Dateline: 1965, Krieger Elementary School, Poughkeepsie, New York.
Thanks to their emphasis on education, my parents moved to the eighth ward, where opportunity was evident. On the stage at Krieger was a display of musical instruments – of which I moved quite a few from out of their case, to inspect as you might a birthday present.
And indeed a gift it was. But which to choose? A clarinet was compact but complicated with a weird mouthpiece. A saxophone was similarly complicated and cumbersome with a neck lanyard. A trumpet had tubes and valves. A trombone had a strange slide. Forgone conclusion, I opted for trombone.
But I never had “it.” In orchestra rehearsals you heard who could play. And I do not mean playing a kazoo on the Trailways bus, homebound after a State competition. Until university, I appreciated music as marching or parade band compositions and nothing more.
And after a visit to Manny’s Music and their selection of instruments of different musical genres than what I had seen in high school, I finally removed the figurative plunger mute out of my ears and began to recognize various different styles.
Clearly, musicians display cognitive elements and creative abilities that despite assessment methodology, seem to defy logic. They write, perform, and break the rules of conformity. And the world is appreciative. Now that my Kanstul is retired, I wanted to revisit the atmosphere of our high school rehearsal theater and delve into what makes a professional musician. So I talked with renowned jazz saxophonist Rob Scheps.
About that education of mine. I had to strap my musical instrument onto the rear carrier rack on my Raleigh 10-speed and pedal to summer school. The music director snapped his baton over my shoulders because I “never had it!” Despite the Arban Method for Trombone, I just could not read music as an alternative language. Once, on a slick road, I lost control of the Raleigh while the horn flung itself into the roadway. Those with clarinets laughed profusely as I scrounged for bell, slide and mouthpiece. Yeah, the woodwinds section had a preponderance of enrichment class students. But I finally achieved the slide technique I had opted for when seeing that instrument exhibition so many years earlier.
However, in contrast to myself, there are those who formulate and interpret music with encyclopedic proficiency. So without further ado: Mr. Rob Scheps.
On Musical Genres and Styles
Joe Caplan: You've played jazz, classical, funk, soul, and Broadway. Do these genres speak different languages, or are they all dialects of the same thing?
Rob Scheps: These varied styles and genres have crossover, but each style has its own qualities and customs. I'd call them related languages. The approach to a Broadway show differs from a funk gig. What carries over is an honest musical reading, incorporating the excellence of masters of each style. For example, soul requires dollops of Ray Charles, Marvin Gaye, Aretha Franklin. Ballads might reference Frank Sinatra, Shirley Horn, Sarah Vaughan.
JC: When you switch from playing with Aretha Franklin to the Gil Evans Orchestra, does your musical brain shift gears completely, or is there a throughline?
RS: Aretha and the Gil Evans Orchestra both played a panoply of styles, but those individuals had an aural fingerprint that leads organically to their styles. When the styles of two gigs are far apart – like jumping from Ravel to Lou Rawls – common sense and experience kick in to make the jump cut.
JC: Is there a genre you wish you could merge with jazz that hasn't been done yet?
RS: No, but I appreciate Rabih Abou-Khalil, L. Shankar, Bill Laswell, Brian Eno, Graham Haynes, and others who seamlessly blend genres.
JC: Do genre labels help listeners or trap them?
RS: Genre labels can help when you're buying CDs, so the names can be helpful.
JC: Is there music that can't be categorized, or do we just not have the right words yet?
RS: Yes, of course. What are you gonna call Captain Beefheart or Bill Laswell? Some musicians are so broad stylistically that trying to name them in one style is a useless pursuit. Talking Heads, Rickie Lee Jones, John Coltrane – these would be some musicians who defy categorization.
JC: When someone says "that's not real jazz," what do you think they're protecting – or afraid of?
RS: I don't care. I ignore such a blithe and idiotic statement.
On Music and Visual Art
JC: You're working on "Jazz and Soul Portraits," pairing music with visual art. What made you want to combine these forms?
RS: A desire to add visuals to sound. More dimension.
JC: When you compose a piece dedicated to Wayne Shorter or Carla Bley, do you "see" colors or shapes that belong to that person?
RS: I get in the spirit of Wayne or Carla and try to reference their moods without copying directly.
JC: Does visual art influence your compositional choices – texture, rhythm, space on the canvas versus space in music?
RS: Yes. Artists like Picasso, Rodin, Basquiat, Warhol, Redon, Renoir, and Louise Bourgeois create visual worlds that allow me to reference more when I compose. They can definitely inform music. Spare versus crowded work takes cues from visual art.
