“Aging is not for the faint of heart.
It requires a slower pace, a steadier step,
and the wisdom to say goodbye without fear.”
—Meryl Streep

“I never heard of a jazz musician who retired.
You love what you do, so what are you
going to do, play for the walls?”
—Nat Adderley

I’ve been thinking about retirement.

For old road dogs like me, retirement is a tricky proposition.

Do we even want to retire? We love what we do. Why should we stop?

Occasionally you'll hear about a musician retiring “from stage to page,” exchanging public performance for the solitary work of composing music or writing a memoir. Others become painters, poets, or novelists. That's less retirement than reinvention.

Nobody expects us to retire. Most of our heroes didn’t. Unlike professional athletes, jazz musicians don’t “age out” of the business. When our strength, stamina, or chops begin to wane, we adapt. We simplify. We change our style.

Most of us can’t afford to retire. Self-employed artists rarely make enough to build any real retirement savings, and many end up with modest Social Security benefits. We’re responsible for our own healthcare. We don’t get paid vacations. We don’t receive paychecks, pensions, or 401k matching funds. We’re out here on our own.

A fortunate few get to expire on the bandstand. Bonus points if you drop dead during the applause, right after your brilliant solo! This exit strategy is called The Big Finish. We should all be so lucky.

The retirement plan for most of us, however, is The Slow Fade. You keep working because you must. Over time your health, mobility, and mental sharpness begin to decline. At the same time you experience a decrease in professional activity and cultural relevance. It feels like ageism, but it’s entropy. Fewer gigs, smaller crowds, less attention. A gradual slide from relative notoriety into obscurity and, eventually, total anonymity.

Fading out was never my plan. I wanted to finish the story on a high note. I wanted to go out on top.

When I was first starting out, I envisioned my career as a steady climb upward until finally, in my ultimate season, the capstone: a glorious Farewell Tour! I imagined joyously returning to all my favorite festivals, clubs, and concert halls for one final performance. I would play my heart out, then retire to a quiet life of leisure.

Now both of those dreams—the steady ascent and the victory lap—sound grandiose and incredibly naive to me. I've had a good run, but it felt less like scaling a mountain than navigating a winding river. Not a disciplined escalation so much as a cunning negotiation of life’s twists and turns, ebbs and flows, ups and downs.

Nevertheless, the idea of “a quiet life of leisure” sounds pretty good right about now.

After ten thousand gigs and half a century of hustling, I'm ready to rest, though the rewards of a life in music rarely arrive in a brokerage account. Most of them are non-monetary. I can't afford to quit working—not anytime soon, not in this economy.

I’ll need to keep earning a living for the foreseeable future—and perhaps that’s for the best. Creating, performing, and contributing are what give my life meaning. I would surely miss the connection with the audience and my bandmates, were I to leave it all behind.

But I can’t just keep going until the wheels fall off, and I won’t wait around for the slow fade to occur naturally. I must shape the process intentionally, little by little.

This body, mind, and spirit call for a deliberate downshift to a sustainable pace.

Maybe “retirement” isn't the right word. Maybe what I'm after is merely a gentler tempo.

I’ll continue to make the best music I can for as long as I can, for whomever is listening. I’ll simply do more with less: smaller projects, shorter tours, fewer gigs. From here on, it’s quality over quantity.

No retirement party.
No celebratory splash.
No farewell tour.

Just a long, slow decrescendo.

Diminuendo al niente.

“We don't stop playing because we grow old;
we grow old because we stop playing.”
—George Bernard Shaw

Can it really be true?

Is this year already half over?

Damn. For “The Year of Slow Living” it sure is going by awfully fast!

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, they do say “time flies when you’re having fun,” and I’m having plenty.

Because finally, after weeks of digital exercises, physical therapy sessions, and care team visits, my flugelin’ hand has fully healed from surgery.

I’m back to doing what I love: traveling, making music, living the dream. I’m even writing again!
 

There’s nothing like being sidelined for a while to make you appreciate getting back in the game.

Looking ahead, I remain mindful of two very important things:

1. I can’t stop working (so I sure as hell better pace myself), and
2. I can’t do this alone.

I’ve never been more grateful for my family, friends, and fans.

Your love and support mean the world to me.

Onward!

“Der mentsh trakht un got lakht.”
Man plans and God laughs.
—Yiddish Proverb

In my most recent slow living update, posted at the end of March, I was upbeat.

The curse had been lifted!

The one-battle-after-another constant crises of 2025 were in our rear view mirror.

This was a brand new year, I sighed with relief. The Year of Slow Living.

I was encouraged, because the first quarter had been entirely free of drama. I'd been able to sustain a gentle, stress-free lifestyle for three full months, managing the RA and making all my gigs without incident or injury.

Moreover, springtime had awakened in me a resurgent feeling of purpose. I felt confident and ready to take on the month of April and its more demanding tour schedule.

“I’m not worried,” I wrote. “I’ll take my time and enjoy the journey. My only job is to pace myself.”

You know what happens next: Man plans, and God laughs.

Two days later I’m in the hospital, the entire tour is canceled, and slow living is suddenly, and quite literally, “just what the doctor ordered.” I was given no choice. I'd been sidelined. The month ahead would now be, out of necessity, entirely about rest, recovery, and rehabilitation.

Being sidelined is scary. After all, there's no “paid leave” in our line of work. Fortunately, I haven't had to face this alone. I'm so grateful for the support we received this month from caring friends and family members.

I’m not gonna lie. These solitary weeks in the hunker bunker have not been easy. 

I've been working hard, faithfully following the PT program designed by my care team, stretching the joints and tendons, incrementally pushing through the pain, gradually rebuilding strength and endurance. And I've been diligently practicing rudiments on the horn for a little longer each day, steadily recovering dexterity and fine motor function in my hand and fingers. 

Now it's time to suit up, get back out there, and face the music once again!

Tomorrow is my first gig since the surgery, but I’m not worried.

I’ll take my time and enjoy the journey.

My only job is to pace myself.

Only one more week remaining here in the hunker bunker! I’m fighting the good fight.

Hand rehab is going well: 90 minutes of PT weekly, plus prescribed exercises several times daily.

I’m not yet able to fully extend my fingers or make a fist, but I’ve recovered most sensation and flexibility, and the pain is almost entirely gone, which is encouraging.

Most importantly, I’m able to practice for a little longer each day, so it should be safe to return to work soon.

The stiffness in my fumbling flugel fingers, however, is supremely frustrating!

Passages I could play before with lyrical ease are now difficult to execute.

So it’s back to basics: scales, patterns, and etudes. Shout out to my old nemesis Herbert L. Clarke!

I play each exercise slowly with the metronome, gradually increasing the tempo, only after I’m able to place each note precisely and with equal weight. It’s mind-numbing work, but necessary.

