‘As in life, so on keyboard’

By Editor on July 9, 2008 5:00 am

Stephen Merriman is a jazz pianist and composer based in San Francisco. Part of the exciting music scene of the 60s and 70s, Stephen worked as a studio pianist and arranger in Boston and New York, taught piano, and played the club and college concert circuits, both as solo pianist and as part of the New England Jazz Quartet and the Merriman Trio. A frequent live radio performer, Stephen released two solo piano albums on Avon Records, In My Own Time (1975) and The Seasons: A Portrait of the Life Cycle (1978). Stephen is also a psychotherapist, specializing in the treatment of addictions and dissociative disorders, as well as helping visual artists and musicians work constructively with their issues around creativity. 

After a hiatus from public performance between around 1980 till the mid-1990s, Stephen began playing publicly again in Cambridge and other spots in Massachusetts. Since relocating to San Francisco, he performs regularly at various locations in the city, including Café Euro, Simple Pleasures Café, and Bazaar Café. On June 3, Stephen played a set at Bazaar Café that included songs from his new CD, Modal Soul,  other original compositions, and jazz standards. In a conversation with Rohit Chopra, who was there to hear him play, Stephen talks about his approach to Modal Soul, music as a form of spiritual communication, the mystery of inspiration, the musicians who have influenced him and their contributions to the universe of jazz, and how his work as a psychotherapist informs his understanding of the creative process. 

How might you describe your approach to Modal Soul? What were some of the things you wished to achieve with the album?

There were four main threads that led to recording Modal Soul.

First: Undertaking Modal Soul was my acknowledgement to myself that I was improving as a pianist.

Much earlier in life, when I was in my twenties, I had pursued a career as jazz pianist, composer, and arranger. During this period I released two LPs of solo piano jazz (In my Own Time [1975] and The Seasons: A Portrait of the Life Cycle [1977]), and played college concerts in solo, trio and quartet settings. However, in my early thirties, as I was completing graduate school at Harvard and embarking on a very different career, my ‘playing out’ days came to an apparent end. Over the next twenty years or so, I continued to play and compose, but a career in music was no longer my raison d’être.

In hindsight, given my immature attitudes and predispositions during that earlier time, had I been any more successful with my music career as it existed then, I doubt I would have survived it.

However, it ain’t over ‘til it’s over. About seven years ago, when I was in my mid-fifties, opportunities began to come my way to play out once again. I was pretty rusty, and it took quite a while to blow enough soot out of the furnace that it could become somewhat serviceable. But it did happen. I landed a regular solo piano brunch gig at Club Passim in Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where I played for over a year, and it was during this stint that I realized that my playing was actually improving (what a pleasant discovery!). It came to me that my playing had reached a level that warranted recording Modal Soul.

Second:  I was very much taken by the evolution of digital technology as it pertains to keyboards. As a player and composer I have always felt drawn to bass figures as a foundation for both harmonies and rhythms, experienced both with music of the Baroque and with jazz. Indeed, I was very blessed during those earlier years to have begun to develop a facility with playing, and improvising, walking bass lines on piano. I did a lot of gigs with horn players in which the piano was the rhythm section. Amazing practice, that was. Two bass players I knew, John Neves, at the time a well-known jazz player and teacher at Berklee College of Music in Boston, and John Hart, an utterly competent, journeyman bass player living in Cambridge, MA (both of whom are cited in the liner notes to Modal Soul), picked up on what I was developing and encouraged me, expressing the opinion that I had this wonderful, natural feel for the structure of bass lines, and that if I continued to develop this ability, I would “have it all”–meaning, not fame or fortune, but a form of musical completeness. I am indebted to them both.

Back to keyboards: Modern digital keyboards (the good ones) are things of beauty. The piano sounds they produce are “sampled,” meaning that the tones they emit are actual recordings of exemplary concert-level acoustic grand pianos. Also, the best manufacturers have mastered the technical challenges of meaningfully emulating the keyboard action/feel of excellent acoustic instruments. Indeed, some of them go a step further, offering very high quality digitized samples of other instruments. And . . . the ones that truly fascinated me have the ability to “split” the keyboard (at a player-defined point) so that the left side can be made to put forth sounds of acoustic bass combined with ride cymbal, while the right side can remain in the acoustic piano mode. Voila!: the (meager, yet definite) elementals of a jazz trio!!

I had a few opportunities to try out several of these instruments. With their wonderful “sampled” sounds, excellent action combined with split keyboard capability, the best of them were perfectly suited for the kind of playing that had been developing within me for almost forty years. Instrumentally, I was “home.”

Third: I was originally drawn to the keyboard as a young child, finding in it a safe medium through which I could express emotions that dared not be verbally articulated in an abuse-ridden household. In the process I inadvertently happened upon the vehicle that would preserve my sanity. I would only go half-mad (difficult, but remediable)–not the whole route (beyond hope). This special relationship between the keyboard and me, and the music “we” created, lent, as well, a special seriousness to that which music “holds,” and what can be conveyed through it. While unable to communicate with precision what comes so easily to verbal language, music can “reach beyond” the verbally precise to convey ranges of expression, experience and meaning that are “beyond words”– the unspeakable. As composing started to occur for me in my teens (kind of spontaneously), all my compositions (about 100 at this point, including a four movement piano suite) would come to carry (for me, anyway) this sense of yearning and wonder that transcends the verbal faculty.

Fourth: I wanted to teach myself digital recording. On my two earlier LPs I had served as engineer on the first and had hired an engineer for the second. It is difficult to both play and engineer. There is only so much energy to go around, and the engineering mindset is a very different neurological arrangement than the neurology of “creative, risk-taking, performing musician.” On the other hand, I figured that if I could learn some of the techniques of digital recording well enough, it would free me up from the rigid constraints of time (and money) attendant to using a professional (for hire) studio. I thought this possible trade-off might be worth it. I was nervous about the challenge, but I believe my decision to be both engineer and performer on Modal Soul was the correct one, at least this time around. Perhaps I got lucky.

