The trombone fit me and had the variety; I've always been very eclectic in my tastes. Early on I heard some recordings of the Nelson Riddle Orchestra with the bass trombone of George Roberts. I heard a sound I identified with—a sound of relaxation, of singing on the instrument. Berlioz called the trombone "the noble instrument of God," but in some composers' work it could be threatening, menacing. Roberts's sound had a sonorous, reflective, and loving quality. Later, when I got to know him, I asked Roberts who he modeled his sound on. He said, "Frank Sinatra."
I find that one style of music has given me insights into playing a completely different style. In Brahms symphonies you have chorales with three trombones—alto, tenor, and bass. It's like playing a church hymn all alone. We would spend so much time practicing to get the tuning and balance perfect, blending our sounds to emphasize the beautiful sonorities. Then, when I played jazz, I noticed that everyone tended to emphasize the rhythmic feel and momentum: either you could swing or you couldn't. When I rehearsed with big bands, I'd say, "What about this chord here? Can we get this more focused or in tune?" Afterwards the bandleader would say, "What did you guys do? It sounds like there are twice as many of you." We knew we were onto something.
At all levels of musicianship people edit—a performer will make a decision to take it down an octave, or play a sustained note instead of a trill. Editing is not only acceptable but encouraged; it empowers a student who, for example, may not have the technique to play something exactly as written. Sometimes when the trumpet section is overbearing, I'll say, "Trumpets: at letter A, why not clean out your instruments there? The end result will sound better."
As the church organist in Weimar, Bach would write a new prelude and cantata every Sunday. He wrote a 20-minute piece each week and copied the parts himself by candlelight! There is every indication that frequently, Bach did not finish the prelude by the time of the Sunday service. So he would improvise. Fascinating. Performance, creation, composition, all tied into one.
Being a band director is very much like being a parent. Sometimes you step back and say, "They'll learn from this one without being hurt." Other times you step in and say, "This seems fine to you, but there's a contingent in our audience who will not appreciate this." If you let them have their creativity, when you step in, they'll listen.
The nature of youth is that they are drawn to high, fast, loud. You have to set up Harvard kids to play something slow, because the nature of their minds goes against counting out a whole note. Today you can take a synthesizer or digital piano, push a button, and get a tango beat—it's instant and it's perfect. But a clarinet player who takes up the instrument in grade five doesn't sound instantly good or perfect. It takes years to develop a concept of the instrument, to develop a personal, mature sound. It concerns me when people tend to jump from one thing to another, because these long-term, in-depth learning experiences are not as prevalent as they once were.
I don't think of myself as a teacher so much as a catalyst who creates an environment where things happen. The actual encounter with the music will present its demands emphatically, much more so than my telling them, "I want this."
You can't play architecture and you can't talk music—you've got to experience it. Music is something aural, yet we teach it visually. We learn by repeating, imitating. Kids often don't hear what they're doing. But ask them to imitate this sound, to play this. Then ask: Can you make it sound madder? Can you make it sound happy? Experience precedes theory. Allow the sound to develop first.
A student might come in and say, "Did you notice that tree that's dying in the Yard? It reminds me of the sparseness of the third movement of that piece we're doing." I'll want to go out and see the tree. They are combining visual and aural experiences; tying two things together gives you insight into both.
I find that one style of music has given me insights into playing a completely different style. In Brahms symphonies you have chorales with three trombones—alto, tenor, and bass. It's like playing a church hymn all alone. We would spend so much time practicing to get the tuning and balance perfect, blending our sounds to emphasize the beautiful sonorities. Then, when I played jazz, I noticed that everyone tended to emphasize the rhythmic feel and momentum: either you could swing or you couldn't. When I rehearsed with big bands, I'd say, "What about this chord here? Can we get this more focused or in tune?" Afterwards the bandleader would say, "What did you guys do? It sounds like there are twice as many of you." We knew we were onto something.
At all levels of musicianship people edit—a performer will make a decision to take it down an octave, or play a sustained note instead of a trill. Editing is not only acceptable but encouraged; it empowers a student who, for example, may not have the technique to play something exactly as written. Sometimes when the trumpet section is overbearing, I'll say, "Trumpets: at letter A, why not clean out your instruments there? The end result will sound better."
As the church organist in Weimar, Bach would write a new prelude and cantata every Sunday. He wrote a 20-minute piece each week and copied the parts himself by candlelight! There is every indication that frequently, Bach did not finish the prelude by the time of the Sunday service. So he would improvise. Fascinating. Performance, creation, composition, all tied into one.
Being a band director is very much like being a parent. Sometimes you step back and say, "They'll learn from this one without being hurt." Other times you step in and say, "This seems fine to you, but there's a contingent in our audience who will not appreciate this." If you let them have their creativity, when you step in, they'll listen.
The nature of youth is that they are drawn to high, fast, loud. You have to set up Harvard kids to play something slow, because the nature of their minds goes against counting out a whole note. Today you can take a synthesizer or digital piano, push a button, and get a tango beat—it's instant and it's perfect. But a clarinet player who takes up the instrument in grade five doesn't sound instantly good or perfect. It takes years to develop a concept of the instrument, to develop a personal, mature sound. It concerns me when people tend to jump from one thing to another, because these long-term, in-depth learning experiences are not as prevalent as they once were.
I don't think of myself as a teacher so much as a catalyst who creates an environment where things happen. The actual encounter with the music will present its demands emphatically, much more so than my telling them, "I want this."
You can't play architecture and you can't talk music—you've got to experience it. Music is something aural, yet we teach it visually. We learn by repeating, imitating. Kids often don't hear what they're doing. But ask them to imitate this sound, to play this. Then ask: Can you make it sound madder? Can you make it sound happy? Experience precedes theory. Allow the sound to develop first.
A student might come in and say, "Did you notice that tree that's dying in the Yard? It reminds me of the sparseness of the third movement of that piece we're doing." I'll want to go out and see the tree. They are combining visual and aural experiences; tying two things together gives you insight into both.
"You can't play architecture and you can't talk music--you've got to experience it."
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