Meanwhile, I’m also battling the bean-counting bureacrats of the deviously labyrinthine Medical-Industrial Complex. Sigh. #IYKYK

In the martial art of Aikido, the Japanese term “randori” (乱取り), literally “seizing chaos,” is an advanced technique in which the practitioner must improvise a defense against multiple attackers.

Opponents strike randomly using a variety of weapons. The unarmed randori master, alone at the center of this chaotic whirlwind, remains relaxed and ostensibly motionless. He anticipates, reacts, and deflects, expending little effort, even as he sends assailants flying in every direction.

What a beautiful and inspiring image!

To calmly face all of life’s battles—mental, physical, financial, existential—with grace.

Seizing chaos! Stillness within motion. You dig?

Fortunately, we don't have to fight every battle alone!

Thank you all for your encouragement and support.

Welp, the stitches are out, the bandages are off, and the hand looks good!

The procedure was a grand success. Shout out to Dr. Francisco Rodriguez Fontan and the excellent care team at Providence Centralia.

They saved my second valve finger and cleared the infection. They’re going to keep me on antibiotics for another couple of weeks, just to be sure, but this is wonderful news.

And nary a sexy scar! My only souvenirs from this adventure will be two tiny incision marks on my palm and finger tip, and some permanent inelasticity in my joints and tendons.

Now to recover as much fine motor function in my flugelin’ hand as possible. I can’t make a fist yet, or fully extend my fingers, but I’m already able to practice for a full hour before prohibitive pain and stiffness return.

I’ll remain laser focused on PT, OT, stretches, and flugel rudiments, adding 5-10 minutes daily, until it’s safe to return to work. I hope and expect to be road-ready by month’s end!

Heartfelt thanks to our friends and family for all your good thoughts and generous support while I’ve been sidelined. Your kindness means the world.

See you soon!

Preparing for my future TED Talk: 
Vigilant Diligence for Digital Impediments to the Rudiments Regimen

Update: two weeks post-surgery, and rehabilitation is proceeding apace!

Now able to practice for 45 minutes with only minimal pain and stiffness, adding 5 minutes daily.

Feeling so very grateful to everyone for the help and encouragement.

“Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is Patience.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson

It’s been a week since my surgery and I’m feeling cautiously optimistic.

The hand seems to be healing and there’s no sign of any lingering infection.

I’m grateful for the generous support we’ve received, and all the encouraging messages from family and friends.

It really helps, at times like this, to know that people care.

I’ve been doing my part, following doctor’s orders:

• taking the antibiotics and pain meds,
• resting well and sleeping through the night,
• scheduling follow-up visits and physical/occupational therapy sessions,
• keeping the bandaged right hand clean, dry, elevated, and stationery, and
• learning to use my left hand for literally everything.

Chops-wise, progress is slow.

A week in the hospital without practicing definitely weakened my embouchure, but the flugelhorn and I are becoming friends again.

I started with Donald Duck mouthpiece rudiments (much to Sassy’s delight), then transitioned to lefty long tones and lip slurs on the horn.

The real work begins next Friday. That’s when they’ll remove my stitches and I can start to regain strength and facility in my dominant hand.

I know myself. I’ll be tempted to try and speed things along by playing through the pain, but that would risk further injury.

The experts advise to start slowly, practice for a few minutes, then add 5 additional minutes each day.

The idea is to gradually rebuild endurance and fine motor function until I can play comfortably for a couple of hours.

Then, and only then, can I safely return to work.

I’m determined to get this right.

“You should've seen the other guy.”

Curveball—last week I was unexpectedly hospitalized for emergency hand surgery.

I'm now home, beginning several weeks of healing, recovery, and physical therapy. 

The plan is to gradually rebuild strength and dexterity until it’s safe to return to work. 

I'm also using speech-to-text and learning to do a few things left-handed—slowly but surely.

I hope to resume public performances at the end of this month.

Replacing the lost income won’t be easy. When all this began I had no choice but to cancel my participation in 17 engagements, including a California tour—heartbreaking, but necessary.

Fortunately, the concert presenters have been very understanding. We were able to preserve most of the dates for my bandmates. I’m relieved that my setback won’t significantly impact their livelihoods.

As for me, I’m taking things at a slower tempo, trusting the process, and looking forward to getting back out there.

Thank you for your support, which means the world to me, especially at times like this.

I’m grateful for all of you, and look forward to seeing you again soon.

Warmly,
Dmitri

This is The Year of Slow Living.

The mission is to pace myself and persevere.

February was just right — the perfect balance of work and rest.

We’ve enjoyed the rain this month, ideal for cozy evenings by the fire. Sass is disappointed we haven’t had any snow, but personally, I don’t miss it. Winter driving is no joke, especially over these northwest mountain passes! No snow or hail for me, thanks. But rain? Rain is life.

On show days I endeavor to practice effortless action. Easing into the morning calmly and mindfully, I do what is necessary, one thing at a time. Then I pack up the van and hit the road early, allowing plenty of stress-free travel time. I listen to music and enjoy the drive, remaining alert, taking breaks.

When I arrive early, the performance takes care of itself. Prepare, adapt, enjoy.

We gave our new program a “soft launch” this month on a couple of low pressure gigs, and the results were encouraging. This show is a crowd-pleaser, lively and entertaining, but isn’t overly demanding. The flashy flugel-heavy moments are balanced by opportunities to rest while we feature other members of the band.

These strategic breaks will prove especially important when we play consecutive shows, but I hope to avoid too many back-to-back engagements this year. So far the itinerary looks manageable. We have 81 confirmed gigs, and will accept no more than 100, so we can be selective as new opportunities arise.

On the RA front, I have good days and bad days. The biologic medications are definitely working, and I’m grateful for the functionality and mobility they help to make possible.

Some stiffness and soreness has returned, however, since I went off prednisone. Occasionally I have flares, random periods of pain and brain fog, and I often experience extreme fatigue the day after doing anything strenuous. Recovery days have become mandatory.

When I ask about remission, the rheumatologist reminds me that “this is a marathon, not a sprint.” I dig, but marathons are exhausting. Nevertheless, we move forward.

Today is the first day of March and the beginning of our busy spring season. 

Important to stay on top of things without becoming overwhelmed. 

Slow living is the key. Rise with the sun, tend my garden, play my role. 

Rest. Repeat.

I love the month of January, when it’s my custom to take a break from traveling and performing.

January is when I return to myself. I stay home, reflect, recharge, plan, and prepare for the year ahead.

Mornings are spent fireside, writing music, practicing, and scheduling new tours and concert appearances. Afternoons are for puppy walks and errands. Evenings are pure relaxation.

