I remember reading this interview of the
fat guitar player from early ’90s punk band Pennywise. He mentioned how his
punk rock guitarist friends would laugh at him and call him a wimp because he
used such a thin plectrum (the pick you strum your guitar with), while they
would pound on their guitars with heavier picks. He would then have to explain
to them that he was, in fact, way more punk rock than them even though they used
much thicker, fatter picks – the reason being that he had to use super light
picks because he would hit the strings SO hard that anything with a thicker density
than the kind he used would break the strings so he had to downgrade.
Way, way over on the other side of the
plectrum lies a certain sophisticated breed of jazz musicians. A lot of them don’t
actually play jazz music. Instead, it’s a crude generalization for those
supremely talented, virtuoso musicians who play and understand technique and
their instruments really well, way better than anybody has any right to. And
they seemingly play music exclusively catering to the tastes of people who like
authentic, bland Italian food in five-star hotels and actually know the
difference between a pinot noir and a chardonnay. Basically, the kind of music
written for and by pretentious asswipes who use words like Confluence and
Aplomb in everday conversations without a hint of self-awareness, or irony for
that matter.
But that’s just to paint a picture of
the kind of people I’m talking about. I don’t necessarily begrudge the music
itself; in fact, I happen to quite like a lot of fancy jazz music and a
talented instrumentalist is always a delight to hear or watch live. Surprisingly
enough, this is not a one-sided debate on the uselessness of skill and its role
in writing meaningful music. That’s a subject I’ve gone back and forth on for
years and am further off from an answer with each passing year, with a
sitting-on-the-fence conclusion likely in 2015. If you like your complex time
signatures and exotic scales that you’ve memorized by studying your Big Book of
Musical Notation repeatedly, then that’s fine too, as long as the music itself
sounds good.
Instead, what I want to talk about is
the intensity of the live
performance. I’ve come to understand the importance of the performative aspect
of music, and the act of playing your music (boring smooth jazz with rehearsed
self-loathing vocals or otherwise) on a stage in front of people. As much as I
may hate metaphysical psychobabble of any kind, I do believe that there happens
to be some kind of an exchange of energy between crowd and performer in a live
show. Otherwise we would all just watch YouTube videos all day.
So the other day I went out somewhere.
Incidentally, there was a gig happening there. Some super fancy musicians were
on stage, and they were playing jazzy-bluesy kind of music and playing it
really well. So I made the effort of walking from the outside section to the
inside section to check them. Without naming any names, a couple of the songs
were quite decent from a non-fan perspective. A couple of others were the
equivalent of a maths genius reciting five-figure tables to a clueless audience
aka zzzzz. But it was all spot on – not a note out of place, not a pocket
missed, almost machine-like in its consistency.
Intrigued and disgusted in equal
measure, I moved closer to the stage to see what those guys were doing. This is
a fairly packed pub we’re talking about, in the month of September in the city
of Delhi. The minor spell of rainfall for the season is done and dusted, so all
we’re left with is piercing heat and the occasional bliss of some humidity in
the air. Yet, there’s not even a fleck of sweat on any of these musicians. Not
even the drummer. It’s like they’ve just finished a heavy breakfast and all
that’s left to the day is a nice long indulgent afternoon siesta. I’m not
saying they should be soaked in their own perspiration and look visibly uncomfortable
or anything, but how about just a little more commitment, even of the feigned
variety?
Which set me off on a broader chain of
thought. The drummer played every song like his drum kit was made of expensive
crystal whiskey glasses and his sticks were steaming hot. All across stage,
instruments were treated like they were holy idols, always to be revered and
never to be fucked with. Sure, I get the value of intricacy and dynamics and
volume control and impact. But fuck your “nuance” for just half a second,
please? If I want a whole hour-and-a-half of filtered and controlled emotion where
wanking and virtuosity is almost as important as form, then I’d much rather
watch a foreign film with subtitles, learn some jargon, and then discuss it
with film school graduates who think they’re Kubrick.
A mistake here or there, while not
exactly welcome, isn’t going to bring the universe to a sudden halt. People
aren’t going to boo and hiss and point and laugh at a solitary error. Maybe,
and this is up for debate, it may even add a slight human element to the
proceedings. Vulnerability and intensity seems so smoothly and subtly replaced
by posturing and pomposity – not in this specific case but generally – that you
almost don’t feel it. But when you do, you can’t see anything else. Again, I’m
not even saying all fancy musicians do this – just listen to Miles Davis and
try for a second to accuse him of faking sincerity in the midst of showmanship
or virtuosity – but there is that side to practically every musician out there
and it’s almost sad and almost pathetic when they fall prey to it. It seems
like the conviction and passion with which the jazz vocalist delivers her/his
wandering words in front of the band gives the instrumentalists some kind of
license to remove themselves from the spiritual quality (UGH, spiritual quality) of the music, allowing themselves the
liberty to be concerned entirely with the mechanics of the sounds coming out of
their instruments, and how perfect and gently caressed those sounds are, as
opposed to actually engaging with the soul of the music and allowing some kind
of openness and vulnerability to creep in. Break a string, drop a stick, miss a
key on the piano, hit a bum note if you really must, but just don’t be robots. I
wouldn’t call it dishonest, because that would be unfair. But calling it objectively
and conclusively pure and honest seems a stretch too, doesn’t it? You don’t
have to jump around or be animated – get a chair if you want and do your best
Robert Fripp impression – but please, virtuosos across the world, please stop
boring us with your insincere, uncommitted wizardry. Or don’t. Because who knows; maybe it's just envy.
