Good Things Happen Slowly

by Fred Hersch

  And in 2013, as the label had done for the Alive trio release, Palmetto recorded a full week of sets at the Vanguard from my second solo engagement there. Originally intending to select the best performances from individual shows, I decided in the end to release only the complete last set from the final night in the run as Alone at the Vanguard. The set had a flow and a cohesion that made it feel like not only a set but an album. The sequence was perfect, I was in the zone, and I thought that pulling one definitive set made a bold statement that picking and choosing wouldn’t have.

  I remain appreciative of the good notices that have come my way since my emergence from the coma. I feel like I have been playing more deeply at this point in my life, whatever the reasons—age, experience, maturity, not caring as much what people think, and/or the wisdom and enhanced clarity of purpose that often comes to people forced to face death at close range. At the same time, I want my listeners to appreciate my music on its own terms, as music, and not as something secondary to the drama of my survival narrative. Just as I’ve never wanted to be defined solely by my sexual orientation or my HIV status, I don’t want to be known merely as the coma survivor. I don’t want praise out of pity or congratulations for my good fortune.

  This is a complicated matter, because jazz is an art that prizes personality. To express yourself from within, saying something true to your being, is an essential tenet of the genre. In my music, specifically, I have drawn deeply from my own feelings, beliefs, and experience. I’d like to think there’s truth in the proposition that no one else sounds quite like me and no one else could have written the music I’ve composed, for better or worse. My identity as a gay man, someone with AIDS, and a coma survivor has informed the music I have made over the years. Everything in me has gone into my music. In the end, though, it’s the music that matters—not what went into it but how it came out. Besides, a great deal of my music—in fact, the majority of it—has nothing to do with the particulars of my sexuality or my health.

  By the week of trio shows that led to Alive at the Vanguard, I had recovered all the technical facility I’d had before the coma while gaining quite a bit emotionally. I wrote a song about the coma and its consequences for me, centered on the comment that the ICU doctor had made to Scott at St. Vincent’s Hospital, “Good things happen slowly, but bad things happen fast.” The song, which has lyrics by David Hajdu, takes a positive turn, just as my life did, and ends with the thought that good things may happen slowly, but good things often last. David used the metaphor of floating at sea, lost in the dark, submissive to the fates: “Close the compass, fold the sail, and maybe we’ll land in a different place.” As a man and a musician, I landed in a new place after the coma, and it was a great place to be.

  I tend to think of the years after the coma as the period when I reached full maturity as a musician, with no slight to the hundreds of recordings and thousands of hours of playing jazz in live performances earlier in my life. I listened recently to one of the first albums I ever made, As One—the duo project with Jane Ira Bloom, who after decades of making brilliantly individualistic music remains underappreciated. I was surprised to find that album still exciting to hear. Jane is magnificent, of course, and I don’t sound much different than I sound today. Not much—still, I do sound somewhat different now, and I certainly don’t feel the same as I felt in 1984, when I was young and hungry and working overtime to prove myself. I won’t disagree with any of the people—critics and agents and music presenters and fans and friends—who have told me that since the coma I’m playing better than ever. But the factors underlying my development over the years are manifold and can’t be explained completely by my illness and recovery.

  Throughout the second decade of the twenty-first century, I’ve been working primarily in my favorite three formats—solo, duo, and trio—and I think my approach to all three has deepened. I’ve been offered more and more opportunities to play solo and have become closely associated with the format since my prodigious solo output at Nonesuch and breaking ground at solo piano at the Vanguard. As I’ve said, I’ve been interested in solo performance since my early days at NEC, when I was studying with Jaki Byard. I love the freedom that being alone at the piano provides. Keith Jarrett, in his early solo recordings, seemed to revel in that freedom, and so did Cecil Taylor. Keith seems to thrive in the freedom of playing alone. Cecil demands it. My solo playing may sound more structured than either of theirs, but as it goes down, I am constantly taking chances, playing on the edge, phrase to phrase.

