Moonlight in Vermont: American Songbook Haiku

“Moonlight in Vermont” is one of my favorite ballads to play on the sax. Written by John Blackburn and Karl Suessdorf and published in 1943, it’s a gemstone of the American Songbook with its sensory, impressionistic lyrics and evocative melody. Simple as it is, nevertheless it’s also a tune with a few surprises, notably its cadence to an altered V7/vi chord, which injects color into the otherwise static harmony of the A section; and also its six-bar form, again in the A section.

Having finally given myself credit as a vocalist as well as a saxophonist, I recently learned the lyrics to “Moonlight in Vermont” and have been singing it quite a bit in the shower, driving down the road, and of course when I’m playing a gig. Naturally I got to thinking about that odd six-bar A section. It was the first thing that struck me about the tune when I acquired it years ago as a developing jazz musician seeking a nice ballad to improvise on. Why write a six-bar A section? Not that one can’t, not that one shouldn’t, but why abbreviate the usual, deeply ingrained eight-bar phrase? How strange, yet how effective.

Yesterday the answer finally dawned on me in an inspired flash. I started counting syllables to make sure–five syllables in the first line…seven in the second…and, sure enough, five in the third…why, the song lyrics were written as a haiku!

Now, I realize that this discovery is probably no news flash to some of you, but it was to me. Each of the three stanzas in the A section is a little haiku gem which, married to the limpid melody, flows beautifully and demonstrates just how evocative compactness can be. The  pentatonically derived A section, steadily descending, pausing at the end of each line, reminds me of a stream flowing through the woods, tumbling over little waterfalls and reposing in quiet, reflective pools before commencing the next phase of its journey.

“Moonlight in Vermont” is a song of the seasons, painting the annual progression in three-line daubs of verse. The first tercet gives us “falling leaves, a sycamore”; the second stanza moves us into winter with “snowlight in Vermont”; and the last one brings us a summer evening filled with meadowlark song.

The first half of the tune’s bridge continues with the word pictures while providing a digression into standard, eight-bar phrasing. The second half injects, for a brief moment, a human element into a tune whose romantic images have hitherto mentioned nothing of romance or of people.

Songwriters who contributed to the body of music we call the American Songbook were masters at their craft, and “Moonlight in Vermont” is exquisite proof. For more on the tune, read this commentary in Jazz Standards. A Wikipedia article also does a good job of addressing the haiku aspect of “Moonlight in Vermont,” though it incorrectly attributes two inaccuracies to lyricist Karl Suessdorf. Vermont is in fact well within the range of the eastern meadowlark, and while sycamores may be uncommon in the state, the southern part lies within range of the tree.

And that’s enough about that. I don’t know whether Vermont was moonlit last night, but it’s presently a cloudy Saturday morning here in Michigan and time I got on with my day.

Stormhorn Jazz at the Cobblestone Bistro (Or, The Difference a Bass Makes)

Saturday evening at the Cobblestone Bistro here in Caledonia was one of those very rewarding gigs that result from the combination of a stellar rhythm section, a beautiful setting, and an appreciative audience. I couldn’t ask for better guys to play with than Paul Lesinski and Dave DeVos. Each is a seasoned, top West Michigan veteran on his instrument, and both are just plain nice, down-to-earth guys with no attitudes to deal with. They’re responsible and easy to get along with, solid and intuitive musicians who’ve been around the block many times over, so I have confidence in them. That confidence in turn inspires my own creativity and willingness to take risks as a saxophonist.

Last Friday on New Years Eve, Steve Durst and I played for the dinner crowd as a piano-sax duo. With years of experience under his belt, Steve does a superb job, and we got some very nice compliments. But man, what a difference the addition of Dave on bass made this weekend!

I’m certain Steve would readily agree that having to fill in the bass part with the left hand greatly limits what a keyboard player can do. Good players can pull it off, but I don’t know of any pianist who wouldn’t much prefer having a bassist handle the bass part so his own left hand is free to do what it’s meant to do in a jazz context. The difference is huge–the groove, far better; the sound, fuller and richer; the creative options, much broader; and the energy, multiplied. All without any significant increase in volume that can distract from conversation in a restaurant setting.

The crowd certainly liked our sound. People were actually listening to us and applauding from tune to tune, and even for some of the solos. I stopped to chat with a few of the diners during break, thanking them for their responsiveness, and I got some glowing comments in return. It’s really gratifying to see the interest in jazz that exists in this rural neck of the woods, many miles from the urban center of Grand Rapids.

