Piggybacking on the previous post’s topic (finding your own voice and making your own market), it’s critical that anyone with a specialized craft (be it music, art, writing, comedy, technology, etc.) evaluate not only their hopes, goals, and progress, but also what they are already capable of. I am a faithful, daily listener of the Adam Carolla Podcast. Comedy aside, I really enjoy his regular discussions of the craft of standup comedy and acting with the various comics, actors, and directors he interviews. In an episode I listen to time and time again, he interviews actor David Koechner and makes the following insight: “Don’t think of what you can do, think of what you do do.”

Say what you will about comedians (I consider great comics to be true artists), but the above statement is quite profound. As musicians, we’re always chasing some elusive goal. First, there are the purely technical aspects, or what can be written on the page: I need to play faster, cleaner, louder, softer. Then, there are the musical considerations, which cannot be notated: I want to develop an original interpretation, create an original phrase, apply subtle nuance. I may not have all of my 10,000 hours logged yet, but I’m far enough along to start applying my own personality, philosophy, and approach to the music I’m attempting to create.

I recently listened to some recordings I made earlier this year, and was reminded of the importance of finding, cultivating, and establishing one’s own voice. This is something I’ve worked towards for years, but feel like I’ve only recently made progress (despite the compliments of others). I, somewhat passively, listened to these recordings after having shelved them for a couple months following the initial, critical listen. I quickly realized that once I (mostly) turned off my analytical ears and simply used my aesthetic ones, I enjoyed what I heard. I had stopped trying to compare myself to my saxophonic idols and simply asked the question: do I enjoy this? The answer: actually, I do!

Without getting too descriptive or jargon-intensive, not only did I like what I heard, but I felt like I was finally starting to really play the ideas I’ve been hearing in my mind all these years, and in turn starting to sound like Mike Teager. Though committed musicians and athletes have much in common, music is not quite the sport we (myself included) often make it out to be. Instead of simply striving to be the best ______ (bebop, avant garde, hard bop, classical, etc.) saxophonist in existence, my primary focus should be cultivating Mike Teager’s approach to the instrument (which includes learning absorbing all of those relating styles, without being limited to them). As my mentor and former professor John Nichol says: “Make your own market.”

I’ve been struggling with some colleagues for a good little while, and only recently did I realize the possible source of my frustration. Talking with a good friend of mine, it dawned on me that while music may be a passion for me, it’s only a hobby for some others. This begs the question: can passion and hobby be reconciled?

Music is something I can’t shut off. Even if I’m not completely immersed in a particular project, my mind is still wrapped around music (in general) 24/7. I’m constantly thinking of something, be it phrasing, concepts, methods, approaches, musical ideas, etc. Generally, this doesn’t – and shouldn’t – make any difference to someone who considers music a hobby, only approaching their instrument or musically creative mind a few times each week. (There is of course nothing wrong with either; one of no better or worse than the other.) However, when individuals from each of these camps collaborate, is it as productive?

Artie Shaw, one of the most successful bandleaders of the Swing Era, was quite public about his reason for walking away from his music career: the music business. While he still loved making music (“It’s better than sex!”), the “business of music” is what ultimately turned him away.

Lately I’ve been struggling to make music with some of my colleagues simply because of extra-musical issues. When we’re playing, and focused on nothing else but our musical dialogue, we can’t be beat. However, when it comes to any sort of logistics: scheduling a rehearsal, booking a gig, advertising, or simply deciding what to play, there is constant conflict. In fact, at a recent gig in which the actual performance piece was quite inspiring, everything else about the gig fell apart and completely overshadowed any musical accomplishment. I later came to regret going through with the show at all.

There’s the old adage that any activity is 98% concentration and 2% perspiration. When it comes to performing, one can similarly say that it’s generally 98% logistics and 2% music. Again, going back to Dave Liebman: a jazz musician is not only a performer, but his/her own agent, promoter, secretary and treasurer. This blog and corresponding website are perfect examples. Not only do I focus my attention on my instrument, but also on maintaining my website, booking gigs, ordering business cards, networking and advertising.

Over the years, I’ve learned that not only is it important to collaborate with others who are musically and aesthetically in a similar place as myself, but also people who are aligned with my work ethic. Failing to give equal focus and attention to the business end will easily compromise any musical endeavor.

Alas, the first post. “Patient Zero,” as it were. I very much look forward to the development of this blog and the many topics I intend to cover, all of which will relate to the arenas of performance, musicology, and/or education. Though I will likely continue to revisit certain topics regularly, expect no sequential order. Some entries will be brief, others verbose. The blog is meant to be impulsive, just so I can get my ideas down on some virtual paper. This leads me to my first blurb: fundamentals.

I wear many hats as a performer alone. Since I was a wee lad, I’ve loved popular music (used in its broadest, most academic sense). For the last eleven-plus years, I’ve been classically trained (resulting in a B.M. and M.M. in classical saxophone performance), and I’ve been a “working” jazz musician for six. I love all three equally, both as a listener and a performer, and the perspective it’s given me is something I’ve really considered an asset throughout my musical life.

Last night I had a gig with The Elevator Conspiracy (my Lansing-based band), a group steeped in exploratory improvisations, rock, and, supposedly, lounge. Watching the opening band – a well-established Ann Arbor act – I noticed what’s a common theme throughout many “local” popular music groups: a lack of fundamentals. In this group’s case, it was most glaring in their obvious lack of rhythmic accuracy. (A solid rhythmic foundation is key in most popular music.) Whether it was the drummer and guitarist missing unison hits or the singer completely missing the beat when playing auxiliary percussion, the rhythmic inaccuracies were always at the fore. While this isn’t necessarily an attack on this particular band (though it doesn’t help their cause), it speaks to a larger trend in much popular music. Conversely, classical and jazz styles – even on an amateur level – require a degree of technical virtuosity to convince the listener, which includes a focus on fundamentals.

Yes, I know that many of these bands are trying to convey a message of some sort, but how can one properly communicate without the tools with which to speak? As jazz saxophonist, composer and pedagogue Dave Liebman states in an episode of Jazz Video Podcasts, “you can’t begin to think about executing something…that’s in your imagination or in your ear on the bandstand, it has to have already been covered in your practicing somewhere.” (Lieb is a heavyweight, and a major source of inspiration for me; I’m sure I’ll be coming back to him in future posts.)

Long story short: last night’s band’s message was largely lost on me, primarily due to their lack of fundamentals. Instead of thinking “that’s interesting,” I thought “get a metronome.” A focus on fundamentals – in this case rhythm – would have yielded a convincing, and possibly inspiring, performance.