In summary, as I approached Modal Soul, I was striving to celebrate the level my playing had come to over the past several years of returning to “playing out,” combine a lot of “split-keyboard’ playing featuring simultaneously improvised base lines and melodic lines, give musical voice, through the gravitas of the compositions themselves, to life themes that carry some weight and meaning for me (and hopefully for others), and, if I were fortunate enough to be able to pull off the playing, recording, editing, and mastering chores of Modal Soul, have a CD that approaches a kind of transcendent quality that leaves words behind.

I was struck by the many registers in which the album tracks operate, holding or bringing together seemingly divergent imperatives, like lushness and delicacy. The tracks have an incredibly beautiful structure, yet also reflect a sense of freedom and play. The compositions are contemplative, as the title suggests, yet evoke an immediacy, a sense of being in the moment.  Could you share some thoughts on this?

At one level the themes addressed musically in Modal Soul are unexceptional (as all deeply human themes must be). They can, and do, loom large in the individual life, but they are not unique experiences in the context of the human condition. The experiences of “daring to set forth–in pursuit of any worthy goal” (“Walkin”), expressing one’s love, intimacy, devotion and commitment to one’s partner as a gesture of love (“Emily’s Song”), the emotional hangover of “Act in haste; repent at leisure” (“Lament”), wondering about what one is “called” to do in this life, or whether “callings” even exist and, if they do, how one would ever recognize them (“The Call”), wrestling with personal loneliness as both curse and exaltation (“Alone”), attaining a goal, only to discover that all one has achieved is to be (once again) at the bottom of the next climb (“Staircase”), experiencing a degree of torment and perdition that is somehow redeemed in a profound way (“Modal Soul”), and, metaphorically, holding vigil while awaiting the new dawn (“Awaiting First Light”)–are, along with so many others, held in common by most of us who are embodied in a space-time existence. Yet finding a musical resonance that embodies them is a stirring challenge, and on Modal Soul, the challenge is met often enough to make me smile with some satisfaction. Modal Soul is not without warts and dimples, but bear in mind that one person’s warts and dimples are another person’s beauty marks.

Regarding interlacing elements of structure and play, your comments about Modal Soul are most generous and heartwarming. Song form is important to me. Much (though not all) of contemporary jazz composition presents musical elements as a kind of gymnastic routine, in which one’s ability to improvise is “tested” on an obstacle course–often excruciatingly demanding–of harmonic, melodic and rhythmic elements. Such compositions, or ‘tunes,’ are written as vehicles for improvisation, rather than as complete musical statements unto themselves. The beauty of song-as-composition–as a composition containing it’s own dignity (what I’ve called gravitas)–is often sacrificed, or lost altogether. In such cases, virtuosity trumps musical completeness. There is nothing necessarily wrong with having challenging musical elements in jazz compositions. However, for me, I want, and need, to feel that when I perform–when I am about to play a “song,” “tune” or “composition”–I am approaching a whole train of pre-existing musical thought that is already complete unto itself, and sufficient without me. Should I dare to approach it, I better be damn ready to risk having something, both in the arrangement and improvisation that I bring to it, worth hearing–something that contributes to its beauty, its style, its flair, its essence.

One other point: I don’t possess a profound musical talent, however such talent as I do possess has managed to mature very slowly–along with the rest of me–and, combining with the richness of a much more extended and fuller life experience, is now capable of rendering meaningful musical statements that carry a sense of completeness to them. This process of maturation and fruition continues to develop, within me, on all levels. Given all this, I am a happy camper, indeed. Maybe this “happiness,” that at nearly 62 years of age I am playing better than I ever have through all my 54 years of involvement with the piano, colors the music in a way that makes it more engaging along the lines that you cite in your question. Increasing age certainly brings with it increasing degrees of freedom. One is less bound by conventional anything; life, overall, becomes, moment to moment, more a series of spontaneous, continuous acts of self-creation. Maybe my motto should be “As in life, so on keyboard.”

At the performance at Bazaar Café, you mentioned that at times the muse works in concert with one and at times quarrels with one. Could you speak to the nature of inspiration in jazz, with regard to composition as well as performance.

The immediate question that remains unanswered prior to any performance is whether the Muse will show up at all. There is nothing more hilarious, in a self-defeating way, than to have good technique happening, in the absence of any inspiration. Of course, sometimes the Muse may be there, and energy is rampant, but one’s technique is not up to the task of rendering her inspirations suitable pathways of expression. This is also frustrating–especially for her. Under either circumstance, one would, I think, do better selling shoes. The relationship a musician has with his/her Muse (Euterpe, in this instance–the Muse of music–one of the Nine Muses of Greek antiquity–notice that the words “muse” and “music” are cognate!) is a fascinating intrapsychic adventure. Inspiration–the Muse–is very mysterious, a consciousness unto itself, with an agenda that can run in a very different direction than the musician’s (or composer’s) conscious orientation. In the realm of composition it can make its presence (she can make her presence) felt as musical snippets injected into the mind that are as catchy as Velcro, and dedicated to pester their unwitting host until they are worked with and developed. The force here is possessive. One can’t shake it; one can only tame it (momentarily) by working with it. When turned over and over, such snippets assemble into full-blown inspirations that yield beauty, or simplicity, or stunning discordant atonalities, or complexity, or haunting dissonances within arresting melody, or harmonic progressions that are different, and more inspired, than anything the composer has done prior to this siege or even thought about doing, or rhythmic syncopations that have no apparent precedent, or new chordal voicings carrying unfathomed nuances of emotion. Out of this (often) unruly mix precipitates a new piece, or composition. The fact that the energy or inspiration seems sourced elsewhere is somewhat borne out by the fact that the composer him/herself may well feel a sense of awe, once the piece is composed, as its innate structure and form, now set forth, reveal an elegance that is beyond the composer’s conscious ability to have conceived of a priori. The Muse in all this is the thankless taskmaster, although experiences with her are what composers pray for. In her absence, a composer turns barren. Yet the madness of possession can only be tolerated so long. It finally remits, a relief is felt . . . then, over time, a wondering creeps in as to whether she will ever visit again (along with a worry that she won’t), then arise the deep pangs of longing for her to return.

In the playing/performing realm it’s the same Muse (or maybe her evil twin) but a slightly different dynamic, as jazz performance is largely spontaneous, and the Muse is often moody.