  It took me years of experimenting with solo piano to understand that freedom isn’t a mandate for dizzy extemporizing. The framework of the composition is not an encumbrance, it’s a mechanism for applying the creative imagination. Rules can be oddly freeing—and most artists need some kind of limit, subject, framework, or focus in order to create. Stravinsky said something like, “If you gave me everything I could possibly require to compose and told me I could write whatever I wanted, I would just stare at the music paper. But if you asked me to write a piece for one piccolo and twelve tubas, I would be inspired and get to work at once.”

  I’m reminded of the respect for compositional form that I learned in my early classical training. Over the years I’ve never stopped listening to classical music as well as contemporary improvised music and music from around the world. When I play solo piano now, I draw on everything I’ve learned as a student, a music educator, a musician, a composer, and a listener, as well as a pianist in at least two genres. I’m working in a certain language of my own that draws from multiple traditions but retains the bedrock principles of theme and variation.

  I value storytelling above all else in art forms. This way of thinking is applicable to group playing, naturally, but it’s especially valuable in solo piano, where you’re the whole orchestra. I use varying registers, varying dynamics and articulations. I spread my hands from one end of the keyboard to the other, lowest note to highest note. I use multiple independent contrapuntal voices, all of which are responsive to the rhythm. It’s jazz, so there has to be a good time feel. When I’m done, I’d like to be able to say, “That’s time.” It’s taken me years to get to a place where I can do all that without thinking about it.

  —

  In 2015 I turned sixty. It’s an age that people often dread. For me, making it to sixty felt close to miraculous. I had been diagnosed with AIDS in my thirties and never expected to reach the age of forty. To have lived another twenty years of highly productive life, in a wonderful relationship, working and learning and growing musically the whole time, is a gift I marvel at every day but still cannot fully grasp. In Japanese folklore, when you turn sixty you are reborn—I certainly feel that way as I enter my seventh decade.

  In October 2015, the month of my sixtieth birthday, I was on the cover of the iconic jazz magazine DownBeat for the first time; that December I was on the cover of POZ, the AIDS magazine, for its long-term survivor issue. I am quite sure I am the only person so honored by both of these publications. I marked the occasion musically with an album simply called SOLO, the tenth solo album of my career. Released by Palmetto shortly before my birthday, it’s an archival recording of a concert I had given in August 2014 at the Windham Civic Center Concert Hall, a converted church in the Catskill Mountains of Upstate New York. I was unaware that the concert was being recorded and just played following my intuition without a set list—as usual. I remember really digging the recording when I first heard it—but I disregarded it for potential release, as most of the compositions had already been recorded by me on other projects or in other musical configurations.

  But alone in my car a month later, I put on the Windham recording and thought, Well, this is about as good as I can play. Everything just came together for me that night—my connection to the piano, to the tunes themselves, and to the audience was extraordinary. And Miles recorded “Autumn Leaves” God knows how many times. In the end it’s not the material that matters, it’s the performance. The
vibrant church acoustics with great natural reverberation had led me to play “Caravan,” the deliciously rhythmic and angular piece of swing-era “exotica” by Juan Tizol and Duke Ellington, as a very slow and spacy tango—you can hear my punched-out high notes ricochet from the back of the hall. I played my signature dedication piece, “Whirl” (for ballerina Suzanne Farrell), my classically influenced tribute to Robert Schumann’s “Pastorale,” and one of my favorite Monk tunes, “In Walked Bud,” his tip of the hat to the great bebop pianist Bud Powell, a colleague of his from the early days of bebop at Minton’s Playhouse in Harlem.

  The tracks are presented in close to the order I played them at the concert, but I eliminated a couple of performances and sequenced the album ending with Joni Mitchell’s “Both Sides Now.” Though I’ve loved Joni’s music since my high school days and was tickled to see her at the bar at Bradley’s once or twice, I had only played “Both Sides Now” once, many years ago, on a concert tour of the United Kingdom. But she was on my mind at the time of the show, which took place not long after word had gotten out that Joni had collapsed in her home from a brain aneurysm and was now hospitalized. With no plan to do the tune but a memory of the melody and chord changes intact from my teenage years, I played it in my own way, slowly, soberly, and in three-quarter time—and I’ve been doing it in concerts, on and off, ever since. When I play it today, I not only feel the music, I connect to the words, having lived a life that I’ve often seen as having two sides.

