Articles

Improvisation

By Loren Schoenberg

To many, composed music and improvised music seem to be opposites, but in jazz, they merge in a unique fashion. It has been said that the best improvised music sounds composed, and that the best composed music sounds improvised. Think about it — when you hear a great classical pianist play Chopin, or a superlative actor recite Shakespeare, they give the impression that they are actually inventing these ideas in front of you. In the same sense, a master improviser will occasionally hit upon a series of phrases that seem to have been preordained — you know where they are going, even though it is being created at the instant you are hearing it. The composer Arnold Schoenberg [no relation to the author] once wrote, "Composition is slowed down improvisation," and both disciplines deal with the same challenge — how to organize and present ideas in a coherent fashion.

One of the most common misconceptions about jazz is that it is spun out of the air in a totally impromptu manner. This notion exists because many small jazz groups do not read music when they play. The truth of the matter is that what those musicians are actually doing is spontaneously creating a very sophisticated form of theme and variations. Imagine that you and a group of friends decided to do your own version of a favorite story — one that you know from a book or from a film, say, The Wizard of Oz. You decide who is going to play whom. It is understood that Dorothy is going to start in Kansas, there's going to be a tornado, she's going to encounter a gaggle of crazy characters in the Land of Oz, and by the end, she will wake up in her own bed at home. The way that you get from scene to scene will be up to the actors at the moment, but they are all so familiar with the progression of events and the underlying theme/story that the improvisation adds a special kind of intensity and calls for a higher level of engagement. This frequently results in a new sense of excitement and the possibility of understanding in a new fashion this well-known story.

That, in essence, is what a jazz band does. They all know the tune beforehand, and the responsibilities of their chosen instruments. The piano, guitar, bass and drums, while all able to fill the role of soloist, are essentially there as accompaniment, and provide the rhythmic and harmonic basis over which the other soloists will invent their own melodic variations. The framework is flexible so that the soloists may shorten or lengthen their improvisations depending on the inspiration of the moment. The other players, then, have a responsibility to react to what has preceded them. Even when they are not soloing, members of a jazz band have to be intimately attuned to the music at all times because they never know what direction it might take. If you don't, you may, as John Coltrane once put it, feel as though you stepped into an empty elevator shaft. It's worth noting that Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms were all renowned for their improvisational abilities. They could spin off a dazzling series of developing variations at a moment's notice, and this undoubtedly influenced the way they composed. Jazz players are their true heirs in the way that composition and improvisation merge in their creativity. One way to follow a jazz improvisation is to hear the melody of the song in your head while listening to the solo.

But improvisation is not the be all and end all of jazz. Composers such as Duke Ellington and Eddie Sauter wrote, on occasion, jazz compositions practically devoid of improvisation. But the real challenge comes when a composer integrates improvisation into a piece. When playing orchestral jazz compositions, the improviser has to use all of his or her faculties to weave a statement into the context that the composer created. This is why all jazz musicians are composers. Jazz improvisers do not necessarily sit down with pen in hand and write out their solos on a piece of score paper, but those solos nonetheless require the same discipline as the written works of a composer. One of the great pleasures to be found in listening to players who are both great composers and soloists, such as Benny Carter and Wynton Marsalis, is hearing them improvise on their own material. And if you ever have the chance to listen to a classic jazz improvisation over and over again — Coleman Hawkins' Body and Soul, or Thelonious Monk's Straight, No Chaser, for example — you will find that they are compositions of the highest magnitude. Indeed, there is a good case to be made that these musicians should be able to copyright their solos as original compositions or variations.

Improvisation is a big part of everyday life. We improvise in the way we get dressed, cook our meals, go to work, and speak. There is no mystery to it, and there is certainly no mystery to jazz improvisation. It is, simply put, just another way of spontaneously confronting a challenge. To hear the purest and most sublime example of jazz improvisation, listen to Louis Armstrong. As the writer Stanley Crouch has observed: "In Armstrong's work there is a new kind of confidence that had never existed in Western music, an aural proof that man can master time through improvisation, that contemplation and action needn't be at odds." Armstrong's lessons still reverberate at the core of the music.