This year I really needed the reset. 2025 was utterly exhausting! I’m determined to do a better job of pacing myself in 2026, which I’ve christened “The Year of Slow Living.”

So far, so good. January 2026 was just what it needed to be: both rejuvenating and productive.

Accomplished month one objectives while maintaining a relaxed, measured, calm and deliberate pace. No stress. Wu-wei.

Visited two doctors, the dentist, and mechanic, prepared most of the quintet arrangements for this season’s show, broke-in my new horn and mouthpiece, adapted to my new RA meds, and confirmed 75 of the 100 gigs we will play this year. Excelsior!

Also caught up on sleep and dreams.

Now it all starts up again.

Ready? Let’s do this.

Welp, after a year of steady progress, I managed to get within spitting distance of my goal weight, but was thwarted in the final stretch by the delicious treats of the holiday season! Predictable.

No matter! Will start fresh, and begin anew, on January 1. 

I wonder: how long will it take to break 200? 

When will I earn that GL “willpower” ring?

RESOLUTIONS 2026 — THE YEAR OF SLOW LIVING
I resolve to embrace the slower pace of this stage and season.

Slow down. Take my time. Do things right.

Protect the sanctity of my slow morning routine.

Embrace calm contentment. Reject hustle culture.

Do less of everything! Work less, eat less, spend less.

Be more selective. Say “no, thank you” easily and often.

Simplify! Live frugally. Prepare for retirement. Eliminate debt.

Get plenty of rest. Take naps! Relax. Refresh. Recharge. Rejuvenate.

Favor working close to home. Sleep in my own bed whenever possible.

Schedule 25% fewer shows. Accept no more than 100 bookings throughout the year.

Limit tours outside the region. Seek run-outs and residencies. Build rest days into every trip.

Take it easy on show days. Conserve energy during gigs. Alternate sitting and standing. Take breaks.

Master the art of living with RA. Learn how to better manage pain, inflammation, stiffness, and fatigue.

Spend more time outdoors. Align with circadian and seasonal cycles. Take nature walks. Go fishing.

Preserve mental health. Avoid negative people. Limit consumption of news and social media.

Prioritize gentle exercise: walking, stretching, swimming, chair yoga, tai chi. Motion is lotion.

Downsize! Minimize visual distractions. Declutter, sell, gift, donate.

Stay curious, calm, playful, and — most of all — grateful.

I resolve to maintain a simple, stress-free lifestyle built on gentle, sustainable habits.

1. Physical Health

Drink black coffee, unsweetened tea, and water.

Eat one meal a day, favoring vegetables and protein.

Limit consumption of alcohol, sugar, snacks, dairy.

Prioritize a daily nature walk and afternoon nap.

Stay current with prescription medications.

Visit the doctor and dentist twice annually.

Monitor blood pressure and weight.

Get plenty of quality sleep.

2. Mental Health

Avoid burnout. Say “no thank you” easily and often.

Stay connected. Reach out. Make time for friends and family.

Begin each day with affirmations. End each day with gratitude.

Talk less. No need to complain, explain, or entertain.

Schedule a multi-day solo retreat every 3-4 months.

Curtail consumption of news and social media.

Read. Rest. Sit quietly. Listen to music. Smile.

3. Finances

Practice frugality and minimalism. Limit spending to essentials. Give and receive simple gifts.

Make one money move (deposit, investment, bill payment, debt reduction) each and every day.

Pay off high interest cards and loans. Maintain current accounts. Keep credit utilization below 30%.

Avoid air travel and rental cars. Van-camp whenever possible. Don’t waste money on lodging.

Keep van and horn in good repair. Schedule an inspection before every big road trip.

Maintain OMAD and warrior diet protocols even when traveling.

4. Music / Business

Pace yourself. The hustle-and-grind years are over.

Do less of everything, but more deeply. Make it count.

Cast a wide net. Offer opportunities, follow-up, move on.

Never multi-task. Focus on a single project or tour at a time.

Value efficiency and sustainability over productivity.

Strive for slow, steady, incremental improvement.

Focus on community and collaboration.

Be purposeful, not ambitious.

Stay curious and inspired.

This year I resolve to work smarter, not harder.

I plan to pace myself, take my time, and do things right.

I’ll talk less, walk more, and appreciate every moment.

1. Sustain my daily routine at home.

Wake up before sunrise. Walk, stretch, make bed.

Handle all business before noon; reserve afternoons for music.

Practice flugelhorn long tones and rudiments. Prepare repertoire.

Read, study, walk dogs, run errands, and finish chores before daily meal.

On gig nights: allow extra time, drive carefully, arrive early, and read my book.

On free nights: enjoy television, movies, music, and podcasts.

Before bed, put the day up for review and plan tomorrow.

Practice deep breathing and mindfulness meditation.

Sleep soundly for six hours or more.

Progress: Good; 8 out of 9. Gave up on waking up before sunrise and moved my walk to mid-morning. Tried stretching daily for a couple of months, but the habit didn’t take.

2. Make the most of every road trip.

Service van and replenish supplies before every tour.

Plan ahead. Research each day’s driving route, meal, and nature walk.

Drive no more than six hours daily. Rest every two hours.

Schedule one (but no more than two) engagements each day.

Cut costs to increase margins. Overnight with Harvest Hosts when possible.

Maintain personal hygiene and stick to a regular sleep schedule.

Recharge devices and handle business each morning.

Plan breaks along the way for visits with friends.

Progress: Excellent; 8 out of 8. Pleased with my consistency in this area.

3. Prioritize mental well-being.

Relax, smile, and laugh. Choose to be in a good mood.

Limit exposure to negative people and influences.

Watch no more than 30 minutes of daily news.

Spend no more than 10 minutes on social media.

Get outdoors. Appreciate nature. Play with dogs.

Schedule seasonal solitude retreats and staycations.

Make time for real conversations with friends.

Be of service. Offer help and follow through.

Avoid complaining, even to myself.

Stay humble, hopeful, and grateful.

Memento mori. Amor fati.

Progress: Fair, 7 out of 11. Managing anxiety very well, yet still watching too much daily news, and I often catch myself complaining. Need to make more time for friends and actively seek opportunities to be of service.

4. Prioritize physical health.

Enjoy food and drink in moderation.

Limit consumption of caffeine and alcohol.

Follow OMAD and Warrior Diet protocols.

Visit the doctor and dentist regularly.

Progress: Weak, 0 out of 4. Still eating, drinking, and snacking too much. Visited the doctor in January but long overdue for the dentist. Must do better at prioritizing health.

5. Maintain financial discipline.

Boost contingency fund by 20%.

Increase retirement savings by 10%.

Pay off 100% of consumer debt.

Protect home and credit rating.