However, let me back up a bit: Especially as a solo player/performer, there are three major consciousnesses in play: the personal identity consciousness of the musician, the consciousness of the instrument (yes, I do believe in ‘machine consciousness’ as a form of consciousness that an be actively engaged and worked with), and the Muse. The personal consciousness of the musician is beset with the prosaic challenges of everyday life–the wratcheta-wratcheta of day in, day out existence. The instrument, especially if the musician has chosen it and cared for it lovingly, has the consciousness of a loyal friend always at the ready to do our bidding. It really wants to “give back.” (On the contrary, if a beat-up instrument is imposed on the player, as in a nightclub setting, or the instrument is one the musician owns but does not take proper care of or respect, such instruments may become saboteurs that await their opportunity to misbehave and thwart the intentions of the musician, often to his embarrassment.) The Muse, on the other hand, is an energy that is capable of using the musician’s neurology mediumistically, “coming through” to realize momentary corporeal existence simultaneous with engaging in expression through the act of playing.

Although, as previously mentioned, there can be no guarantee that the Muse will show up, it is unmistakable when she does. Neurology realigns, the multiple dimensions (more than can be consciously followed) involving (among others) harmony, melody, rhythm, phrasing, voicings, et al., start to orchestrate with each other in ways that are mutually reinforcing. “Lift-off” occurs in which the playing, and the conceptions that inform it, are given immediate execution without any intervening interval of contemplation. The channel is open. The energy streams forth. There is an immediate flow through from conception to execution. Indeed, conception and execution are the same act.

The Muse is nothing if not coquettish. I have had innumerable experiences of her effervescence and her evanescence–her bursting upon the scene and her sudden departures. For instance, occasionally, prior to playing out, I will be filled with a surge of desire to be playing. My hands will be grasping chords on an imaginary keyboard, and my fingers will be engaging in runs in the air. When I feel like this, I know that She is pressing me to provide her an outlet–waiting in the wings for me to let something come through from her. The anticipation is very exciting. I have no idea what she will come up with or, rather, what we will come up with together. Yet I know that we are going to dance! Then again, there are evenings when she is staunch in her insistence to be admitted, only to suddenly vanish halfway through an engagement. (Those evenings can be very long, indeed.) On other evenings, I may be feeling so exhausted from other life obligations, worries, insecurities, etc., that I am simply too piss-beat to venture forth at all. Yet, one aspect of the profession of being a “playing out” musician is that if you have been hired to play, you show up and “make noise” no matter what. It’s part of the deal of being a musician; it’s also part of the discipline. Starting an evening from such a place, it can feel as if I’m facing an evening where I am in waist-deep water in a stream, trying to walk along the streambed against a four-knot current. Molasses. Then, without warning, the Muse sometimes swoops in. Energy changes, conceptual synapses start to shake out and line up, stamina and inspiration are just suddenly there, and things start happening. Some of my best evenings have occurred while coming from a place of exhaustion–even depression–and suddenly catching a wave of the Muse’s energy, and surfing it. It is one of the most ineffable, yet tangible realities for those of us who have been a part of its play. The experience of Her, through various encounters, can take on the ruddy hue of reality.

Could you speak about some of your influences?

There have been many. Here are some who come to mind.

Dave Brubeck: I have to give Dave Brubeck credit for introducing me to small combo jazz. His albums featuring Eugene Wright on bass, Paul Desmond on alto saxophone, and Joe Morello on percussion were wonderful for their time. Brubeck wrote terrific songs, and his polyrhythmic playing, as spurred on by Morello’s boundless creativity and precision, were very inspiring. I heard him in concert at MIT in Cambridge, MA in about 1960 (after Time Out (1959) had been released). Later, his two LP Carnegie Hall Concert (1963) set thrilled me. I think it was through Brubeck that I felt motivated to pursue a career in jazz. His Jazz Impressions of Eurasia (1958) remains on my top ten list of great albums. Once, at a school in Pennsylvania, we were both a part of the same concert series. That was a thrill for me.

Thelonious Monk: I don’t really know if Monk ever said this, or if I just imagined (after all these years) that he did. The quote is: “There are no wrong notes; there are only wrong people to hear them.” Monk was one of those challenges I could not avoid. I was completely ignorant as to his exquisite genius when I first heard him. However, I was determined to befriend him, in the form of his music. I bought a copy of Monk’s Dream (1963-an album on Columbia). It just challenged me silly. I listened to it over and over, and thought I was hearing a stream of fluffs and other technical gaffs. I didn’t see how Monk could get away with releasing music like this. Good God, was I ever ignorant!! Then, little by little, I started to actually “hear” him. He played lines that were so syncopated–that could run from “corny” to taking your breath away without so much as a self-conscious sniffle. His sense of time was impeccable (Ben Riley, his drummer on one occasion when I saw him in New York in 1966, said that to me when I asked him about it), and because it was, he could take liberties with it that exulted in eccentricities of all sorts. That extraordinary sense of freedom and devil-may-care exuberance were just wonderfully liberating. His rhythm sections that were so solid and could swing so hard, his long-term association with alto saxophonist Charlie Rouse, his compositional genius (“Round About Midnight,” “Crepuscule with Nellie” and so many others), his unassuming stage manner (when not playing Monk would sometimes just stand up and, eyes closed, turn round and round in circles, in a reverie over what his group was doing without him), he was one of the most remarkable and, arguably, the most original of all the great jazz artists of the twentieth century. Our paths crossed once, and I learned a lesson from an encounter with him I shall never forget. It’s private.