We play again at the Cobblestone this coming Saturday from 6:30-9:30 p.m., this time with Steve filling the piano chair. If you like live jazz, come on out and enjoy an evening of good food and world-class wines plus the Stormhorn Jazz trio, all in an ambience-rich setting that will warm you as soon as you set foot through the door. Here’s the info:

• Date & Time: Saturday, January 15, 6:30-9:30 p.m.

• Place: The Cobblestone Bistro & Banquet Center

• Address: 9818 Cherry Valley Ave. SE (M-37), Caledonia, MI

• Phone: (616) 588-3223

Reservations are recommended, but walk-ins are welcome.

I should mention the large and beautifully designed banquet hall in the back of the building, styled in the manner of a large, European sidewalk cafe. Ben, the owner, is contemplating special events, so keep your eyes open for jazz concerts in the future. I’ll keep you posted on this site and on my Stormhorn page on Facebook as brainstorms and good ideas become actual dates on the calendar.

Need I say, please come out and support the Cobblestone. It’s a great setting and has the potential to distinguish itself not only for destination dining, but also as a hotspot for jazz that’s located outside the urban clutter, yet close enough to be convenient.

Practical Tips for Playing the Sax in Church

It has been a couple years since I’ve played my saxophone in a worship team. At some point I will probably participate again, but after 30 years as a disciple of Jesus, during most of which I’ve been involved in church music ministries, I’m not in a rush. Music is a wonderful gift, but in church it can also be an overwhelming one, a powerful categorizing force that can overshadow other aspects of who a musician is as a complete person. So the hiatus has, for me, been necessary and beneficial.

That’s where I’m at, but for many of you, your concern is more pragmatic. You haven’t spent three decades playing in church. You’re just getting started, and what you’d really like to know is how to fit in as a saxophonist–or a trumpet player, or a flutist, or an ocarina player, or whatever–with the rest of your church’s worship team. How do you play your part successfully?

That’s a straightforward question, and I’m happy to respond with a few simple, to-the-point suggestions.

◊ Determine what keys your worship band most often plays in. Black gospel music is typically organ- and keyboard-driven and is likely to use flat keys such as Bb, F, and Eb major. Contemporary music in white churches almost always revolves around guitar, which puts the emphasis on sharp keys such as E, A, D, and G.

◊ As would be true in any setting, whether in church or in a club, know your transposition. If you’re a tenor sax or trumpet player, the key you play in is up a major second from the piano and guitar. If  you’re an alto sax player like me, you’ll be down a minor third. If you play the flute or trombone, you don’t need to transpose to a different key.

◊ Learn pentatonic scales in the most commonly used keys. Most church music is harmonically simple and largely diatonic, and you can cover many a song using a single pentatonic. It’s hard to hit a wrong note playing a pentatonic scale! Of course, you’ll want to add more colors to your palette as you gain familiarity with the music, but pentatonics make a great foundation. The melody for “Amazing Grace” is written entirely from a single pentatonic scale.

◊ Similar to the previous point, learn the major scales of the most commonly used keys. One caveat: Watch how you handle the fourth and seventh scale degrees, as they have the potential to clash with certain chords. That’s one reason why you need to…

◊ Listen! Get a feel for which notes sound good with the chords of a particular tune in different places. In particular, listen to the vocalist and don’t step on his or her toes. Fill in the cracks between lyric phrases, and lay back more when the vocalist is singing. Listen also for what other melodic instruments such as the guitar and keyboard are doing so you can coordinate with them. Overall, be sensitive to the moods of the music and where it’s going.

◊ Don’t be afraid to play! How else are you going to learn? Make your mistakes–that’s part of paying your musical dues. Trust me, most people will never notice the clinkers, and the few who do won’t care.

◊ Strive not to overplay. Unless you’ve been given a solo spot where you get to strut your stuff, keep things simple. If you find yourself playing busily like a beaver in every chorus of every song, cool your jets and give another lead instrument a chance to provide some fills. Consider playing long, held-out chord tones. And remember, often the most effective thing you can play is nothing at all. Drop out for a chorus and notice how subtracting your instrument adds to the music by modifying its texture; and also notice how reentering in the next chorus creates an energy that wouldn’t have existed if you’d been playing all the way through. Contrast is beautiful!

