Steps Ahead reunion band, and we run into Branford Marsalis’s band. And there’s Tain. So we give each other a hug. Now, some years earlier Jeff and I had played a concert together in Japan that was pitched as a drum battle. At the end of our set, when we were bowing and shaking hands and giving each other a hug, Jeff whispers into my ear as we hug on stage, “I won.” Now this is some funny shit, and of course you don’t forget something like that. So I see Jeff at the Copenhagen airport and I tell him about my son and his best friend, leaving out the more sensitive part, the story basically ending with my agreeing with the friend of my son: “Yeah, Jeff’s better.” So Jeff is looking at me, and I’m looking at him as I tell the story, and when I get to that part in the story, he says, “Get the fuck outta here.” And I said. “No, man, it’s true,” and I gave him a hug. We said good-bye, and walking to my gate was the lightest I’d felt in years. This remarkable lightness of spirit… It was really interesting to me that I felt this way.

  A week later we are in Munich, and we’re soundchecking in the basement of the hotel that has a very large jazz club, The Bayerischer hof. It was a bi
g summer festival with a lot of bands: Chick Corea was there, but he had the night off, Branford was there with the night off, too, and so during our soundcheck there’s Jeff and one of the other band members. Normally, if I was rehearsing and Jeff Watts was sitting 15 feet away, I would become self-conscious. But instead it occurred to me: what a nice thing that he’s here! He could be walking, shopping, taking a nap, or drinking a beer. Instead he was here, giving me his energy! I felt even freer by this, and I realized that if I’m playing and someone’s listening — it might be in judgment, but usually it’s just great that they’re listening. If they like it: fantastic. If they don’t, then maybe there’s a reason they don’t. All I can do is play the best I can play the music. Technically you try to pay attention and do it well, but you just try to play the song. Concentrate on the arc of the song, not so much on the performance, and the result will be more compositional than otherwise. In contrast, one of the other members of the band was made to feel very self-conscious by this other musician of that same instrument. He was having the worst time. The monitor wasn’t good, the lights were wrong, the sound wasn’t right, the instrument… And I thought: the same circumstances, but this musician is having a terrible time, because of fear. It completely chokes your circulation, it chokes your thought, and it chokes your ability to do what you do.

  When my students are asking me what to do when it’s not feeling good, I say, “Just take a deep breath, simplify what you’re doing, and really try to feel gratitude for the existence of these other musicians you’re playing with, as well as gratitude for the ones in the audience.” I guess this plays back to what Jaco said to me all those years ago: “Have fun.” Of course, Weather Report was a very competitive atmosphere.