Bill Evans provided me with some of the most complete musical evenings I have ever experienced. The way he borrowed, and built on, chordal voicings that have their provenance in the music of Debussy and Ravel–that drew, unabashedly, on classical, romantic influences, and then combined these elements with jazz tempos, made a deep impression on me. Additionally, his conception of the jazz trio was that of an orchestration, often spontaneous, of co-equals. Drums and bass were not just time-keepers and pulse providers and harmonic cellar-dwellers; they were co-creators. This was not “soloist as accompanied by . . . ,” but, rather, “The Bill Evans Trio: Bill Evans, Scott Lafarro and Paul Motian together.” Also, Evans was the one caucasian artist on Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue, probably a brave move for Miles, and a courageous one for Evans. (I remember hearing Evans on another Miles album that must have been recorded just a bit earlier than Kind of Blue. I can’t remember the name of it. In the mix, the piano playing is unmistakably Evans’s, however the level of the piano in the mix is very low, and apparently no credit was given to Evans for the date. It had me wondering if Miles was himself challenged, at that time, to have a white guy in his group. Maybe Evans was on a probationary stint with Miles, or something like that. I really haven’t a clue. Of course, by the time Kind of Blue came along, any notion of Evans’s being something of a second-class citizen in Miles’ group was long gone. Indeed, Evans wrote those memorable liner notes to the album, where he talks about jazz improvisation and likens it to a Japanese art form. Obviously Miles did not object.) Evans’ work on Kind of Blue continues to inspire me, even after more than nearly fifty years of hearing it. There are always new things to hear! The subtlety of phrasing, gentle yet insistent syncopations, sparse yet elegant lines, the way he teases and toys with the downbeat and shifts so seamlessly through all these moods, is simply one of the most exquisite piano performances in all of jazz, whether in solo or group setting. He is credited with pushing harmonic conceptions into the realm of modal voicings, although it is clear that both McCoy Tyner and Herbie Hancock were no slouches in making their own contributions to this spatial way of conceiving harmonic structure. My personal note? I was able to have an audition with Helen Keane, Bill Evans’ long-term manager, at her apartment in New York City (1972 or so). She was very gracious, and said that she liked what I was doing, and that if I were serious I would need to move to New York. I wasn’t ready to take the risk.

Oscar Peterson: What can I say about him. Coming up as a successor to the great Art Tatum, Oscar Peterson had a range of technical prowess, sense of swing and gifts as an arranger of jazz trios that was astounding. He was an early, post-Brubeck influence on me. His album Affinity (1959) is one of the most cohesive jazz trio albums ever recorded. The compositions  (including “Waltz for Debby” by Bill Evans) are beautifully set forth, with the song form celebrated through a stunning range of improvisations. The Sound of the Trio (1961), recorded live at The Hickory House in Chicago (you can hear the silverware clanking in the background!) is a tour de force of live piano jazz performance in a laid back setting. Peterson’s sidemen Ed Thigpen, on drums, and Ray Brown, on bass were perfect complements to him. Oscar Peterson was a large talent, and his trios were always about him, with quite carefully arranged intros and exits. However his playing is exceptional, and his composing, as on Canadiana Suite (1964) reveals a whole different level of subtlety and sensitivity that is not always evident in his up-tempo playing. Also, he saluted the music of others; for example, his treatment of Leonard Bernstein’s score for West Side Story (West Side Story: Oscar Peterson Trio, 1962) comes damn close to rendering definitive versions of a number of those songs. No pianist I have ever heard swings harder than Oscar Peterson. He inspired me by way of just knowing that such a gifted creature actually could be out there roaming the earth. He was “out there,” somewhere, doing these impossible things on the piano, while I, struggling, was trying to believe that I might actually have it in me to be a good pianist someday-though never that good!  Personal note: Oscar Peterson was my mother’s favorite jazz pianist. It was a special evening, indeed, when I took her up to Lennie’s on the Turnpike in Danvers, Massachusetts (in about 1973?) to hear him. Between sets, I summoned up the courage to go up to him with my mother and introduce them. It was a thrill for me. At the critical moment, I think my mother may have tranced out!

John Coltrane posed a similar sense of challenge to me as had Monk. I came to him through A Love Supreme, and, though I would not have known how to express it, I realize that it was the devotional aspect of his music that transfixed me. Trane taught me that devotional motivation–the energy of spirituality and the urge to achieve some form of union with one’s Creator–were valid reservoirs to draw on in composing for, and performing in, the jazz arena. This was a new kind of calling. A lot of jazz (and good jazz at that) hangs out in the down-and-out gritty of the nightclub: booze, drugs, indulgence, jive, personal tragedy. Much jazz composition draws its inspiration from these themes. Coltrane flipped that on its ear. While he played in nightclubs (where, at close range, I heard him on several occasions), what he brought to those environments was spiritual quest. You can hear this quest in its nascent state on earlier albums (pre-legendary quartet albums), as in Soultrane (1957), once you get the hang of what this questing sounds like musically–his phrasing, tonality, timber. His Ballads album (recorded in 1962) in which he brings the spiritual quest to lyrical expression of ballads (composed originally to express secular love-related themes), made a deep impression on me. Ditto John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman, the one album Trane made with a vocalist (1963). My favorite John Coltrane album is Crescent (1964) recorded shortly before A Love Supreme. This album is a magnificent balance of the fervor of spiritual quest and the lyricism of both elation and suffering on a thoroughly personal, human scale. It is a remarkable achievement. It was through Coltrane that I first came to appreciate McCoy Tyner, a huge influence on me (and just about every other contemporary jazz pianist, if they’re honest enough to admit it). Coltrane’s composing was also top-notch. He could affix the sense of yearning in such pieces as “Naima” and “Giant Steps” among others. He also had a wonderful ear for songs that were not a part of the jazz canon, but could be very exciting as jazz vehicles (“Inch Worm,” “My Favorite Things,” “Every Time We Say Goodbye,” “Greensleeves”, just to name  few). Coltrane really appreciated a good composition.