◊ Don’t just learn the tunes–learn your instrument! Practice scales, arpeggios, licks, and patterns. Do the hard work with a spirit of excellence when no one is listening–“heartily, as unto the Lord”–and you’ll be increasingly pleased with the results when you’re playing with the band.

◊ Develop your ears and your instincts as an improviser. You can’t count on charts to get you through. Unless your team uses professional arrangements, chances are good that the way you practice a tune during Wednesday rehearsal isn’t going to be duplicated exactly on Sunday. You’ve got to be able to flex instantly with shifts in direction and even mistakes by the team leader or vocalist. That means you’ve got to–did I already mention this?–listen!

◊ Learn the melody and the form of a song. Doing so will give you a frame of reference so that you’ll never get lost in that tune. You may get temporarily displaced, but you’ll always be able to find your way back to where the rest of the band is without having to hunt it down on a fake sheet. Best of all, knowing the tune will free you to soar within the framework of the music, allowing you to focus on creativity and musicality rather than following a chart.

◊ Be careful about playing in the same range as the vocalist. I’m not saying don’t do it; I’m saying, exercise care and good taste. In particular, try to avoid hitting unison notes with the singer except as a calculated effect. Consider playing in the octave below the vocal range.

◊ Don’t feel you’ve got to play in every song. Not all music was made for the saxophone. For instance, if the band is playing a tune that emphasizes a fast-paced, heavy metal guitar sound, then you might want to sit that one out. Or if a tune is simply too complex for your level of development, to the point where you don’t feel comfortable playing it, then step off to the side and let the rest of the band take it. Just because your instrument can be used doesn’t mean it always should be. It’s a voice; add it or subtract it in a way that best serves the music.

I could offer still more suggestions, and maybe other experienced players will lean in with advice of their own, but this is plenty ’nuff to get you going. Note that I’ve said nothing about the spiritual side of playing in a worship team. Important as that is, it’s not the focus of this post. My intention here has been to give you some nuts-and-bolts input that you can start applying right away. I hope you’ll find it both helpful and encouraging.

If you enjoyed this post, then check out my jazz page, where you’ll find more useful and insightful articles, exercises, and solo transcriptions.

Counterpoint: Why I STILL Love Playing Rhythm Changes

In his recent guest article on Stormhorn.com, my esteemed colleague Kurt Ellenberger explained why he dislikes–nay, loathes, abhors–soloing over rhythm changes.

By George, I enjoy calling Kurt that: “my esteemed colleague.” It sounds so dignified, so prawpuh, so…so pretentious. Hmmm…I relent, Kurt. That description is as cloying as some of the sacred jazz cows that I know you’d like to kebab. So I’ll retract the “esteemed colleague” bit and just call you my friend; a funny, thoughtful, and insightful guy; and, need I say, an absolute monster musician.

But I still disagree with you about rhythm changes.

To an extent, that is. I’ll begin my rebuttal to your post by agreeing with you. Given your musical experience and the high level at which you play, you get to hate rhythm changes to your heart’s content, along with any other musical formulae that you choose. You’ve attained, man. Once a person has mastered the rudiments of jazz to a world-class degree, there’s no need to keep rehashing them. The point of laying a foundation is to build something new upon it, not enshrine it.

This being said, foundations are important, and rhythm changes are an exercise in foundational material. Moreover, whether they’re banal is a matter of  perspective.

In his post, Kurt provides an analysis of rhythm changes that emphasizes their mostly static harmonic nature, with the exception of a temporary digression to the circle of fifths at the bridge section, which Kurt labels as trite. Overall, he is unimpressed by RCs.

But “trite” is simply a viewpoint, and viewpoints are personal. Some perspectives change as an individual accumulates experiences, while others deepen as time helps to clarify and reinforce them. This, I think, is the heart of the matter. As Kurt puts it, following his analysis, “In general, I prefer music that has a higher degree of harmonic activity and direction, or, absent that (as in music of a more minimalist nature, much of which I enjoy tremendously), there must be some other complexity in play to retain my interest. These preferences have become more pronounced over the years. As a result, I’ve lost interest in a lot of tunes that are similar in construction.”

Note the words “prefer” and “preferences.” They are personal terms. Everyone is entitled to his or her preferences, but one’s reasons for them are not necessarily a definitive yardstick for determining the value of a thing, particularly when other criteria can also be applied.

