Jazz Camp, part 3 of 4 − 7 July, 2002
[ Continued from part 1 and part 2. ]
The results of our music theory test placed us into different groups the next morning. I wound up in the "advanced" theory group, which was being taught by a very famous jazz educator. Unfortunately, he was so famous I'd already bought his books and worked through the parts he was teaching us in class.
Ah, but the big moment was coming -- my first experience playing with other musicians. For our auditions were used to place us with groups of roughly the same level. And as I said, I was horrible in the audition. I figured I'd get put in with a group of beginners, which was good.
Now, for some instruments, the grouping thing was a problem. The Jazz Camp had many horn players and many guitarists; what it lacked was bass players. So getting into a combo was a tricky thing, at least as far as balancing the numbers went.
Somehow, and don't ask me how this happened, I wound up in a band full of kids. Not even normal kids, but evidently musical prodigies who were light years beyond my abilities.
There was a drummer, an upright bassist, a pianist, and at least four horn players. Counting me, that made . . . Eight?!? And me, playing a chordal instrument opposite some wunderkind on the piano.
We were assigned an instructor, and, folks, here's where I'm telling you I'm pulling up a bit so I don't sound bitter or angry. I'm not going into too many details.
Suffice it to say, the instructor, who was a fellow guitarist, made me feel like a worthless moron. He was supposedly a well known musician, but strangely, when I Google his name and "guitar", I find no evidence of fame beyond that of being a perennial guest instructor at jazz camps.
This was my Charlie Parker moment, folks. I've already told this tale once before, in "The Woodshed" on my blog, but it bears repeating here.
Charlie Parker, the famous jazz saxophonist, once sat in with a band in his younger days and was so awful he was laughed off the stage. The story is that Jo Jones even threw a cymbal at him.
Charlie took this kind of personal, and practiced in his mother's woodshed until he became formidable. Then he returned and set the rules himself.
Well, how on Earth did I get to this point? I took it on faith I'd be placed with people of like abilities; instead, I was in there with kids who had years of experience beyond mine, and who could play and improvise fluently -- instantly -- on looking at a lead sheet.
Back then, I had to actually study a piece of music in advance to learn to play it. I didn't gain their level of ability until a year later.
And this is what happened that day:
Our instructor kept switching to random tunes, having the band play through them a grand total of once, then moving on to new, different, and faster songs. From time to time he'd take a break and tell me, in front of everyone, what I was doing wrong. Once he shut off my amp in the middle of a solo.
Let's flash forward to the present, March 3, 2007. I'm a schoolteacher now. When I teach science, I try to encourage the kids who are in my care, not lord over them. This day is always in the back of my mind, because I know how it feels to be made small and worthless.
The songs we played that day I have never, ever, played again. I crossed them off my list permanently. "Pent Up House", for instance.
Forgive and forget? Hah. I can't do the latter, so I seldom bother with the former.
Instead, this drove me. There were other classes later that afternoon. I skipped them; I hid out in my room and practiced. Dinner was at that same buffet joint across from the university. I went out for Mexican food (the ultimate comfort food, in my case). There was a concert that evening. I skipped it and practiced.
Hmm. What exactly was I at Jazz Camp for, anyway? About 11 that night, when people started returning from the evening's concert, I realized I was miserable. And all this practice -- what good would it do me, if the guy just came in and started hitting random tunes again?
Continued tomorrow.
The results of our music theory test placed us into different groups the next morning. I wound up in the "advanced" theory group, which was being taught by a very famous jazz educator. Unfortunately, he was so famous I'd already bought his books and worked through the parts he was teaching us in class.
Ah, but the big moment was coming -- my first experience playing with other musicians. For our auditions were used to place us with groups of roughly the same level. And as I said, I was horrible in the audition. I figured I'd get put in with a group of beginners, which was good.
Now, for some instruments, the grouping thing was a problem. The Jazz Camp had many horn players and many guitarists; what it lacked was bass players. So getting into a combo was a tricky thing, at least as far as balancing the numbers went.
Somehow, and don't ask me how this happened, I wound up in a band full of kids. Not even normal kids, but evidently musical prodigies who were light years beyond my abilities.
There was a drummer, an upright bassist, a pianist, and at least four horn players. Counting me, that made . . . Eight?!? And me, playing a chordal instrument opposite some wunderkind on the piano.
We were assigned an instructor, and, folks, here's where I'm telling you I'm pulling up a bit so I don't sound bitter or angry. I'm not going into too many details.
Suffice it to say, the instructor, who was a fellow guitarist, made me feel like a worthless moron. He was supposedly a well known musician, but strangely, when I Google his name and "guitar", I find no evidence of fame beyond that of being a perennial guest instructor at jazz camps.
This was my Charlie Parker moment, folks. I've already told this tale once before, in "The Woodshed" on my blog, but it bears repeating here.
Charlie Parker, the famous jazz saxophonist, once sat in with a band in his younger days and was so awful he was laughed off the stage. The story is that Jo Jones even threw a cymbal at him.
Charlie took this kind of personal, and practiced in his mother's woodshed until he became formidable. Then he returned and set the rules himself.
Well, how on Earth did I get to this point? I took it on faith I'd be placed with people of like abilities; instead, I was in there with kids who had years of experience beyond mine, and who could play and improvise fluently -- instantly -- on looking at a lead sheet.
Back then, I had to actually study a piece of music in advance to learn to play it. I didn't gain their level of ability until a year later.
And this is what happened that day:
Our instructor kept switching to random tunes, having the band play through them a grand total of once, then moving on to new, different, and faster songs. From time to time he'd take a break and tell me, in front of everyone, what I was doing wrong. Once he shut off my amp in the middle of a solo.
Let's flash forward to the present, March 3, 2007. I'm a schoolteacher now. When I teach science, I try to encourage the kids who are in my care, not lord over them. This day is always in the back of my mind, because I know how it feels to be made small and worthless.
The songs we played that day I have never, ever, played again. I crossed them off my list permanently. "Pent Up House", for instance.
Forgive and forget? Hah. I can't do the latter, so I seldom bother with the former.
Instead, this drove me. There were other classes later that afternoon. I skipped them; I hid out in my room and practiced. Dinner was at that same buffet joint across from the university. I went out for Mexican food (the ultimate comfort food, in my case). There was a concert that evening. I skipped it and practiced.
Hmm. What exactly was I at Jazz Camp for, anyway? About 11 that night, when people started returning from the evening's concert, I realized I was miserable. And all this practice -- what good would it do me, if the guy just came in and started hitting random tunes again?
Continued tomorrow.