McCoy Tyner swept me away from the lyricism of Dave Brubeck and Bill Evans. He could play lyrically (listen to Coltrane’s Ballads), but his range was much more (increasingly so with the passage of years) modal and bombastic, combining torrents of sound as a watercolor wash for Coltrane’s heavenly (heavenwards) excursions, and punctuating musical clauses with heavy hits of deep-bass octaves. I was completely fascinated with Tyner’s range and drive-not to mention his technique. Three of his earliest LPs as a leader: the trio albums Inception (1962), Today and Tomorrow (1963) and Nights of Ballads and Blues (1963) had an immense impact on me. They are both rough-edged and brilliant, exuberant portrayals of a young player who is bursting at the seams with fire and originality, and, already frighteningly accomplished, has yet to realize, or even guess at, the limits of his abilities. Over the years, I heard McCoy play many, many times. After Trane died in 1967, Tyner (who had already left the quartet) had a very successful career with any number of groups assembled under his name. In trio settings Tyner had a tendency to be accompanied, on club dates, by drummers who would play much too loud, often burying his pianistic fury under a pile of percussive mush. This didn’t seem to bother McCoy at all. One of the most compelling, original facets of McCoy Tyner’s playing is that he had a way of articulating an improvisational line (melody, loosely) that was completely unique, and has not, to my knowledge, ever been successfully emulated (nor, maybe, could it be). I don’t know how to describe this stunning gift in verbal language. It simply has to be heard (and, perhaps, pointed out by someone who knows of what I speak). Recordings that have goodly portions of this brilliance include The Real McCoy (1967) and Just Feelin’ (1991). Fortunately, McCoy Tyner has been extensively recorded. There must be countless other examples of this wonderful, inimitable highlight. Personal note: I had the opportunity, on several occasions, to express my appreciation and gratitude to McCoy for all that he had accomplished, and for his influence on me. I probably managed this best when I said to him: “I hope that it is a source of deep satisfaction to you as you reflect on how many pianists you have influenced over the years, and how a whole school of jazz piano playing has grown up around you as a result of your wonderful gifts.” We were shaking hands as I said this. McCoy, ever reticent, simply smiled gently in appreciation, acknowledging my compliment.

Lee Morgan was one of the most exuberant spirits in jazz, and, to this day, remains my favorite trumpet player. His energy was irrepressible; his joy in high-energy lyricism unexcelled. His playing was uniformly ebullient! He was also a genius. When jazz “Fusion” appeared on the scene in the early 1970s, heralded by Freddie Hubbard’s LP Red Clay (1970), it took the jazz world by storm (and not without criticism). The upright bass was gone. In its place, a Fender bass. The packaging was slick, and commercial. The “hook”: combine jazz improvisation with infectious “rock” rhythms gravitating around funky bits of musical doggerel. This was the “Fusion” formula. It had its advocates, and it had its detractors. However, Lee Morgan had already opened up this territory in an absolutely unique, beautiful and “unslick” manner almost seven years earlier, with his The Sidewinder (1963).

With The Sidewinder, which had a smaller, though thoroughly devoted following of black listeners, Morgan broke ground. The playing is so lively and the ensemble gels so completely as it spins improvisational gold out of the filaments of rhythmic pulse, rendered all the more infectious through being understated, and all built around true, extended, thoughtful song form. One of the most brilliant-and brave-piano solos in all of jazz is to be found on The Sidewinder, in the title cut. Barry Harris was a bebop-trained pianist, and the sensibilities of bebop could not be more different than those of a driving, unrelenting, though understated, rock beat. Harris’ solo, which always warms me up with appreciation when I hear it, is a masterpiece of having to solve, on the fly, the problem(s) of adapting a style mastered for a whole different branch of music to this new alien world. When it’s his turn to solo, Harris is on his own, with nowhere to hide. You can tell the synapses of terror are starting to crackle at the outset of his solo, as if he’s saying to himself, “Oh ____! What have I gotten myself into? What do I do next!!” He then takes technical motifs from the bebop world and “gets down” with them. His efforts are not altogether unclumsy, but they are all the more precious and dear for that-and . . . he turns it around! It becomes a truly wonderful outpouring, and very successful. His solo–his response to being on the spot–has always inspired me.

Personal note: In the early 1970s, I had the great good fortune to meet, and befriend, Eddie Heywood, who had composed “Canadian Sunset” and “Soft Summer Breeze.” This was on Martha’s Vineyard, where he was living. At our first meeting–the first of many–we spontaneously engaged in a “show and tell” in his piano studio that lasted almost six hours. Over the three years to follow, we put in a lot of time together. He was on the comeback trail as a pianist, and had decided to record an LP. The group he brought to the Vineyard (for rehearsals) included the bassist Bob Cranshaw, who was the bassist on The Sidewinder LP. When we were introduced, I wasted no time in unfurling some questions. It turns out that between takes, Morgan would disappear into the bathroom, emerging some minutes later with the sketch for the next piece to be played. He was composing them on the spot! They are brilliant pieces. Cranshaw also told me that the final run-through of the “head,” or basic melody on “The Sidewinder” cut was recorded separately, and later spliced onto the original. When I met him Cranshaw had long since switched over to Fender bass, having had to give up playing the upright bass due to a back injury. Eddie Heywood’s kindness to me is reflected in my citing him in the liner notes to Modal Soul. He mentored me, and I learned much from him just in the act of being around him, and hearing him play. We loved to swap ideas. He has shown up in my dream life as a loving mentor. We really had a wonderful kinship.

Herbie Hancock’s influence on me has been two-fold-both are wonderful. As a piano “comper” (comping is the act of providing chordal/harmonic underpinnings, as a part of the rhythm section, for other soloing instruments–usually horns–during their solos), Hancock is simply the best. His creativity in feeding rhythmically and harmonically attuned chords, and snippets of this and that, have the effect of pushing soloists to new heights by keeping the rhythmic, and harmonic dimensions burning underneath. No one does it better. A great example of this can be found on Miles Davis’ Four and More (1964). As a soloist, Hancock’s originality and range are also of prodigious proportions. His comping has inspired me for decades. His soloing abilities are so colossal as to have the contrary effect: they discourage me from ever wanting to approach the keyboard again with any pretension of being able to play seriously. He is the only pianist I know who has ever, during an improvisation, “quoted” a John Coltrane solo (in this case one from A Love Supreme), working it into a one of the most remarkable piano solos I have ever heard. (This solo, along with the usual magnificent comping by Hancock, can be heard on Wayne Shorter’s “Speak No Evil,” the title tune and track #4 on Speak No Evil (1964). The quote of the Coltrane solo from A Love Supreme can be heard from 6:39 – 6:52 on this track. It is a complete tour de force.)