If I ever attain to Kurt’s level of harmonic and overall musical sophistication, then perhaps I’ll feel as he does about rhythm changes and the 32-bar song form overall. Probably not, though. Rhythm changes just never bothered me at the onset the way they did Kurt. But then–and this should come as no surprise–I see them in a different light.

For one thing, I’m a saxophonist, and as such, my concerns as they apply to my instrument are purely melodic. By this I don’t mean that I’m uninterested in harmony–I’m keenly interested in it, of course–but rather, that I’ve only got one note at a time at my disposal, not entire clusters. This alone creates a different outlook than Kurt has as a pianist.

For another thing, I’ve taken a different and slower developmental path than Kurt’s. For still another, I’ve worked on rhythm changes by choice, not because of an educational or cultural mandate. Finally, I’m me, with my own set of preferences and dislikes. And on both artistic and practical levels, I find playing rhythm changes to be enjoyable, valuable, and, yes, challenging.

On the practical level, rhythm changes are a great way to take rudimentary elements of improvisation such as turnarounds, cycles, and ii-V7s out of isolation and set them in an applied context. I’ve already addressed this matter in my original post on rhythm change, so I won’t rehash it here. The points I made then remain valid. From a developmental standpoint, RCs are–like that other even more foundational form, the blues–good for you. You don’t have to build your world around them, but learning how to play them well gives you some substantial building blocks which you can adapt in other ways that may interest you more. As a musical exercise, I view rhythm changes in somewhat the same category as scale work and etudes.

As a young improviser, I first began to make the leap from technique to musicality by memorizing a Charlie Parker solo based on rhythm changes. Today, I’m still finding RCs invaluable for helping me to build my chops in different keys. I’m convinced of their value. A raftload of Charlie Parker contrafacts can’t be wrong.

However, those same Charlie Parker tunes are now very old, and jazz has traveled in a lot of directions from its 1940s bebop watershed. Bird himself, in the final years of his life, felt that he had taken bebop as far as he could and was seeking a new direction. Which brings me to the artistic aspect of rhythm changes.

Rhythm changes, banal? I suppose they can be, but I don’t think they have to be. Listen to Michael Brecker ripping through “Oleo” and tell me that’s banal. The difference lies in Michael’s approach. He’s not merely regurgitating old licks; he has developed his own voice and is applying it masterfully to the changes. Michael certainly doesn’t seem disenchanted.

While I can’t say for sure, I suspect that the late tenor master had absorbed so much music of all different kinds that he didn’t much care whether he was playing a sparklingly contemporary, harmonically complex tune or an old chestnut. Like Kurt, I’m sure that Michael had his preferences, but that didn’t keep him from weaving magic with rhythm changes and, to all appearances, enjoying himself in the process.

Kurt mentions getting locked into a formulaic approach to RCs. I know what he means–I face that same challenge. But since I don’t have an innate bias against rhythm changes, I view the rote licks and patterns as just a framework which, as I master it, can ultimately enable me to move beyond it. Kurt knows, far better than I, that rhythm changes, like any tune, can be altered in creative ways that are only limited by one’s imagination.

And, I might add, by one’s level of interest. If a player isn’t motivated to explore the possibilities, then rhythm changes, like any well-worn standard in the American songbook, will indeed become banal through over-repetition of the same-old-same-old. I fully concur with Kurt that there has to be some level of complexity present, some kind of intellectual and/or technical challenge, to hold my attention.

However, I maintain that the potential for such complexity exists in any tune. I mean, how innately fascinating is a Dorian mode? But we understand that there’s a whole lot more to modal music than a single scale played ad nauseum over a single minor chord. It’s not a matter of what you’re given, but of what you do with it and, I should add, whom you do it with.

I could say more on the matter, but there’s no point in doing so since it really does boil down to a matter of personal preference. Instead, I have a couple observations to make with which I think Kurt will fully concur.

First, while I’m obviously a proponent of rhythm changes, I would emphasize that they’re just a stopover on a much larger musical journey. I think it’s wise for a developing jazz musician to go through them, it’s helpful to camp out on them for a season, and it’s fun to return to them and enjoy the view, but for goodness sake, don’t buy a house there. The neighborhood is already 80 years old and the heyday of its development in the bebop era is long past. Use what’s been done as a basis for finding your way toward newer, more personal musical directions.

Second, jazz traditions may be venerable but they’re not sacred, and this certainly applies to rhythm changes or to any musical form. It’s okay not to like them and it’s okay to say so.