Progress: Weak, 1 out of 4. Drew down and replenished contingency fund three times already this year. Retirement contributions far outpaced by increased credit card debt, due to (a) higher cost of living and (b) overspending on vacation travel and music projects. Resolve to be more frugal for the remainder of the year.

6. Shut up and listen!

Hold few opinions and express even fewer.

Listen more. Speak less. Two ears, one mouth!

Remain curious, interested, and open-minded. Become laconic.

When possible, try to make the point in one sentence, without preamble.

In conversation, pause to think, then choose words carefully before speaking.

When performing, settle down. Be a supportive listener, not a cheerleader.

Rather than reacting impulsively, respond thoughtfully.

Progress: Weak, 0 out of 7. I’ve been doing the literal opposite of all these. Must quiet my monkey mind!

Woke up with the sun, grabbed an espresso from the bikini baristas, and hit the road for Seabeck, a mill town on Hood Canal.

Followed a beautifully maintained walking trail to a small waterfall. Not another human soul in sight.

Sketched an idea for vibraphone and double bass. Not what I’d planned, but could be something.

Today’s meal: steamed mussels with salad, bread, and wine. Almost as good as Bartje's!

Tonight’s lullaby: Clifford Brown with Strings.

Goodnight, Blue Moon.

“I hide in plain sight. 
Same as you.” 
—Gustavo Fring 

I’m not a superstitious person by nature, but I was raised in the south where even educated folks recognize the power of signs and omens. Charlie’s gift of a tiny silver owl felt like such a signifier to me: a talisman of unknown provenance and portent. 

I began to carry the mysterious little figurine in my pocket, where it would gently jingle against my mouthpiece and pocket change as I walked. I carried it everywhere, like a good luck charm, and it seemed to be working. Within a few short years I’d established myself in San Francisco as a working musician, and had sold enough sponsorships to increase our jazz festival budget ten fold. 

In hindsight, this was during the tech boom of the early 1990s. Gigs were plentiful then because there were so many gainfully employed young people looking for a night out, and donations were up, too. The dot com bubble was expanding, the stock market was booming, and corporate support for the arts was ascendant. Bay Area businesses needed somewhere to park all that extra cash. Why not a nonprofit that offers exciting social events and a tax write off? It was an easy sell. 

I didn’t have that perspective at the time, however. Naively I thought I’d cracked the code! I felt powerful, like a double agent: professional jazz musician by night, hot shot sponsorship salesman by day. Oblivious to the unseen economic forces that conspired to pave my way, I credited my own skill and hustle, with perhaps just a little bit of secret “owl luck” thrown in for good measure. 

Over time my magical thinking grew deeper, abetted by echoes. Not only was I carrying the owl totem in my pocket, but I also began to notice similar statuettes in the executive offices of prospective sponsors. 

I would be in mid-pitch, sitting across from some corporate mucky-muck, when I would look over at the shelf behind them, and there it would be: another owl statue. I never said anything, but on more than one occasion I sensed a subtle nod or look of acknowledgment when I spied the owl. 

Like, I saw it. They saw me see it. Now what? 
 

It’s Tuesday night in San Francisco, and I don’t have a gig of my own, so I’m headed over to Sonny’s Place in North Beach to hear the incomparable flugelhornist Sweets Allen. 

For true fans of lyrical swing, it gets no better than Sweets and his honey-toned horn. He’s the real deal, a veteran soloist from the bands of Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, and Tony Bennett. Now in his 70s, Sweets is one of San Francisco’s most beloved musicians and one of the last great gentleman of jazz. 

For me, Tuesdays at Sonny’s are like graduate school. I rarely miss the chance to attend one of these weekly masterclasses.

Tonight Sweets is really living up to his name. His improvised lines are powerfully simple, pure, soulful, logical, and undeniably joyful. The warmth of his sound and the smile on his face combine to lift the spirits of everyone in the club. 
 

On the break I motion for him to join me at my table. Like my father, Sweets is a former school teacher, a wise elder who doesn’t mind sharing his accumulated knowledge. He patiently answers all my questions about music and life. 

“The main thing is to tell a story,” he advises, tapping his finger on the table for emphasis. “But it’s not like reciting a poem or singing a song. It’s got to be your story.” 

“Just be real,” he adds, “and never let the naysayers get you down. They’re everywhere, so keep your head on a swivel.” 

“Like an owl,” I say quietly. 

“Precisely,” he smiles, standing. 

“Which reminds me,” he adds before returning to the bandstand. 

“A little birdie told me you may be joining us.” 

Next:
THE OWL CLUB PART 5 — PARLIAMENT

Health 
Recommit to OMAD, black coffee, and portion control. 
Plant new salad vegetables in the garden. 
Walk every day before the evening meal. 
Curtail alcohol consumption. 
Prioritize memory work. 

Music 
Perform mostly songs from the new album. 
Expand melodic range in both directions. 
Arrange Joni Mitchell material for Holly. 
Write songs for top Indiegogo backers. 
Study Nelson Riddle's orchestration. 
Practice Beleza duo repertoire. 

Business 
Arrange for album design, distribution, promotion, and marketing.
Maintain tourbus with regular servicing, repairs, and upgrades. 
Apply for touring, residency, and commissioning grants. 
Schedule tours and album release events. 
Purchase a backup horn. 
Reduce debt by 25%. 

Personal 
Make an emergency response plan.
Write a blog post every week. 
Invest in home security.
Make time for friends. 
Practice gratitude.
Pace yourself.
Go fishing.

(To J.)

Please go away and be my friend, 

This cup of fire let pass from you — 

Because I know it’s not the end 

I’ll only spill a tear or two. 

Your laugh, your touch, your kiss I’ll need, 

But these are only part of you — 

Your other gifts to me indeed 

My strength, my will to live, renew. 

The on the other hand reproof, 

Of language and “what’s right for me” — 

(Don’t think I’m really that aloof) 

Of these, at least, I’ll soon be free! 

So think of love quite seriously 

And to your new affairs attend; 

What’s left for now’s enough for me — 

Please go away and be my friend.

          —Bill Matheny

“The foundation of any national character is human nature.”
―Vasily Grossman
 

Of all the many magical places I’ve encountered in my travels, Kinkaku-ji, Kyoto’s Temple of the Golden Pavilion, is one of the most magnificent. Set in a classical strolling garden by a reflective pond, the temple’s design is strikingly opulent yet perfectly integrated into the surrounding landscape. 

Although I’ve only visited the historic world heritage site twice, I return so often in mind and memory that it has become comfortingly familiar. For me, this temple achieves what the great cathedrals of Europe do not. Instead of making one feel small and insignificant, Kinkaku-ji inspires a profound feeling of gratitude and connection to the natural world, inviting contemplation of one’s own role in the cosmos. As above, so below. 