One other influence (who will remain unnamed) provided me a “lesson in life”: I went to see a first tier, very celebrated, jazz pianist who was perfoming in a trio setting. He, and his trio, were featured in concert at one of the most venerable concert halls in Boston. Despite his undeniable brilliance as a pianist, I came away from the concert disinclined to like this pianist very much personally-not that it matters, or he will ever care. However, the experience was one of profound disillusionment and disappointment for me. It was painful. The trio concert took place several years back (2005?). Here’s what unfolded. As part of a gracious introduction, the impresario of the concert pointed out, with obvious pride, his son in the first balcony, stage right. He announced that this was his son’s first attendance at a jazz concert. The full house applauded politely in appreciation for the fact of this young man’s initiation into the world of jazz performance (another one won over; we can use all the help we can get!). When, a few moments later, the featured artist came out on the stage, he picked up the microphone. The first words out of his mouth were: “Now wasn’t that just one of the stupidest things you ever saw?” He was serious.  The audience was stunned. The young man, riding high with pride and excitement just moments before, likely felt crushed by this remarkable display of pure cruelty. No one saw the impresario’s reaction. That renowned pianist should be on the hook for paying that boy’s psychotherapy bills when, one day, this esteem-puncturing humiliation likely spills out on the couch. So this pianist, whose musicianship and accomplishments are beyond question, and his legacy thoroughly secure, has influenced me in this other way, as well. The problem is that, as a musician, he really is that spectacular. It annoys me when arrogant people actually have the goods that, in some twisted up fashion, enable their arrogance. I’d rather they not have the gift at all if they are going to carry on as colossal assholes. But some of them do. Go figure. As a postscript to this little anecdote, I simply mention that at this trio concert, the heretofore unthinkable happened: his Muse did not show up to enliven him that night, and his playing was flat and lifeless. I never thought his Muse ever let him down. Guess it happens to the best–and worst–of us.

Vince Guaraldi: Known more for his composing and scoring for the “Charlie Brown” television specials, Guaraldi is special to me personally on two accounts. First, he wrote a gorgeous instrumental piece called “Cast Your Fate to the Wind” that was a “cross over” hit on the pop-music charts–always a rarity for a jazz piece. (Paul Desmond’s “Take Five” did it; Ramsay Lewis’s “In Crowd” did it; Eddie Heywood’s “Canadian Sunset” did it: I can’t think of any other examples.) Second, that song was released (track # 5) on an album that is sublime, called Jazz Impressions of Black Orpheus (1962). This release is simply one of the nicest piano trio albums ever recorded. The exquisite bossa nova score from the movie Black Orpheus, composed by Antonio Carlos Jobim and Luiz Bonfa, is given sensitive and loving treatment by this soulful pianist. His playing is sparse and playful, kind of minimalist, yet the swing is utterly wonderful, and the musical experience is complete. I think that Guaraldi helped me to begin to conceive of the distinction between musical virtuosity and musical completeness. When I play out in San Francisco where I now live, I honor him by playing “Manha da Carnaval” from that album. I wish he were still alive. I would love to meet him.

George Winston: George was originally sized up by some of the critics (if memory serves) as a jazz pianist. But he wasn’t ever one, really. However, what, and who he was, and is, was a ground-breaker. There is now a whole category called “folk piano” that he, single-handedly-OK, maybe dual-handedly-pioneered. I listened to him first on Autumn (1980). I bought Winter Into Spring (1982) and December (1982), in quick succession. Winston’s compositions were lovely and minimalist, and his playing mesmeric. Several years later I saw him in concert a the Berklee Perfomance Center in Boston, and it seemed at that time that he was catering to at least, in part, a jazz audience-but he didn’t really swing easily-and he wasn’t trying to. What I appreciated about him is that, despite taking some critical heat, he knew the path he was on, and he was not deterred. His career shows that he was right. I’ve never heard his music played on KCSM-FM, the Bay Area jazz station in San Francisco (then again, KCSM, thus far, hasn’t, as far as I know, played Modal Soul, either!). But he deserves to be heard. What I learned from him, at a distance, is how to stay true to a vision, critics be damned. There are truly very few visionaries in our world, and the world, by definition, is set up not to understand them. If their spirits are dampened by this lack of being met by the “establishment” in any of its guises, we are all the poorer. George’s was not dampened or, if it was, he wrung it out, let it dry on the line, and kept on going. He plays 150 concerts, more or less, each year, traveling, and spreading that balm of beautiful, arresting piano music wherever he goes throughout the world. That’s a pretty nice legacy.

Kenny Barron is one of the most gifted pianists in jazz, and rightfully considered a gem among the cognoscenti. In his career, he has played man more dates as a sideman than as the headliner. This is easy to understand; he is always in demand because he does everything so well. His comping is brilliant and explosive-the only pianist who, in this department, is on a par, I would say, with Herbie Hancock-and that in itself is saying a lot. His technique is dazzling and not exhibitionistic-totally there in service of his artistry-his soloing so inventive, often fleet-fingered with a deft, light touch. He is a marvel of good taste and apt contribution in any setting. I do not have sufficient releases featuring him. However, one of his CDs, Quickstep (1991) is one of my favorite recordings of all time. His uncanny musical judgment and seemingly effortless execution of a boundless range of musical ideas are wonders to behold. His touch at the keyboard is so deft and light it’s as if he spins silk from moonbeams. In person he comes across as humble, genuinely grateful to have had such a long, productive career. There is nobody more respected.

Ahmad Jamal has the songwriter’s gift. “Poinciana,’ on the LP But Not for Me (1958) is one of the most beautiful, enchanting song-form compositions ever written. As a performer Jamal is a true technical virtuoso, who can, within the blink of an eye, combine hectic, sped up but exactingly articulated lines of Bach amidst an otherwise funky, down home rhythmic pulse. He is also a master “quoter” of snatches of other composers’ songs while improvising. A lot of his playing ping-pongs back and forth, here and there, rounding buoys through a slalom course of musical motifs. When you hear him play several times, you realize that the motifs don’t change that much. It’s really music based on cavorting on a “groove.” That isn’t much of a deterrent to enjoying it, though, because the songs on which the grooving is based are just such good tunes, and Jamal’s treatment of rhythm is so infectious. Jamal demonstrated to me that song form, if the compositions are good enough, can compensate for less than inspired improvisation. It’s a solid lesson to learn, given the fact that the Muse, as far as I know, comes and goes on her own schedule for everyone. (Listening to some John Coltrane out-takes taught me this, as well.)

How has your work as a psychotherapist influenced your understanding of music and playing?

