We’ve all used it.
And we all loathe it. Most of us would rather tape our music to the back of the person in front of us. Manhasset or bust. But you know what better? Better than even a Manhasset? Havin' Duke holdin' yo’ music for ya. But Duke’s dead. And you're not Charlie Parker. So internalize your goddamn music. Not memorize, internalize.
I saw Linda Oh last night, at the Vanguard. She's ferociously talented, you don't need me to tell you that. But her entire ensemble spent the night with their noses buried in their music stands. And it felt so off-putting. The quality of the performance was beside the point, because it was for them. Not for us.
Us guitarists are much-maligned for our notational illiteracy. Maybe it’s because we know better. Staves: not even once. You know what the last saxophonist I played with told me? ‘I wish I played guitar instead, like you.’ Mind you, this man toured with Stevie Wonder. I was some punk who only ever got as far as the local megachurch.
So.
Imagine you’re a chef with a Michelin star or two, like, best in town. You’ve all the culinary talent in the world, but that’s table stakes. What sets you apart is:
You’ve befriended that aspie weirdo who forages up the best truffles in the state, whose flakiness no other chef can tolerate, and now he’s loyal to you and you only;
You spent eight months navigating the byzantine bureaucracy that is the MAFF, culminating in a three-hour window in which you wined ‘n dined those salarymen to perfection, and now you’re the only chef outside of Japan who servers whatever obscure holy-grail crustacean you quested after;
For two months each summer you volunteer at old folk’s homes in exotic, far-flung locales, elucidating the secrets of abuelas and vovos and nonninans and baa-baas even Anthony Bourdain in all his charm would’nt’ve gotten through to;
...etc., etc., etc.
This newsletter is about practicing the impracticable: it studies how one cultivates that kind of idiosyncratic magic in a piece. I’ll write one Étude a week, and play it one-hundred times on-camera. With each iteration, I’ll internalize it a little more, and reach a little further at the higher creative dimensions that surround us.
It could be a subtle vibrato, speeding up, slowing down, softer, louder, going microtonal, adding an effect, playing another instrument, breaking out the robotic drum kit. Maybe it’s a different camera angle, different lighting. I might need a different outfit, or custom-tailor one! Or go busk with it the piece⏤you know you’ve made it sing, if New York City commuters stop dead in their tracks and shed a tear⏤or I’ll go DJ it at a club, even a single booty shaken is higher praise than a slew of Grammys.
Whatever this magic is, it’s not something that can be studied or taught; it’s something to be lived. I went to that one high school, the one seemingly every good jazz musician (also Beyoncé!) attended. Good ‘ol PVA. At a masterclass put on by one illustrious alumni who shall remain unnamed, said alumni said:
‘None you gonna play good jazz anytime in the next decade.’
They meant it as a maturity thing! And they were right! And we hated them for it! And they were still right! Not long after, I dropped out of music entirely. I had written and recorded the music to my first album, but when I went to write lyrics, nothing. The well ran dry, or rather there was no well to begin with.
Listen to it. It’s beautiful. But it’s voiceless, dumb. Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent. But I’m approaching my mid-twenties, and the time is nigh. Now, I’m jaded, world-weary, and I’ve seen it all. So I’m picking up the axe again in search of my voice, and writing about it here, until...
...until I headline at the Vanguard! There. Lofty goal set. I’ll close up shop if VV calls me and draws me one of those cute little signs. Promise :)
Until then, read on.