Kinkaku-ji is a wonder of architecture and aesthetics. Each section of the three-story structure represents a different historical period and point of view. The first level, named Chamber of Dharma Waters, is rendered in the natural wood and white paneled shinden style of eleventh century imperial aristocracy, with verandas and open areas that bring the outdoors inside. The second story, called Tower of Sound Waves, is built in the tenth century manner of samurai warriors, with sliding doors and mullioned windows intended to convey evanescence. The top floor, Cupola of the Ultimate, is constructed in the twelfth century zen style suggesting meditation and spiritual insight. The top two levels are completely covered in shining gold leaf. Taken collectively, this singular architectural marvel confers both respect for nature and an awareness of the fragile, fleeting nature of existence. 

But it’s the luminous golden reflection of the temple on the surface of the pond that I find most compelling. The image remains constant as the seasons change. Even before you view the relics and treasures within, the building’s exterior design eloquently communicates the Japanese ideals of shokunin (craftsmanship, pursuit of perfection), wabi (understated elegance), sabi (the beauty of impermanence), yugen (mystery, grace) and ma (negative space, emptiness, and silence). 

Kinkaku-ji is a truly remarkable place. It’s also where I learned a valuable lesson about the absurdity of stereotypes and the gentle power of humor. 

A light rain was falling as I quietly admired the temple with my new friend Masa, an expert on buddhist culture who also happens to be the husband of a favorite visual artist), when our silent contemplation was suddenly interrupted by a boisterous busload of Japanese tourists. They tumbled out of the bus, photographers all, and immediately began to laugh and shout as they joyfully took pictures of one another on the temple grounds. 

I was offended by what I perceived as an inappropriate and unwelcome assault on my reverie. Kinkaku-ji is a sacred place! They should know better, I thought. But when I looked to my guide he was grinning ear-to-ear, delighted with their arrival. I wondered how he could remain so cheerful in the face of this intrusion.

“You don’t find them rude?” I asked, as yet another cluster of giggling girls pushed past us to pose in front of the temple. They squealed gleefully and flashed peace signs as their male companions snapped photo after photo.

“This is a happy place,” Masa explained, smiling benevolently. “Why shouldn’t they be happy?” 

Of course he’s right, I realized. Embarrassed by my own foolishness, I tried to make a joke. 

“Hey Masa, you’re Japanese. Where’s your camera?” 

He replied without hesitation.

“Well, you’re American...where’s your gun?”  

All the world’s a stage, 
and all the men and women merely players. 
They have their exits and their entrances, 
and one man in his time plays many parts. 
—William Shakespeare 

Don’t it always seem to go 
that you don’t know what 
you got ’til it’s gone? 
—Joni Mitchell 

I’ve been thinking a lot about stages recently. Concert stages, stages of life, and all the stages on which we perform, both literally and figuratively. 

Social media is itself a kind of performance space, where people gather for creative expression and the exchange of ideas. Depending on the user, social media may offer an elevated platform for high-minded art and ideals, an open forum for lively discussion and debate, or a cynical echo chamber of fear mongering, conspiracy peddling, virtue signaling and performative activism. (Or you can just post puppy photos!)

The virtual stage provided by live-streaming technology has been a godsend for performers during the shutdown, enabling us to stay active and remain in touch with friends and fans. When all the nightclubs and concert halls went dark, musicians from every genre took to the internet almost immediately, becoming virtual “buskers” overnight. I used a platform called “StageIt” to produce my Quarantunes series of live-streaming solo shows.

I used a platform called “StageIt” to produce my Quarantunes series of live-streaming solo shows

Don’t get me wrong. Live-streaming is no substitute for the real deal. But it can be thrilling to play for an international audience without ever having to leave the house. Food for thought as we consider the post-pandemic commute. 

Of course, real life also offers myriad opportunities to perform. Willy Shakes was really onto something when he penned his famous “All The World’s A Stage” monologue. Like actors in a play, we inhabit various roles at different stages of life: the good son, the good spouse, the good worker, the good friend, the good man. 

As I look back over my own life and career, I can identify seven stages of development. Starting from juvenescent beginner’s luck, I survived adolescent optimism bias and the Dunning-Kruger effect, then as an adult, progressed through confirmation bias and plenty of denial before arriving at my current position, somewhere between middle aged rationalization and senior citizen rosy retrospection. (Shout out to Wikipedia for the psychobabble refresher!)

Through it all, my refuge and sanctuary has been the concert stage, a sacred space where artists and audiences meet in search of a shared transcendent experience. As the immortal Bobby Hutcherson once told me, “Think of the bandstand as an altar. Music is a spiritual calling, and the stage is our church.” 

The Immortal Bobby Hutcherson 

Mr. Hutcherson’s wise words carry extra resonance today, as the pandemic threatens to permanently shutter many of our most beloved venues. Ours is a precious and precarious ecosystem which we must never take for granted.  

The relationship between artist and venue is a symbiotic one. Simply put, we need each other. Too often, however, relations between performers and those who hire them are perceived as adversarial. If you don’t believe me, ask your musician friends whether they happen to know any jokes about club owners.

Those jokes don’t seem so funny now. After fifteen solitary months of playing my horn to an unseen audience over the internet, I’m jonesing hard for a real gig with a real band in a real venue. I miss the creative collaboration, intimacy and immediacy of live performance. Most of all, I miss seeing the faces of people in the audience as we experience the miracle of music together.

Small venues have been hit especially hard by the pandemic shutdown. Many went out of business almost immediately. Of those remaining, ninety percent report that they are at risk of closing without additional financial assistance. 

Enter Save our Stages, a bipartisan bill to provide billions of dollars in relief grants for venues. Recently signed into law as part of President Biden’s economic recovery plan, the Save Our Stages act is not perfect, but it’s a start. As Minnesota senator Amy Klobuchar points out, “Independent venues were some of the first establishments to close down and will likely be some of the last to open. I refuse to sit by and let the music die.”

Save Our Stages is an emergency relief fund for live event venues and promoters 

She's 100% correct, and we all must do whatever we can to help. #saveourstages

Presently, as we anticipate turning the corner on COVID-19, there is reason for hope. My buddy Ed, a jazz guitarist and concert promoter in Ashland, Oregon, optimistically predicts a post-pandemic gold rush for events. He believes that audiences, having been deprived of live music for so long, will return in record numbers, more motivated than ever to buy tickets and support the arts.

Makes sense to me. The global health crisis provided us all with a chance to pause and reevaluate which things in life matter and which things don’t. I, for one, have learned that live music matters immensely, and stages are absolutely essential.

Joni Mitchell said it best: you don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone.