JC: Do you think music can be "seen" and art can be "heard"?
RS: That's abstract, but essentially yes.
JC: When you compose, do you see shapes, colors, or movement? Or is it pure sound
RS: It varies. Every composition is different.
JC: If your saxophone could paint, what would it look like?
RS: Hopefully like something by Giorgio de Chirico.
On Musical Voice and Identity
JC: You use your soprano saxophone much like a trumpet one minute and a clarinet the next. Are you speaking different dialects, or changing your accent?
RS: The soprano allows me to go in various directions. You make a good point about utilizing it like a trumpet, a clarinet, or the soprano itself. My next activity entails working with the great composer Roland Vazquez and playing soprano sax as part of the trumpet section. This type of chameleonic process appeals to me and expands the possibilities. It's like adding costumes.
JC: Is developing a unique voice about finding yourself or losing yourself?
RS: Developing a unique sound is not really something you have a lot of control of. It happens naturally as you mature as a musician, if it's going to happen at all.
JC: When you hear a saxophonist you admire, do you hear their technique or their soul first?
RS: Again, a bit of a broad question. The first time I heard King Curtis and Joe Henderson as a small kid, I remember that their sound spoke to me first.
JC: Can you recognize a great musician in three notes, the way you can recognize a friend's voice in a crowd?
RS: That depends. If you mean, can you identify who the player is in three notes? The answer is, with the true individuals like Dinah Washington, Stevie Wonder, Sonny Rollins, Tom Waits, Pat Metheny, Rickie Lee Jones, Marvin Gaye – in those cases, the answer is a resounding yes.
On Jazz and Soul Portraits
JC: You're composing an 18-movement suite with pieces dedicated to Carla Bley, Wayne Shorter, Astrud Gilberto, Sam Rivers, Tammi Terrell, and Marvin Gaye. How does each artist's music "talk" to yours?
RS: The “Jazz and Soul Portraits” project allows me to show gratitude for my influences and icons. I might listen to some of their music before writing to put me in the right headspace. But my goal in each portrait is similar: to capture some of the feeling and essence of each musician without directly copying them. Each piece is my tribute, but hopefully in their style or soundscape.
JC: When you compose a dedication to Wayne Shorter versus Marvin Gaye, are you working in completely different musical languages?
RS: Not necessarily. My piece for Wayne incorporates ballad and funk elements. Composing for Marvin or for Tammi might have some soul or funk crossover, but I treat each portrait subject as an individual. The style names are not as meaningful to me as it is for my music to conjure up feelings of that artist.
JC: Do you think jazz "borrows" from soul and funk, or are they all drawing from the same well?
RS: A pretty general question. When Herbie Hancock wrote "Chameleon" or "Wiggle Waggle," you could say he was a jazz musician composing funk. When I played with Aretha, she sang some jazz quite authentically – very swinging. So style lines often get blurred, and I feel that the general terms for different kinds of music often do a disservice.
On Musical Conversation and Collaboration
JC: When you're playing with a rhythm section, is it more like a conversation, a debate, or a dance?
RS: A very broad question. However, all good music should be a conversation.
JC: Can two musicians have a "disagreement" mid-performance that still sounds beautiful?
RS: Sure. During free improv, clashes are bound to happen. There can be beautiful moments of coalescing, and other moments where things create crashing waves and jarring juxtapositions. Just listening is the key to everything.
JC: You've performed with Gil Evans, Buddy Rich, Aretha Franklin, and hundreds more. Does each collaboration change your musical DNA permanently?
RS: Each opportunity to play with great musicians impacts you. I can't speak to the DNA, but many of these prove to be formative experiences.
JC: Is playing with a big band like the Vanguard Jazz Orchestra a different conversation than playing in your Core-tet?
RS: Yes, and no. In a big band, you're a cog in a wheel who occasionally emerges as an individual solo voice. To clarify, my Core-tet is not a quartet – it is usually a quintet. A small band can be a more intimate musical interaction than a big band, but they both have color, finesse, and validity when done well.
JC: When you played with Ray Charles, did his music teach you something about jazz, or is all great music the same lesson.
RS: When I played with Ray Charles, it was a relatively staid program. I remember wishing that he had played more jazz and soul. But you learn from Brother Ray every time you ever hear him.
On Composition and Improvisation
JC: You compose for specific musicians like Duke Ellington did. How does knowing someone's voice change what you write?
