Like Wolfgang

Last semester, we talked in depth about Miles Davis's Second Great Quintet. For many reasons, this group was a pivotal force in the progression of the jazz conception in the 1960's, but as always, only half of the picture. Known for their chromatic harmony, complex rhythmic elements, and virtuosic soloing, in many ways, this group represented the height of the academic in jazz (it'd be worth noting that this was approached organically and not from the university setting, a path which has resulted in completely different music). As was noted last time, this may be the primary reason they are so intensely studied by ambitious students of jazz music: they provide a single stop for the most technically difficult aspects of the music. But as always, this can lead to short-sightedness.

In the last post, I talked in some detail about the problem of mistaking the fine details for the greater picture. It's important to remember that before Miles Davis ripped up and down those chromatic scales on his trumpet, he recorded the most famous jazz album – Kind of Blue – on which his playing exemplifies the study of sparsity. In many ways, the progression of the artistry of Miles Davis parallels both the history of jazz music and European music as a whole. The movement between complexity and simplicity has been a constant in all art throughout history. In music, we've moved from Bach to Mozart, Beethoven to Chopin, Schoenberg (of “Erwartung”) to Schoenberg (of op. 23), and Miles Davis (with the Second Great Quintet) to Miles Davis (on In a Silent Way). So, with that in mind, we'll take a look at some of the gallant in jazz.
To remain in Europe for one more moment, consider this famous Mozart piano sonata:



The right hand plays what may be considered an elaborate children's exercise, while the left hand just chugs away at the chords in one of the simplest ways possible. Gone are the extravagant fugal techniques of the baroque period. For many – mostly students of music – the beauty of this music can be the hardest to appreciate. There are very few substantive reasons as to why it works, and the ones you can come up with sound so elementary that they must be false.

Return to jazz. The music of Sonny Rollins embodies everything that makes this piano sonata successful. First, reconsider the piano as a jazz ensemble: the right hand improvises on the provided harmony in a simple triadic or diatonic fashion, the left hand merely keeps time and provides the basic chords. Now, watch this video:



Sonny's approach is fraught with a kind of difficulty not found in the music of the Second Great Quintet. In this simplistic style, the weight put on the soloist is considerably more than the group approach of the quintet. While creating and playing in a complex rhythm section presents its own challenges, it provides a safety net for the individual soloist: he or she can always pull a rhythmic motive from the group, engage in some kind of call and response, or simply lay out for a few measures to give the band a chance to fill the space. None of these are serious options in Sonny' approach, and the soloist succeeds or fails almost entirely on the strength of their individual playing.

Here we return to an idea from the last post: what is simple and what is complex. What is perceived as complex in the Second Great Quintet actually provides a number of outs for the soloist, while the seemingly simplistic approach of Sonny Rollins leaves the soloist entirely on their own. Going further with this, it may be that a change in perception of complexity occurs when shifting from the viewpoint of the performer to the audience: this certainly accounts for the inexplicable difficulty in playing Mozart or playing a great solo on “Impressions”.

Rollins wasn't alone in this style: many of the famous white players in the 50's and 60's espoused this simplistic approach. Jim Hall, Paul Desmond, Chet Baker, and the entire “Cool” school of jazz built their careers on the reduction of the work of Charlie Parker. Each of these players had their own unique qualities in their approach that could be discussed in some detail, but would take more time than is reasonable to cover here. In the mean time, throw these names in YouTube or Pandora and explore a more rarefied version of jazz.

Simplicity

In light of tritone substitution, modal mixture, upper extensions, and chromatic alterations, it can be easy to lose track of the music-making process. For a number of reasons, the study of music leads to the study of exceptions and oddities; some of these are technical -- we all know how to voice a major triad, but how do voice a major 9#11 chord? – some are compositionally based – how do I achieve a new sound in an old context ? – and some are historical – studying your predecessors' answers to the previous question. Unsurprisingly, as students largely study exceptions, their own creative output is bound to reflect this, most likely as an inorganic collage of learned techniques. As a beginning, this is good, and facilitates the learning process quickly, as an end, this is undesirable, largely resulting in mediocre or worse music. The bridge between student and musician – whether it be as an improvisor or composer – is crossed through moderation. As we've spent considerable time talking about the precise technical qualities of music, we'll devote some future posts to more abstract concepts. Because of this, immediate gain from these next few posts may not be as great and the ideas involved may not provide any definite answers, but consideration of the concepts discussed will lead to greater musicianship on a holistic level.

The first step in this process is the ability to consider an object's multiple levels of complexity and simplicity and the spectrum that connects the two concepts. Can an object be considered both complex and simple simultaneously? If something is made up of an intricate array of straight-forward processes, on which side of the spectrum does it lie? Similarly, if something is created by a small number of highly detailed components, is it easier or harder to understand than the last object? One answer to these questions questions the point of view of the observer. Your own computer provides a good example. On the most fundamental level, digital logic can't be any simpler, allowing for only one of two possible options: 0 or 1. Zoom out a bit and you'll begin to see a highly elaborate system that relies on a number of physical components and the software the allows these components to function. Finally, from your chair, the computer is fairly easy to comprehend: it has a keyboard and mouse, which take the input, the tower which processes the input, and a monitor which displays the output. Returning to music, this idea can relate to the level on which you analyze any given piece. Are you looking at individual chords, harmonic progressions, melodic processes, or large-scale form? The level of complexity of any given piece will be different in all of these areas.

Let's consider some examples. J.S. Bach's C Minor Fugue, BWV 847, provides an intricate display of motivic development (ignore any connotations this term may have in the traditional sense), ultimately basing almost every melodic line off the original fugal subject. On the other hand, the large-scale form – like it is in most fugues – is fairly simple: the composer introduces the melody in all of the voices, 'improvises' some contrapuntal sections, and ends whenever he sees fit, needing no preparation for the finale. As a counter-example, John Coltrane's “Giant Steps”, as it was originally recorded on the album, provides a complicated harmonic setting on which a limited amount of melodic material is prevented (it's worth pointing out that in the European worldview, the form of “Giant Steps” is about as simple as is possible, but in the context of jazz, it's highly complex). There's no specific lesson to be taken from these examples, but consideration of them is important.

If you begin to transcribe your favorite artists or review the scores of your favorite pieces, it's almost a certainty that the most stunning things will be the simple ones: Bill Evans soloing with the notes of the minor triad that's called for on the lead sheet, Shostakovich using triadic harmony in the slow movement of his cello concerto, the relative brevity of Beethoven's development sections, and the pentatonic solos of John Coltrane. While each player's final reaction to these qualities will differ, the important thing is to consider the implications of what you see. In closing, consider this question.

Bill Evans – a piano player whom the vast majority of the piano-playing populace dreams of sounding like – opens his solo to 'Nardis' on Explorations with only the notes F# and A. Why does he do this?