Jazz culture has been a breeding ground for some affectations and norms that I don’t much care for. Some of them may have served a purpose at one time, but, as Kurt has done a great job of pointing out in a post titled “Jazz in Crisis” on his own blog, Also Sprach Frackathustra, they’re now outdated in a larger world that has moved far beyond the jazz era.

So let’s be real. If jazz is about freedom, as we say it is, then saying that one doesn’t care for rhythm changes shouldn’t require some sort of hush-hush, confessional tone for fear that Big Brother is listening. I’ve never been aware of such a cultural pressure, but I don’t doubt that Kurt has experienced it, and that bothers me. Good grief, we’re talking about a set of chord changes, not the Ark of the Covenant.

Many of us jazz practitioners need to distinguish between the true non-negotiables of the music we play versus the affectations and cultural mores that surround it. If we don’t search our own souls, believe me, the rest of the world doesn’t care enough to do the job for us. Many of us could start by dropping our smug, musicianly superiority and becoming just plain, down-to-earth, nice people who treat both our fellow musicians and non-musicians graciously.

With that, I think I’ve worked the rant out of my system. Kurt, I guess I’ll continue to enjoy playing rhythm changes, at least until, like you, I experience them as more limiting than beneficial. Until then, I promise, cross my heart, that if you and I do a gig together, I won’t call for rhythm changes.

However, if I catch you playing solo somewhere, I may request “Anthropology” just to see you wince.

ADDENDUM: Be sure to check out the final installment of this series, in which Kurt offers his own closing thoughts.

Shakin’ the Shack: A Dave Koz Alto Sax Solo Transcription, Part 1

Saxophonist Dave Koz is, pardon my French, a bitch. Man, can that guy play the alto sax! I just got a reminder of how good he is after listening to a YouTube cut of his tune “Shakin’ the Shack” from off of his “Lucky Man” CD.

I bought the CD years ago and was so enamored with Koz’s electrifying, hard-bop approach to smooth jazz that I transcribed a couple of his solos. I thought I had lost those transcriptions long ago, but guess what surfaced the other day while I was sifting through some old music charts I had written? That’s right: my transcription of Dave Koz playing his solo on “Shakin’ the Shack.”

Well…at least part of the solo. Evidently I never completed the transcription, which is really a shame, because this first section is just the preamble. Dave is a fabulous musical storyteller, and his solo really starts cooking in the section that follows, building momentum and tremendous excitement in ashakin-the-shack_dave-koz-solo joyous musical romp that makes me want to laugh and shout and dance and do other things most unbecoming of a 54-year-old white, Germanic male.

I regret that I can’t offer you the full transcription of Dave’s solo, but such as I have, I share with you now. Click on the thumbnail to enlarge it.

If you’ve never heard “Shakin’ the Shack,” I strongly encourage you to give it a listen so you can hear how the solo actually sounds in its musical context. For that matter, do yourself a biiiiiig favor and buy the entire “Lucky Man” CD. It’s beautifully produced and bubbling over with  joie de vivre–traveling music of the first order, perfect for putting a smile on your face when you’re out on the open road.

Bird Song: Hearing Charlie Parker for the First Time

If there is one name that is synonymous with the alto saxophone, it’s Charlie Parker. For that matter, no jazz musician of any kind–saxophonist, trumpet player, bassist, pianist, you name it–can explore the craft without becoming keenly aware of, if not at some point deeply immersed in, the music of Bird. If Dizzy Gillespie was the clown prince of the bebop school, Charlie Parker was its pied piper, a quirky and unpredictable genius whose God-given creative torch burned too brightly to be quickly extinguished by the excesses that eventually overcame him.

Some jazz musicians grow up with Parker played regularly at home as a vital part of the musical ambiance. Others discover Parker’s music later in life. I fall into the latter category. Ours was not a particularly musical household, though Mom loved the Nutcracker Suite and Dad dug his Louis Armstrong, Bessie Smith, and Sidney Bechet records.  My own musical tastes, once they began to develop, naturally tended toward the rock of the seventies, particularly art rock bands such as Jethro Tull, King Crimson, Yes, Genesis, and Pink Floydd.

I did have the advantage of playing in a big band beginning in the eighth grade. That experience gave me an invaluable exposure to the music of Basie and Ellington, and to the American songbook at large. But bebop? What was that?