RS: Yes, I like the Ellingtonian approach of writing for individuals. For example, if you have a trumpet player who sounds good in a Harmon mute or cup mute or doubling on flugelhorn, you might choose some of those colors when writing. Range can also be a determinant. If the trumpet player has incredible high [register] chops, that might inform what you write for them. A player with limited range might steer you in another direction. If your bassist plays particularly good arco, that can be a choice that leads you to using that sound. You accrue a mental list of the player's strengths, weaknesses, and fondnesses.
JC: Is there a tension between composition (control) and improvisation (freedom), or are they partners?
RS: Tension is not the right word. Composition is not always control and improvisation is not always freedom. However, one of the best compliments you can get as a jazz musician is when a fan or audience member asks you, "How much of that was written and how much of that was improvised?" When the lines are blurred enough for them to be unsure as a listener, then you've done your job.
JC: When you write a piece, how much room do you leave for the musicians to make it their own?
RS: That depends. As a composer, part of your mandate, in my opinion, is to be a chemist or cook. You decide what elements of the piece will be written, and which ones will contain improvisation. As you gain fluency over the years, your ability to expertly mix and match these elements improves.
JC: Are you writing music or writing for souls?
RS: Every composition is a fresh opportunity to examine emotion, mood, style, and impact.
JC: Does the music already exist in your head, or does it reveal itself as you write?
RS: Both. There is no axiom. Sometimes the music is in my head at a red light in Georgia; more often than not I'm at the piano. Most of what I write is at the piano, and I find the saxophone and flute unwilling accomplices when composing.
JC: If a composition is a conversation, who's talking – you, the musicians, or the music itself?
RS: Again, respectfully, that's a very broad question. The musicians playing are always the ones talking. Hopefully it's a considerate and rewarding conversation amongst peers and friends.
JC: Jazz is built on improvisation, but you're also a serious composer. Are those opposing forces or two sides of the same coin?
RS: Jazz is not always built on improvisation. That's a misnomer. As a so-called jazz composer, I allow myself to mix elements freely. I don't give a sh*t if it's called jazz or classical or rock or what have you. It's just about creating some satisfying music. The names are ultimately meaningless.
JC: Can a completely improvised piece ever be as satisfying as a composed one, or vice versa?
RS: Yes.
JC: When you're improvising, are you making it up or discovering something that already existed?
RS: My internal credo about improvising is: try not to play what you played before. It's a tall order. With some vigilance, you can occasionally achieve it. If what you play already existed, you're not really improvising.
On Teaching
JC: Can you teach someone to have soul, or do they either have it or they don't?
RS: Soul is a broad, undefined term. With students you can work with what they've got, and you can try to add to and refine what they've got.
JC: What's the difference between a good saxophonist and a great one – technique, feeling, or something else?
RS: Again, this is an arbitrary question. I'll counter by listing a few great saxophonists: John Coltrane, Charlie Parker, Dexter Gordon, Michael Brecker, Hank Mobley, David Sanborn, Stan Getz, Johnny Griffin, Pepper Adams, Ronnie Cuber, Steve Lacy, Wayne Shorter, Joe Henderson, Billy Harper, Larry Schneider, John Gilmore, George Adams.
JC: If you could only teach one thing to the next generation of jazz musicians, what would it be?
RS: No idea.
On Legacy
JC: When a great musician dies, does their music die with them or live forever?
RS: Of course the music lives forever.
JC: Do you feel a responsibility to carry forward the traditions of the musicians you've played with?
RS: Yes, to a degree. I always say: no John Coltrane, no Rob Scheps. No Wayne Shorter, no Rob Scheps. No Gil Evans, no Rob Scheps. I owe a debt to these musicians that is unrepayable. I respect these predecessors and try to humbly build on what they've given us.
JC: What does jazz owe to its past, and what does it owe to its future?
RS: This is a conundrum I cannot resolve.
Wild Cards
JC: If you could jam with any three musicians (living or dead) for one night, who and where?
RS: I'd need time to think about it. 😊
JC: Is there a "perfect" piece of music, or is perfection the enemy of soul?
RS: The Bach Brandenburg Concerti. "Wild Wild Life" by Talking Heads. "The Gift" by Annie Lennox. Coltrane's "After the Rain." "What's Going On" by Marvin Gaye. "How Insensitive" by Astrud Gilberto. Perfect music.
JC: What does music sound like in your dreams – is it different than waking music?
RS: It can be different or the same. I've experienced both.
To hear music from Rob Scheps, click here.
You can also check him out on Reverb Nation.
Visit Rob's website here.
Images courtesy of Rob Scheps.
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