My career in psychology has run a span of nearly 30 years. Involvement in this field as staff psychologist, psychotherapist, addictions specialist, and consultant to industry has definitely, as I’ve gotten older, helped shape my perception of the jazz world generally, the approaches that various luminaries take to their art (sometimes, for some of them, more craft than art), the “returns”—payoffs—various artists are going for in their careers (which is reflected in their art they produce), and, more close to home, my own attitudes towards what I am doing, both musically, and as someone who, at least in some small way, can be thought of, once again, as a “jazz pianist,” and, therefore, involved with the field. Over the years I have also served as psychotherapist to several clients who are active in the jazz field, including pianists, as well as others with careers in different areas of the arts.

During my earlier jazz career I was ignorant about matters psychological. This included an almost complete ignorance about who and what I am (and was then). I had no conscious acquaintance or acknowledgment of principles inherent to my own being—structural elements of my psyche that are near absolute (at least in terms of this life sojourn), by which I must abide if I am to stand any realistic chance of evolving in ways that foster happiness and completeness. As someone with an unexamined life, the arenas of music, generally, and jazz specifically, as areas where I showed some early promise and gained a bit of recognition, were ripe to be abused. What I mean by this is that when a person has certain unacknowledged deficits of character, any area that appears to provide an avenue to “success” can be leaned upon, by the clueless, to provide more of a return than is possible, or healthy. In other words, in my early career I combined a modicum of talent with a misdirected instinctual craving for power, prestige and romance—and “jazz”—read: becoming an object of adulation on a stage and cashing in on it in grandiose, self-destructive ways—was the means through which I was determined to command my craved-for payoffs. This is an oft-told story.

The music I played then, as I developed in those years, was, at times, quite good. The spiritual yearning was there in the playing, and some of the compositions I wrote in those days are still among my best, but , as a house divided (and not knowing it), all my creative efforts were—could not help but be—polluted.

In the process of beginning to gain some knowledge about myself in my early thirties (my hand being forced by the messes I was creating), I found myself reevaluating my career—especially my attitudes I had been bringing to it. Seeing how full of dry rot the whole thing was, how much I had perverted a talent in order to derive unwholesome returns from it, I realized I had to let it go . . . and I did. I wasn’t yet far enough along in education and training to be a psychotherapist, so, while back in school, I became a piano tuner and repairman for several years. The person who just had to be the object of adulation on a stage became the person who was now told “go ‘round the back; take off your shoes by the door; the piano’s over there on the right; let me know when you’re done.” Adjusting to this was a form of going through withdrawal, but I had become keen on gaining some sanity, so I tolerated it, and eventuality became grateful for it.

Once I began to practice as a staff psychologist/psychotherapist/addictions counselor, I found the field so fulfilling and rewarding—especially as I saw that the destructive tendencies of my earlier life were finding some kind of redemptive outlet, that I really did not miss, any longer, being a “jazz musician.” I felt quite liberated from that old pursuit that had (the way I had gone about it) been so constricting of me. What this really tells me, in hindsight, is that I had finally gotten beyond placing an excessive reliance on being a “jazz pianist” as a vehicle to feed and support my addictive appetites. Also (and this happens only when one’s own denial breaks down and one gains the freedom that only comes from facing some hard truths about oneself), I could survey the whole jazz field in a new way, drawing on my growing set of newly minted values to find, if it existed, what the intrinsic worth is of partaking in any artistic endeavor. And . . . (yes, the ‘shrink’ part of me is always operative in me in how I take in and make sense of what I observe) I could gain impressions about how other jazz artists were going about their careers, and whether the music they were producing was consistent with values that matter. I’m overstating this a bit, because it is also the case that I largely detuned from the jazz world when I departed it fully as a performer at age 33. I no longer followed who was up-and-coming, the latest sensation, the most recent newly discovered “monster’ player, etc. That’s one reason why my incomplete list of those who were my influences consists, without exception, of those exceptional individuals whose careers were in flower during the 1960s-70s. Of course, many are now gone, but a small number continue to be fruitful even at quite advanced ages. (Brubeck, Jamal, Hancock, Tyner, Barron). In the jazz world, that’s also a rarity.

The question, largely derived from my earlier music career, as reshaped by some adversity and a lot of psychotherapy, became generalized as: “What is it that makes anything intrinsically worth doing, for its own sake?” The key to safely reentering the jazz arena, once again, as a participant (however modest) hinged on finding the answer to this question, though when I reached a point of being able of frame it, a return to music at the level of playing out or recording was nowhere in my mind (that I was aware of). It was simply a question that I applied to anything, and everything, that was going on in my life.

Of course, one forms opinions, some likely correct, others probably not, about how mental conditions/states of mind affect—and maybe account for—the artistry (and downfalls) of other luminaries in jazz (and many other fields as well). I have some set impressions, but they are private, and it’s not fair, nor would it serve any good purpose, to diagnose and speculate at a distance, let alone in print—and . . . I could be flat wrong. However I can mention briefly, and expand upon, what has been set forth elsewhere (not starting with me). I’ll do this very briefly regarding two luminaries: Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane.

Monk was probably schizophrenic, and this rearrangement of his neurology likely accounts for his remarkable re-visioning of harmonic and melodic relations that are crystalline in their beauty and symmetry. His affliction got channeled into this amazing, perfect, idiosyncratic art; his personal keyboard visions (likely) became more real to him than his earthly companions. One can only marvel at how such an unruly affliction of the mind, which likely severely limited his life in the interpersonal sphere (What a great middle name!), could yet yield such beautiful structure and form when channeled through his music. Indeed, his affliction became his art. This was not an insignificant triumph. Consider how it has enriched all of us, and Monk’s music, I dare say, receives as much play today as it ever has.

The attention given to him is so deserved.