  At this point, though, I no longer see my life—or much of anything—in such simple terms. I’ve learned that there are many, many sides to most things and to most people, myself included. The only things that have two sides are flat, and the life I have experienced has been anything but that. I know how fortunate I’ve been to have had the experiences I’ve had, from hanging out and playing with the legends of jazz to achieving more success as a musician than I had ever imagined when I was hanging around the jazz clubs in Cincinnati. I’m profoundly blessed to have survived what I’ve endured physically, and I’m humbled to have the opportunity to give back as both a teacher and an activist.

  I look at life from many sides now. I’m still trying to make sense of it and draw from its lessons—and its mysteries—to make Fred Hersch music.

  Fred and Piano Strings, Copyright © Rosalind Fox Solomon

  TO BEGIN

  I started this book much like I start a piano lesson with a new student. I sat down with myself and said, I’d like to learn about you. How would you describe yourself?

  This is what I wrote that day:

  I’m a jazz musician. I have always made my living at it and these days, I can play whatever I want with whomever I want.

  I have a faithful and loving partner. I can’t believe how lucky I am.

  I have a variety of interests in and out of music. I’m a big fan of professional tennis. I enjoy visual arts.

  I toggle between massive insecurity on one hand and feeling like I am a badass on the other.

  I have battled with compulsive behavior for much of my adult life, and I’m still fighting that fight. I am currently obsessed with computer mahjong solitaire, which I find more addictive than cocaine.

  I’m never sure what or how to practice, so I rarely do. But I seem to pull it together when the lights go up. Occasionally I don’t, but I move on and pretend the next day like that concert never happened. Life is more than my last gig.

  I read a lot. I still get a kick out of Charles Dickens.

  I have a love-hate relationship with New York, which has been in a bit of a hate phase recently. I also love the country and the woods.

  I have been HIV positive for more than thirty years. I said this already, but I can’t believe how lucky I am. I take thirty-three pills a day.

  I am still in psychotherapy—perpetually trying to figure myself out.

  When I listen to music, it isn’t always jazz. I put on classical music or Brazilian music or R&B. I prefer to hear jazz live and go out as often as I can to hear other people play.

  I love crème brûlée but can’t eat it—as I am diabetic.

  I still get a thrill out of playing spontaneous music in front of an audience.

  I’m not a saint. There are times when I am angry, insensitive, and lacking in self-awareness.

  I am disposed to strong opinions and intense feelings. I think both have been assets to me as a musician, though they don’t always help me in personal situations.

  I’ve learned a lot over the course of my life. I hope I’m a more patient person since my coma, and I think I’m a more relaxed and generous musician.

  I have learned that gratitude is better than entitlement.

  I feel like I still have a great deal to learn.

  After one month of working every day at it, I can now touch my toes.

  I’d like to try to write a book. Here goes.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My sincere thanks to: David Hajdu, my close friend and full collaborator since the inception of this project; Kevin Doughten, who brought intelligence and passion to the editing of this book; Chris Calhoun, the best (and musically hippest) literary agent imaginable; Jamie Bernstein, Marilyn Fabe, Hank Hersch, Peter Katz, Peter Kountz, Linda Nelson, Esperanza Spalding, and Johannes Weidenmueller, who saw this book in its early stages and made valuable comments; Ethan Iverson, whose interview with me on his blog Do the Math got me thinking about writing a book; Jesse Aylen, Molly Stern, Tricia Boczkowski, Mark Birkey, Elizabeth Rendfleisch, Jon Darga, Stephanie Davis, Julie Cepler, Ellen Folan, Linnea Knollmueller, Maya Lane, and Christopher Brand at Crown Books; all the photographers who captured the wonderful images for the insert; everyone at the MacDowell Colony, Peterborough, New Hampshire; Lorraine and Deborah Gordon and Jed Eisenman at the Village Vanguard, New York City; Herschel Garfein; Robert Rund; my piano teacher Sophia Rosoff; Dr. Michael Ligouri, Dr. Mark Astiz, Dr. Linda Kirschenbaum, and the entire staff of St. Vincent’s Hospital; and especially to Scott Morgan, for always being there for me in every possible way.