“One day, you’ll make peace with your demons, 
and the chaos in your heart will settle flat. 
And maybe for the first time in your life, 
life will smile right back at you and 
welcome you home.” 
—Robert M. Drake 

“We don't see things as they are,
we see them as we are.”
―Anaïs Nin

When Daddy Bill passed away last December, just before my 55th birthday, I felt something change in me. 

Way down deep, beneath the ocean of love and gratitude for all that he was, below the waves of grief, loss and mourning, there was a feeling of release. Not relief, mind you, but release, as if by saying goodbye to this world, my father was giving me permission to let go of certain unrealistic expectations about my own place in it. 

Before he died, I never fully appreciated the extent to which my professional ambitions were tethered to the desire to earn my father’s approval. Ironic, since he never pressured me in any way, and was always encouraging, no matter what. He believed in me. He loved my music and supported my life choices without reservation. 

Daddy Bill has always been in my corner. His approval was a given. But because I admired him so and wanted to make him proud, I worked harder than I might have, and whenever I achieved anything, no matter how small, I couldn’t wait to tell him about it. 

Daddy Bill has always been in my corner

Even during his last years, as Parkinson’s and dementia assailed his body and mind, we remained close. I visited him in Tucson every few months, and called him every Sunday. Because of his condition, we could only talk about small things: the weather, the news, what he had for breakfast. And though he was often confused or forgetful, he always remembered to tell me that he loved me, and would end every conversation with the same benediction: “you just keep playing that horn.” 

I miss my father terribly, but paradoxically, I also feel his presence. I’m not a religious person, and I have no belief in an afterlife. I don’t pray to God, communicate with the ancestors or converse with my father’s ghost. But I do hear the “still small voice” of my own conscience, and it just so happens to speak with a comfortingly familiar, decidedly paternal, southern drawl. 

Lately that voice has been telling me to make peace with my demons. We all have our demons, right? I have three, and they have tortured me for as long as I can remember. Their names are Grandiosity, Imposter Syndrome, and Polarized Thinking. 

In the past I’ve tried to fight my demons without success. To make peace would require a new strategy: that I stop fighting, and instead try to understand them and where they’re coming from. Think of it as Cognitive Distortion Diplomacy. 

my three demons have tortured me for as long as I can remember 

Grandiosity is the biggest and loudest of my demons. He infects me with toxic superiority and an exaggerated sense of my own importance. He robs me of rational thought and empathy, and fills me with bogus, superstitious beliefs: that I’m special, that I’m chosen, that I’m destined for greatness, and that the universe magically conspires to assist me at every turn. Grandiosity distorts my positive aspirations and work ethic, transforming them into an unearned and ugly feeling of entitlement. 

Imposter Syndrome is Grandiosity’s evil twin sister. Whenever Grandiosity sleeps, she awakes, to drain my delusional overconfidence and replace it with extreme self-doubt. Imposter Syndrome perniciously whispers that I’m an untalented fraud, that my entire career has been nothing but a long con, and that any past accomplishments and accolades are meaningless. Imposter Syndrome says “You’re not special at all. You’re the worst thing a person can be: you’re ordinary.” 

Of the three, however, Polarized Thinking may be the most dangerous demon of all. He provides the fuel that sustains the others. He inflicts an absurd all-or-nothing worldview of black and white extremes, in which I’m either destined for success or doomed to failure. Polarized Thinking says there can be no in-between, no shades of gray. If Grandiosity is born of the hope that I’m special, and Imposter Syndrome is the fear that I’m not, Polarized Thinking is the erroneous belief that these are the only two options. 

If I’m ever to let go of unrealistic expectations, and come home to the life that I truly want, then making peace with these demons is paramount. I may never be able to silence them entirely, but If I can just see them for the maladaptive, habitual, self-sabotaging ways of thinking that they are, perhaps I can diminish their destructive power and re-integrate them into a more realistic sense of self. 

In other words, I must learn to perceive things clearly as they are, unclouded by hope and fear. I must become like Manjushri, the bodhisattva of keen awareness, whose flaming sword represents the transcendent wisdom which cuts through duality and delusion. 

Manjushri, the Bodhisattva of keen awareness 

Who knows what the future will hold? None of us control the narrative of our lives, not really. But to the extent that one can shape a life story, I now aspire to a smaller, simpler, more sustainable one. 

I will “keep playing that horn” for at least a few more years. But while my love of music is undiminished, any ambitious desires to prove myself or make my mark have waned considerably. The truth is, there is no longer anything to prove. Not to my father, not to myself, not to anyone. 

Look at it this way: my dream was to become a professional jazz artist, to travel, make records, and share my music. 

As it turns out, I did precisely that, and I've enjoyed it for nearly 40 years. 

Maybe now it’s time to dream a new dream. Why not? 

Whatever the new dream turns out to be, I'm sure Daddy Bill would approve.

“It’s not just about me and my dream
of doing nothing. It’s about all of us!”
—Peter Gibbons

“Now is the age of anxiety.”
—W.H. Auden 

“Don’t make me dance.”
—Lilia 

I’m a big fan of CBS Sunday Morning. The show’s bright, optimistic tone, cheerful sun iconography, and calming nature videos are usually a welcome comfort. But this week’s episode made me anxious. 

The entire show was dedicated to the encouragement of widespread tourism, as if we’re already living in a post-pandemic world. From host Jane Pauley to travel guru Rick Steves to the lemon merchants of the Amalfi Coast, everyone seemed to be singing from the same reckless hymn sheet. There was even a segment promoting revenge tourism, the idea that pleasure travel is even more fun now, as a giant middle finger to COVID-19. 

Are you kidding me? Aren’t we being a little premature? 

CBS Sunday Morning is usually a welcome comfort, but this episode made me anxious

I dig that people are restless, and I understand we’re all feeling more hopeful as vaccinations increase. But the virus is still surging in many areas, and some of those new variants are scary. There are now 141 million cases worldwide, including 32 million in the USA of which 566,000 have proven fatal. This thing ain’t over yet. Is now really the time to cheerlead for non-essential travel? 

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been a travel enthusiast all my life. In the 1970s of my youth, Daddy Bill and I road-tripped everywhere, from the Great Smoky Mountains to the Florida Keys to the Sonoran Desert. In the decades since I’ve had the privilege of making new friends in Azerbaijan, Barbados, Belgium, Cambodia, Canada, Chile, Czech Republic, England, France, Greece, Indonesia, Italy, Japan, Luxembourg, Mexico, Netherlands, Poland, Thailand and nearly every one of these United States. #AlphabeticalHumbleBrag

I'm profoundly grateful for my travels, and I wholeheartedly agree with the late Anthony Bourdain (a personal hero), who contended that travel, if we do it right, is our best defense against racism and xenophobia. You dig? 

xenophile hero Anthony Bourdain and friends showing us how its done 

Cultural tourism literally brings us together! That’s one of the reasons I chose this career. Travel is the lifeblood of our business. You don’t meet many xenophobic musicians. 