With Coltrane, as best I can tell, the energy from his drug/heroin addiction in the 1950s, which forced him to take a break from his career for a while (and could easily have cost him the whole enchilada—which, within ten years, it did, as irremediable hepatitis finally claimed him) was redirected, with conscious intention, into coming back to playing in a new way. All of Coltrane’s playing and composing, from the late 1950s until his death in 1967, can be understood as intentional, devotional music. Unlike Monk, whose channeling of his schizophrenia into art was likely a reflexive act—not arrived at through contemplation of what was bedeviling him (my speculation)—Coltrane’s triumph was in consciously, with intention, redirecting the energy of craving relief through alcohol and drugs into his art as a spiritual quest. This is the truest realization of an often misunderstood process in psychoanalytic theory called ‘sublimation.’ For those who know the term, sublimation is often considered to be an unconscious process, in which energy from a relinquished behavior will, unbeknownst to the host (below the threshold of consciousness) seek a new plane of activity. This phenomenon of “energy” from renounced or thwarted activity ‘A’ becoming manifest in activity ‘B’ is really (to borrow another term from psychoanalysis) a ‘displacement.’ The truest from of ‘sublimation’—the one that Coltrane accomplished—is a conscious redirection of the energy from a renounced activity (drug addiction, in Coltrane’s case). In consciously, with awareness and intention, reclaiming this energy—the life force, the vitality—that had been running him so destructively, and redirecting it into an acknowledged spiritual quest, Coltrane’s course was set. His music, for the rest of his life, would never be the same, because his whole way of relating to it had been transformed absolutely. It is the power of transformation as a consciously sought and realized attainment that makes Coltrane’s music so special. The resonance of Coltrane’s spiritual quest reaches deep into those already embarked on their equivalent of it. It also reaches into those who, though not yet embarked, are capable of being awakened to it. Coltrane’s music stirs resonance and finds correspondence with the yearnings, acknowledged or not, of so many of us. His story is one of affliction redeemed.

His legacy will always inspire.

Regarding how my experience as psychotherapist influences my own understanding and involvement with jazz at this later point in life, I can simply state that this influence is profound. The art a person produces, in any area, always reflects one’s inner state, including not only one’s gifts and talents specific to the art form, but one’s orientation towards life in general. Ethical sense (or lack of it), philosophical ruminations, psychological components of character—both healthy and unhealthy—hopes and dreams, triumphs and defeats, suffering and transcendence, it’s all factored in. It is this inalienable truth that makes any art so interesting and compelling, and personal. Speaking just of my own involvement with jazz at this point, my rapprochement with a former career is not a going back, but, rather, a going forward. In its current state my involvement with jazz as a jazz pianist is an exercise in applied philosophy. Here’s what I mean: Solving the riddle of what it is about anything that makes it intrinsically worth doing, freed me up to start to value, and participate in things, exclusively on that basis. When I moved to San Francisco about a year ago, I had been playing out previous to that for several years. Arriving here, I knew no one involved in the San Francisco jazz scene. What’s more, by temperament I am one of the purer introverts you’ll likely ever encounter in your life travels. My music can assume attributes of both introversion and extroversion, but interpersonally I am an introvert, period. So even if I were inclined to rub shoulders, by way of ingratiating myself with whatever the scene is out here in the Bay Area, it does not play to my strengths to do so. In fact, if I were to do this—something that comes so naturally for those who are outer-directed—I would come off like a stiff. It’s just not my nature. In the “old” career days I would force myself to do it (the “hanging out” routine) because I thought one had to, that there was no other way. I always felt horribly awkward doing it. Because it was not a natural strength for me, I only had mixed success.

But I chose to embark on a different path here in SF (as I had started to do in Boston before moving out here), one that agrees with me completely. If finding my way by dint of charm, charisma (which I inherently distrust), and the force of personality was closed to me, what approach could still be open to an introvert like me? For an introvert, it would have to be—could only be—the music itself that could find its intended audience. How to put this to the test? The answer was easy: find a café in search of an identity, and offer to play there for free on a regular basis, and see what happened. Café Euro, a Russian owned café in San Francisco, became my “venue.” It wasn’t a listening room (it’s basically an internet café), but for ten months I played there most every Friday and Saturday from 6 – 9pm. Over the ten months I logged almost 170 hours of “playing out” time at Café Euro, and I met, among a small group of regulars who would frequently come to hear the music, my friend Don, who really listens to my playing (and who probably, out of those 170 hours, heard about 150 of it). In other words, the music itself attracted—found resonance in— a self-selecting group of listeners, and those were the listeners I was meant to have. No hype; no following the latest “in” trend or “happening” thing, just the enjoyment that comes from a recurring, reliable event that some people actually appreciated for the music’s sake. Even street people, who came in regularly to listen, would sometimes grope around for a dollar from their little stash of dough to put in the tip jar, because they were grateful for what they were hearing, and they really wanted to contribute something. I would try, sometimes, to talk them out of it, but they were in earnest. I guess the music, and the nice ambience, were really starting to reach them. Also . . . and this is a big plus . . . with all that playing out time, I was continuing to get better, to improve as a player. Playing occasionally at Simple Pleasures Café, in the Richmond district, also resulted in my finding my intended listeners there, again, few but self-selecting, who were aware that something in the music was reaching them. “Tony” became my stalwart fan at Simple Pleasures Cafe. I then played a few “open mic” spots at a lovely little listening room called Bazaar Café. These were seven-minute spots. The owner, Les, liked my playing very much, and he offered me an evening to play there. Hence the little showcase where you, Rohit, heard me play, which was also attended by “my” listeners from Café Euro and Simple Pleasures Café. And so it goes. Communicating through the medium of jazz piano to see where the music finds resonance, and the listeners and the fellowship that arise from that, is what it is all about. It is a pure undertaking. The same principle pertains to having recorded, and released, Modal Soul: put out the vibe, and see where it finds resonance. I have at least five more CDs of keyboard jazz left in me. It will be the same with them.

I have no objections if playing out situations come along that will be remunerative. I’m open to it. However, money is no longer a prime motivation for playing out. It once was, but that is all gone now. Playing out and composing were always intrinsically worth doing. They always had “intrinsic worth” to them. They were constants in my life, and have been very companionable throughout the course of a lifetime. I owe them. Money comes and goes, and is no longer the “deal breaker” in determining whether involvement in an art form is worth it or not. The ability to reach people, through an art form, in a way that is moving and stirring to them, is its own reward.

And so, the living experiment of having, once again (at a much later stage of life) a career as “jazz pianist,” only, this time, with its anchorage firmly set in a philosophical principle—maybe a spiritual ideal—rather than in more typical bold-faced commerce, continues . . . It feels good.

Categories: Interview