Then came my first year at Aquinas College, and a course on modern music appreciation with Dr. Bruce Early. The class covered plenty of ground, as I recall, including the music of some of my favorite rock bands. Inevitably, we got into the various kinds of jazz, which was Bruce’s real thrust with the class. Dixieland I was familiar with, and as for big band swing, I had been playing that since junior high school. But suddenly, jazz began to take on deeper dimensions for me. And one day, Bruce dropped a record onto the turntable, and out of the speakers came the most unbelievable saxophone music I had ever heard. It was blazing. Brilliant. Blinding. Beautiful. Wild, yet–though I wouldn’t have thought of the description at the time–wonderfully logical.

That was my first exposure to Charlie Parker, and it left me stunned. How on earth could anyone play a saxophone like that?

I didn’t have ears enough to comprehend what it was that I had heard. I only knew that it pointed toward possibilities on the alto sax that I had never dreamed of. It was like stepping through a door out of a tiny room and discovering an entire mountain range on the other side.

Fortunately, I was too young and too dumb to feel utterly overwhelmed. That’s probably why I’m still playing the saxophone today. Some contemporaries of Parker weren’t so fortunate. I read of one saxophonist who, after hearing Bird in flight, pitched his horn into the river in despair. Today I understand that sentiment a little better–because, now that I’m more than twice as old as Parker was when he first lit his fire and greased his skillet, I still can’t cook the way he could. I have, however, learned a lot from him, and continue to learn.

If Bird hadn’t been given to the monstrous indulgences that eventually destroyed him, I wonder, as many musicians have wondered, what else he might have accomplished. Would bebop have been his apogee, his singular torch against whose sun-like flame all his future achievements would have paled? Or would it have been the spark to still brighter creative expressions? Dizzy is still with us; had Bird’s life been other than what it was, he might be here, too. But it wasn’t and he’s not, and all we can do is speculate on what might have been or might not have been–and absorb the alto saxophonist’s legacy. In the words of Charles Mingus, “If Charlie Parker was a gunslinger, there’d be a whole lot of dead copycats.”

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How to Master Circular Breathing on the Saxophone

It has been so many years since I first learned how to circular breathe that I rarely give the matter a thought anymore. It occurs to me, though, that to many sax players, circular breathing remains a technique shrouded in mystery.

There is, after all, something about it that appears almost miraculous. Most saxophonists would be challenged to hold a tone for thirty seconds. So how on earth did saxophonist Vann Burchfield manage to sustain a single note for 47 minutes, 6 seconds, in 2003, beating the previous record set by Kenny G of 45 minutes, 47 seconds? (An even more interesting question is, why did he do it? But the point of this article is to discuss the mechanics behind such a feat, not the psychology.)

Sensationalism aside, circular breathing is a useful technique with practical benefits for those who add it to their tool kit. But how does one go about doing so?

Begin by understanding the basics of how circular breathing works.

The principle is fairly simple (which is not to say, easy to master). You support your tone with air from your lungs in the usual way. However, when your air supply begins to dwindle, you store a quick reservoir of air in your cheeks. Then, closing off the back of your throat, you sustain your tone by contracting your cheeks while simultaneously–and very quickly–replenishing your lungs with air by breathing in through your nose.

This accomplished, you reopen the back of your throat and once again blow from your lungs. Repeat the procedure as often as necessary.

It sounds tricky, and it is at first, but the essentials really aren’t any great secret. Like any discipline, though, circular breathing takes time and persistence to master. Once you’ve got the hang of it, you’ll find that you’re able to continue playing indefinitely, spinning out lines for as long as you please without having to break the flow.

Here’s a simple, step-by-step process to get you started.

1. Get in touch with your air reservoir. How do you do this? Simple: take a breath and then puff out your cheeks. Now continue to puff out your cheeks while breathing in and out through your nose. Note how the back of your throat automatically closes in order for you to accomplish this, sealing off a reservoir of air in your mouth that keeps your cheeks “inflated” while your lungs continue their normal breathing rhythm.

2. Repeat the above procedure. But this time, blow a controlled stream of air through your lips, allowing the reservoir of air in your cheeks to empty itself like a leaky balloon. When you start losing pressure in your cheeks, then–without interrupting the air flow through your lips–breathe in through your nose and then release the air from your lungs into your mouth, replenishing the reservoir of air. Then close off your throat again. Continue doing this till it seems easy (which will probably happen fairly quickly because it is easy, much easier to do than it is to describe!).

The objective is to maintain a steady air stream through your lips while opening and closing your throat to replenish your air reservoir.