But this year? I’m not feeling it. 

Don’t be surprised. After all, I’m the Proletarian Contrarian. My entire life has been an exercise in cognitive dissonance. Swimming against the current? It’s kinda my thing. 

While most of my friends were leading responsible lives, raising families and being good citizens, I was traveling 57,000 miles a year to honk my horn among the great unwashed. It stands to reason that now, when I feel afraid to venture beyond my front gate, the rest of the world can’t wait to get on a plane!

As one sidelined traveler told the Wall Street Journal, “The moment can’t come soon enough to actually hit the road again. We’re all kind of clamoring for the celebration party.” 

Not all of us, pal. As usual, I’m out of step with the zeitgeist.

I just got my second shot of Dolly Vax.

I’m very grateful, but also anxious. 

grateful, but also anxious

Some of my uneasiness is just a lingering reaction to the white coat effect. I always experience irrational fear and agitation around doctor stuff. The stakes are higher this time (i.e., deadly global plague), which only exacerbates matters. 

I’m also anxious about the uncertainty of it all. Maybe I’ll have a bad reaction to the vaccine. Maybe the vax won’t work, and I’ll still catch covid. Or maybe it will work, and the next bug is the one that gets me. See what I mean? 

And it’s not only the pandemic that makes me nervous. I’m justifiably worried over the state of the world. So much vitriol and violence in the news. Racial unrest. Joblessness, homelessness, food insecurity. Explosions. Invasions. Protests. Riots. Wildfires. Floods. Hurricanes. Police brutality. Political corruption. Voter suppression. Cancel culture. Rampant stupidity. Nazis! Four full years of enduring daily presidential messages of hate. (Aren’t we all still suffering PTSD from that SOB?)

Then there’s the hypervigilance. I don’t mind telling you, I’m straight up terrified of catching a stray bullet. It seems every week there’s another random, senseless mass shooting in this country. I’m always checking over my shoulder and looking for the exits. How does anyone feel safe in a crowd anymore? 

Some of this anxiety is grief-related. I’m still mourning the loss of my father. I feel untethered, like an orphan. Facing a world without him in it fills me with dread. 

facing a world without him in it fills me with dread 

So I’m delighted the vaccines are here, and grateful to have received mine. And I’m glad that people are feeling more hopeful, but not if it means we all have to go rushing back. 

Because if I’m being truly honest here, the main reason I feel anxious is this: I’m simply not ready. 

I’m just not ready to go back. Not yet. I’m not ready for the ambitious workaday world with all its expectations and obligations. I’m not ready to leave the safety and security of my Hunker Bunker. And I’m definitely not ready to resume that relentless hustle and grind. 

I’m here for the music, not the dance.

As a rule, professional bandleaders operate with neither job security nor a financial safety net.  We work gig to gig, operating on the slimmest of margins, without salary or benefits. We aren’t eligible for unemployment and many of us cannot afford health insurance. And most of our jobs are one-nighters, which means we can never stop looking for work, because we never know for sure how we’re going to pay that next round of bills. 

And the thing is, we learn to live with this uncertainty. We take austerity measures, diversify our income, launch side hustles, juggle our bills. We do whatever it takes to keep things rolling. After all, this house of cards we call a career is no-one’s fault, no-one’s responsibility, but our own. As Hyman Roth said in The Godfather, “this is the business we’ve chosen.” 
 

Hyman Roth is right.

But this year was different. 

When the shelter-in-place order came down and all concerts were canceled, my family suddenly found itself with no income at all. I had no choice but to reconfigure my business model and apply for every available grant and assistance program. It wasn’t easy to puzzle through all the misinformation and red tape, but eventually we began to receive pandemic relief payments as well as consistent earned income fees from our online activities. 

Within a few weeks, and with a little help from our friends, we were solvent, with fees arriving at regular, predictable intervals, like paychecks. I can’t stress enough how different this is, compared to the feast-or-famine cash flows I usually experience as a performing musician. 

No chasing down club owners who disappear when it’s time to pay the band. No having to guess what our income will be from each endeavor, when the amount may vary wildly, depending upon someone else’s sales efforts, not to mention honesty. No racking up thousands of dollars in travel costs and staving off creditors while we wait for payment from concerts we played last month or last year. 

Payments for online programs are instantaneous!

And here’s the kicker: sure, I’m earning less working from home, but my business expenses are wayyyyy lower! Think of it: no airline tickets, no hotel stays, no equipment rentals, no sideman payments. Zero travel costs! Gross revenue and net income are practically identical numbers. 

You dig? Don't get me wrong. I miss traveling and performing for a living. Teaching online is not my calling.

However, for the first time in years, my family and I have actually been able to make a financial plan and stick to it. We were finally able to predict our income, anticipate our expenses, cover our household costs and plan for the future. We paid our bills, paid our taxes, saved a little, and even made a few charitable contributions to worthy causes. 

I don’t mind telling you, as good as it feels to receive help, it feels even better to be able to help out a little, ourselves. 

I sure miss the travel, but not the expense.

I understand that for many of our friends, this past year was their first, or worst, lesson in living with financial insecurity. I've been there, and I empathize. But leave it to me, the Proletarian Contrarian, to have the opposite experience. 

Dare I say it? This health crisis has been good for our fiscal health. 

If this is what financial security feels like, I think I like it.

But is it sustainable? 

Next:
THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT
PART 3 — MENTAL HEALTH & SOCIAL CONNECTION 

One year ago this week, the World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a global pandemic and we began sheltering in place. 

I took the warnings seriously, even though staying home meant figuring out how to pay the bills while simultaneously transitioning from touring performer to online music teacher (aka “building the plane as you fly it”). Planning for the worst while hoping for the best, I also took the opportunity to update my will and put my affairs in order. I resolved to hunker down and wait this thing out until it’s safe to get out there again. 

As you may remember, when this shutdown first began we were told to be patient, because “it could take several weeks before things return to normal.” Those weeks turned into months. Now it’s been a full year. 

Yesterday I received my first dose of the Moderna (aka Dolly Parton) vaccine. Hooray! Over 10% of the U.S. population has been fully vaccinated so far. According to the CDC, we should all continue to observe safety protocols until we reach about 80%, at which point we’re likely to achieve herd immunity. 

Why is this man smizing? After a full year of sheltering in place, he just received his first dose of Dolly Vax
 

So we’re now in a kind of arms race — a shots-in-arms race, if you will — against the dual forces of vaccine hesitancy and the evolving COVID-19 variants. The idea is to get most of the populace immunized before the virus mutates so much that the available vaccines become ineffective. 