  SELECTED DISCOGRAPHY

  (RELEASES AS OF SEPTEMBER 1, 2017)

  * Original composition(s) recorded on this album

  + Album produced by Fred Hersch

  ∆ Album or selections arranged by Fred Hersch

  AS LEADER

  Open Book (Palmetto PM 2186)*+ ∆

  Sunday Night at the Vanguard, The Fred Hersch Trio (Palmetto PM 2183)*+ ∆ (2017 Double Grammy Nominee)

  SOLO, Fred Hersch (Palmetto PM 2081)*+

  Floating, The Fred Hersch Trio (Palmetto PM 217)*+ ∆ (2015 Double Grammy Nominee)

  Alive at the Vanguard, The Fred Hersch Trio (Palmetto PM 2159)*+

  Alone at the Vanguard, Fred Hersch (Palmetto 2147)*+ (2012 Double Grammy Nominee)

  Whirl, The Fred Hersch Trio (Palmetto PM 2143) *+ ∆

  My Coma Dreams (DVD), Fred Hersch, directed by Herschel Garfein (Palmetto PM 2175) *+ ∆

  Fred Hersch Plays Jobim (Sunnyside 1223)+

  Live at Jazz Standard, The Fred Hersch Pocket Orchestra (Sunnyside SCC 1222)*+ ∆

  Concert Music 2001–2006, Fred Hersch (Naxos 8.559366)*+

  Night and the Music, The Fred Hersch Trio (Palmetto 2124)*+ ∆

  In Amsterdam: Live at the Bimhuis, Fred Hersch (Palmetto 2116)*+ ∆ (2006 Grammy Nominee)

  Leaves of Grass, The Fred Hersch Ensemble (Palmetto 2107)*+ ∆

  The Fred Hersch Trio + 2, The Fred Hersch Trio (Palmetto 2099)*+∆

  Live at the Village Vanguard, The Fred Hersch Trio (Palmetto PM 2088) *+

  Songs Without Words (Nonesuch 79612-2) *+ ∆

  Let Yourself Go, Fred Hersch at Jordan Hall (Nonesuch 79558-2) *+

  Thelonious: Fred Hersch Plays Monk (Nonesuch 79456-2)+

  The Duo Album, Fred Hersch & Friends (Classical Action 1002)+

  Fred Hersch Plays Rodgers and Hammerstein (Nonesuch 79414-2)+

  Passion Flower: Fred Hersch Plays Billy Strayhorn (Nonesuch 79395-2)+


  Point in Time, Fred Hersch (with Drew Gress, Tom Rainey, Dave Douglas, and Rich Perry) (Enja ENJ-9035 2)*+

  The Fred Hersch Trio Plays (with Drew Gress and Tom Rainey) (Chesky JD-116)*+

  I Never Told You: Fred Hersch Plays Johnny Mandel (Varese Sarabande VSD-5547) (1995 Grammy Nominee)

  Live at Maybeck, Volume 31, Fred Hersch (Concord Jazz CCD-4596)*

  Dancing in the Dark, The Fred Hersch Trio with Drew Gress and Tom Rainey (Chesky JD-90)+ (1993 Grammy Nominee)

  Red Square Blue: Jazz Impressions of Russian Classics (Angel/EMI 54743)+∆

  Forward Motion, The Fred Hersch Group (Chesky JD-55)*+∆

  Heartsongs, Fred Hersch Trio with Michael Formanek and Jeff Hirshfield (Sunnyside SSC 1047)*+

  Evanessence: A Tribute to Bill Evans, featuring Gary Burton and Toots Thielemans (Evidence ECD 22204-2)*∆+

  The French Collection: Jazz Impressions of French Classics (Angel/EMI 49561)*∆

  Sarabande, Fred Hersch, Charlie Haden, Joey Baron (Sunnyside SSC 1024)*+

  Horizons, Fred Hersch Trio featuring Marc Johnson and Joey Baron (Concord Jazz CCD-267)*+