3. Till this point, the focus has been on getting a feel for the air reservoir in your mouth/cheeks. The reservoir is key, but in circular breathing, you’ll only use it for the second it takes to fill your lungs with air, after which your throat remains open and you blow in the normal fashion.

So in this exercise, blow a steady stream of air through your lips, allowing the pressure to puff out your cheeks, but support the air stream from your lungs. Keep it going for five or ten seconds, until your lungs begin to empty. Then close off your throat and keep the air stream moving by using the air in your mouth reservoir, as in exercise number two. Simultaneously, inhaling through your nostrils, fill your lungs back up with air. Then open your throat back up and blow from your lungs once again.

4. Once you can comfortably and consistently perform the above exercise, you’ll have gotten your arms around the essentials of circular breathing. At this point, you are in fact performing the technique. Now it’s just a matter of transferring it to your instrument.

When I was first learning to circular breathe, I found it helpful to work with the soprano saxophone. Assuming a conservative reed/mouthpiece combination, the soprano uses less air than the larger horns, making the learning curve easier. If you’ve got a soprano sax, I highly recommend that you practice circular breathing on it before you try it on your alto or tenor.

Start by seeing how long you can sustain a single tone in the middle register of your instrument. The note C on the staff works great. Avoid extremely high and low notes for the time being. Concentrate on making a smooth transition between lung support and reservoir support, striving for minimal pitch wavering, change in volume, and certainly break in tone when closing and reopening the back of your throat.

From here on, gaining proficiency is just a matter of focused, self-analytical practice. However, there are…

A few things to be aware of.

These involve the way you use your mouth reservoir to sustain a tone.

In the above exercises, you’ve had your cheeks puffed out and allowed the air to leak out of them in a controlled stream. Once you start blowing through a mouthpiece, you’ll find that things aren’t quite so easy. The air goes at a faster rate, and you need to contract your cheeks like a bellows in order to provide enough air pressure to sustain a tone on the horn.

Ultimately, of course, you want to dispense with puffing out your cheeks as much as possible. Cheek-puffing is handy as a preliminary learning device, but it’s ruinous on intonation and good breath support. As you spend time refining your circular breathing technique, you’ll find that you can exert air pressure from the back of your throat by lifting your tongue forward. I don’t know how better to describe what I’m getting at, but I’m quite certain that you’ll discover it for yourself if you continue to practice circular breathing.

Once you’re able to sustain a single tone with reasonable control, try playing a scale using circular breathing. From there, try a favorite lick. Circular breathing while playing lines is challenging at first, but once you’ve acquired the ability, you’ll find that moving notes are actually more forgiving than long tones. They tend to mask the unwelcome waver that often attends the shift in air support.

And that, my friends, is that. My job is done. Yours is just beginning. Grab your horn and get started.

The Loudest Sax Player Ever

My friend and fellow musician Dave DeVos once told me, “You are the loudest sax player I’ve ever known.”

His words weren’t a compliment, just a statement of fact tinged with a slight mix of incredulity and annoyance. I’m a very loud sax player, much louder than I realize. As the old cliche says, I don’t know my own strength.

Of course I can play softly, but soft is not my default mode. Part of that is attributable to my horn, which is an old Conn 6M “Ladyface” that is very good at translating the air I move through it into immense volume levels. Another part is due to my mouthpiece, a Jody Jazz classic #8. But I think the main reason I’m a loud player is directly linked to the guy behind the horn. I just seem to have a knack for massive sound output.

I wasn’t always a loud player. I entered my freshman year in college a quiet young saxophonist. My sound at the time was styled after Tom Strang, a local alto man who owned a jazz bar in Ada called the Foxhead Inn. Tom had a smooth, mellow sound, very pleasing to the ears. He was not a loud sax player.

As an early influence, Tom’s tone pointed me toward a somewhat Desmondesque approach, not exactly the kind of robust Cannonball sound that could melt the wax in a listener’s ears at 100 feet. It was more a kind of foofy-foof-foof tone–subdued and, I thought, pleasantly sophisticated.

It was this mellow, sedate sound that I brought with me to the student big band at Aquinas College, where I sat under the august directorship of jazz professor Bruce Early. I was assigned to the first alto chair, and my lack of experience was such that I felt eminently qualified to fill the position. Clearly word of my abilities on the sax had preceded me, and Bruce had simply placed me where he knew I belonged. First chair. It was inevitable.