Unfortunately, some states have already jumped the gun, prematurely abolishing mask-wearing laws. Scientist Neil deGrasse Tyson observes that such actions are “like designating a peeing section of the swimming pool.” 

Here in Lewis County, Washington, it’s fashionable to resist any attempts to suspend individual freedoms in the interest of public health. In other words, folks around these parts don’t take kindly to the government telling us what we can and cannot do. 

But even here, people seem to be getting the message. Our pop-up drive-thru vaccination site at the Lewis County Fairgrounds is proving to be very popular. I even noticed, in the long line of vehicles waiting for the vaccine, several campaign bumper stickers for our disgraced former president, who received his own immunization in secret after calling the pandemic a hoax. Sigh. 

Although many protested against state-mandated health measures,
Lewis County residents are now lining-up for vaccination

In the future, after this deadly pandemic is well behind us, those of us who were fortunate enough to survive may find it difficult to remember all the troubles we collectively endured over this past year. Beyond the considerable health and safety concerns, the coronavirus era has also been an unprecedented time of economic hardship, social unrest, political instability, ecological imbalance and existential crisis. 

So much struggle and sacrifice, fear and frustration, grief and loss. We worry about our sick friends, and we mourn those who died during the shutdown, including non-Covid deaths like that of my father, who succumbed to Parkinson’s while in hospice, just before Christmas, 1500 miles away. 

It’s been a long, hard year. Yet even as we reflect on its ravages, and at the risk of seeming insensitive to the suffering of others, we must acknowledge that some positive things have also transpired.

For example, my immediate family and I have enjoyed better health during this global pandemic than before it began. Ironic, 
I know.

You see, chronic low-grade illness is an occupational hazard for the touring musician. Jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, we ply our trade among the great unwashed, exposing ourselves to all manner of viruses and infections on the road. 

It’s always something. You get food poisoning at a roadside diner. That night you go to work anyway, because what can you do? A fellow musician gives you a hug, and afterward you notice she has the sniffles. On the flight home, everybody is coughing and sneezing. Each day is another chance to catch a bug and pass it along to someone else. 

But it turns out, when you remove travel and social interaction from the equation, good health returns. In fact, during this year at home, no-one at my house was even mildly sick. Not once! Apparently, staying home not only limits your chances of exposure to coronavirus, it also provides a bulwark against the flu, upset stomach, sore throat, even the common cold. 

Home-cooked meals heal body and soul, especially when you harvest fresh vegetables from the garden

I’ve even lost weight! During this lockdown, I’ve been able to eat right, exercise, get plenty of rest and practice good sleep hygiene, all with a consistency that I found impossible to maintain when traveling. 

Dare I say it? This health crisis has been good for my health. 

Next: 
THE HUNKER BUNKER REPORT
Part 2 — FISCAL HEALTH

Damien Chazelle’s 2014 film Whiplash follows the fraught relationship between a brutally masochistic music teacher, Fletcher (J.K Simmons), and his ambitious student, drummer Andrew (Miles Teller). 

According to Slate critic J. Bryan Lowder, “Fletcher and Andrew are both obsessed with Greatness, but the specific sort they’re after is important: it’s a wholly masculine definition of the term, one tied to notions of jackhammer precision, overwhelming prowess, physical dominance, and solo victory. Alternative values like sensitivity, idiosyncrasy, gracefulness, and collaboration, despite being deeply compatible with jazz, are not admitted to their rehearsal room.” 

Miles Teller and J.K. Simmons in Whiplash

I couldn’t agree more. Whiplash shows us a heightened, yet weirdly accurate, view into the misguided toxic masculinity endemic to today’s jazz education subculture.

Talk to your musician friends who’ve seen the movie. They’re likely to share stories of their own about similar abuse suffered in their formative years. One of my colleagues actually said, “Whiplash triggered my Jazz Camp PTSD!”

I thought of that movie again yesterday, during a college workshop. As the students and I listened to Stitt and Rollins hold forth on “The Eternal Triangle,” I found myself astonished anew, not just by the brilliance of their ideas, but by the joyously playful, positive, collaborative spirit of their “tenor battle.”

“The Eternal Triangle” from Sonny Side Up
Dizzy Gillespie with Sonny Stitt and Sonny Rollins

If all cutting sessions were so inspired, I would be a fan.

To me, however, “jazz competition” is an oxymoron. 

We’re going to have a contest to see who can be the most vulnerable? The most sensitive or sincere? To find out who among us can best lay bare our soul and play from the heart? 

Every year on tour I hear dozens of excellent high school groups, all over the country, investing hours of rehearsal time, polishing the same Duke Ellington charts in preparation for the annual Jazz Hunger Games. 
 

Jazz Hunger Games

While it’s gratifying to witness Duke’s music being disseminated so widely, I have to wonder if these young musicians might be better off exploring a larger repertoire of sounds and styles, learning to sight read, listen and improvise. 

Of course, there is such a thing as “healthy competition” in the arts. Setting challenges and overcoming them is how we improve. 

Competitive, however, is not the correct mindset for quality music-making. This art form is interactive. It’s about listening and openness. Conversation, not competition. ​ 

Personally, I don’t feel that I’m in competition with other artists. I’m competing with Netflix, spectator sports, video games, social media and all the other distractions that vie for your leisure time, attention and dollars. 

I welcome opportunities to work alongside and learn from my betters. I always try to surround myself with talents greater than my own. Art Farmer said “if you’re the smartest cat in the room, you’re in the wrong room.” 

One time Nicholas Payton dropped by my gig in San Francisco and schooled me on a ballad. It was like a ten minute graduate seminar on understatement and grace. 

Recently I had the opportunity to participate in a tribute to one of my longtime heroes, Tom Harrell, along with Joe Lovano, Kenny Werner, Sean Jones, Johnathan Blake, and several other world class musicians, including the man himself, who has never sounded better. 

Tom Harrell Celebration (L-R) Tamir Hendelman, Kenny Werner, Ugonna Okegwo,
Sean Jones, Ron Stout, Dmitri Matheny, Johnathan Blake, Tom Harrell, Joe Lovano

Everyone involved was more capable and experienced than I. It was humbling and thrilling. I learned a lot and felt nothing but love and support in the room. There was no vibe. Everyone was there for Mr. Harrell. 

Wynton Marsalis says a cutting session is like a debate. And debates have their place, especially in the classroom. But wouldn’t you really rather have a conversation? 

Personally, I think most cutting sessions are a drag. Everyone trying to play higher, louder, faster. Everybody posturing, posing, showing off, going for house. The atmosphere of a cutting session is like a Michael Bay movie full of explosions. I usually end up resenting the audience for enjoying such tripe. 

Here’s a challenge: let’s play lower, softer, slower -- with intensity. 

Let’s play more soulfully. 

Let’s just play.