I’ll never forget my first awakening to the possibility that maybe I wasn’t all that and a supersized order of fries. The band was playing through some tune I’ve long since forgotten, and in the middle of the chart there was space for an alto solo. Cool. A chance for me to show my stuff, give Bruce a taste of my chops. I launched into the solo. Foofy-foof-foof, I played, subtly, while the rhythm section whanged away.

Bruce stared at me. “Play louder,” he said.

Ah. Louder. Okay then. Foof-foof-foofy-foof! I declared, in a volume that could almost be heard from ten feet away.

Bruce’s stare became a glare. “Louder!” he barked.

My gosh, what did this guy want? Here I was, foofing as loudly as ever I had foofed, and Bruce was calling for more.

I returned his glare with a desperate glance.

Foof? I played. Foofy-foof!

I was trying, but I quickly trended toward the softer, cocktail lounge volume that I was used to.

That did it for Bruce. “BLOW!!!!” he yelled. “For crying out loud, BLOOOWWWWW!!!!!!”

Some of the more seasoned musicians snickered, and my face went red as a beet. Hell’s bells. Fine, if it was volume Bruce wanted, I’d give him volume. And I did. I had a lot to learn about embouchure and tone production, but at that point I instinctively dipped into the raw essentials, filled my lungs with air, and blew my ever-loving cheeks off.

From that time on, while Bruce yelled at me for any number of things, my volume level wasn’t among them. He never again complained that I was playing too softly. Nor has anyone else, for that matter. Not ever. I’ve played with highly amplified blues bands and church worship teams and outblown them without using a microphone. I’ve been asked plenty of times to turn it down a bit, please. But no one has ever come to me and said, “Could you play louder? I can barely hear you.”

Just ask Dave. He’ll be glad to tell you, as soon as his ears stop ringing.

The Bob Hartig Quartet Plays the Thornapple Jazz Festival

This past weekend I had the pleasure of fronting my own jazz quartet for two consecutive days as a part of the Thornapple Jazz Festival. Now in its sixth year, the festival has begun to expand its reach beyond Hastings to other, outlying communities in Barry County. This year included Delton and Middleville.

Thus, on Friday the lads and I took the stage at the MidVilla Inn on M-37 just north of Middleville. The turnout was modest, but not at all bad for a small town that isn’t known as a hotbed of jazz. As for a rhythm section, I couldn’t have asked for better players. Ric Troll is one of the tastiest drummers and all-around musicians I know, with tremendous musical sensitivity. Dave DeVos is a seasoned and solid bassist who, like me, has a relentless thirst to grow in the mastery of his instrument. And keyboard man Paul Lesinski is nothing short of fabulous, a player of great inventiveness and the technical excellence to pull off anything his fertile mind conceives.

Together, these guys are my musical dream team. They made it easy for me to pull off my allotted two sets with the kind of energy and spontaneity that are the soul of jazz. If all it takes is one bad player to make a good band sound lame, it’s also true that a great band can boot a decent soloist up to the next level. It takes a certain baseline of aptitude and experience for that to happen, but once you achieve that level, then players the caliber of Ric, Dave, and Paul can lift you out of the ordinary and inspire you to stretch, to push beyond your normal, self-imposed limits and explore new musical territory. That, at least, has been my experience as a jazz saxophonist.

I was very pleased with our performance at the Mid Villa, and again Saturday night at the Waldorf in downtown Hastings. The Waldorf is one of my favorite restaurants, with out-of-this world cooking and absolutely stellar, award-winning microbrews, and I’ve wanted to bring a straight-ahead jazz combo there for a long time. Mike, the owner, finally booked my quartet for the dinner crowd from 6:30-8:30, and we got our chance.

Our song list ran the spectrum from bebop to ballads to Latin to jazz/rock, and included such tunes as “Anthropology,” “Footprints,” “Triste,” “Stolen Moments,” “Have You Met Miss Jones?” and “Song for My Father.” We even played one of my own originals, a Latin-flavored ballad that I wrote several years ago called “Tracy” in honor of a love lost but fondly remembered.

It was a joy to participate in the Sixth Annual Thornapple Jazz Festival, and an honor to be invited by the event’s driving force and musical manager, my friend Joe LaJoye. Joe, if you happen to read this post, thank you! The guys and I had a blast. Maybe next time around you’ll be able to take a breather from all the responsibilities of “makin’ it happen” long enough to sit in with your trumpet for a tune or two, eh?