Part Three: techniques and ideas

2. What can be seen: the written texture

'How do you make such a little music last such a long time?'
'Well, man, we just blow.'

That exchange, made in 1967 in Ronnie Scott's Old Place (a club that did much to develop the talents of my generation of British musicians), is still relevant to jazz and to this project. This section, 'What can be seen', deals with what is written, while the next, 'What can't be seen', deals with the blowing.

Once an initial idea has been found, some scrap of music perhaps that will inspire a whole composition, once the idea of form has been considered - and perhaps shelved until later - then comes the hard work of developing the idea, of filling the form, of finding the music and the language with which to express that music. This music can be described as the 'written texture', the things that are written down, whether they are to be played exactly or improvised from.

Many large avant-garde groups, and some 'directors', could well argue that there need not be a written texture, that their music is created in performance. Some of this genre of music is completely free, some has a loose structure, and some, like that made by Butch Morris and Walter Thompson, uses a complicated set of gestures and directions, communicated to the musicians to assist them in creating the music in real time. Whatever the starting point, the results vary widely. Some good, when that magic something happens, some bad, when it doesn't, and much in between. This supports my personal belief that, almost always, some pre-determined ideas can help shape a large-group performance to a more satisfactory conclusion.

The treatment, the development, of what is written is a large part of the unique strengths of jazz. Most of the music used is incomplete in some way, written in a way that allows for - in some cases demands - being coloured by improvised methods. Comparing versions of a standard melody by any great jazz player is as good a definition of jazz as I know. Every note seems to be individualised in some way as colour is added by various means. Each member of the rhythm section also makes texture and colour choices as they move through the given material. As is shown later this individualisation by the performers of what is written, whether it is a full melody or a single note, a scale, or a chord progression, can be developed into an important compositional strength.

Traditionally the three common aspects of what is written have been codified as melody, harmony and rhythm. These can be considered as separate entities, or combined. They can be used exactly as written, interpreted in some way, or supply the basis for a full improvisation. Some of these possibilities will be dealt with in the next section. What follows is a look at melody, harmony and rhythm, not in a traditional way, but rather in a way that draws attention to their compositional aspects.

My feeling that melody harmony and rhythm can be looked at in a compositional way could be why, as a composer, I am not interested in looking at them in the conventional sense of 'good melodies', 'interesting rhythms', 'strong harmonies', although I can, of course, appreciate these aspects of the music. I have been praised for some of my melodies, rhythmic grooves and harmonies, but for me they are there to serve a compositional purpose in the overall picture. There is less concentration on a melody, a rhythm, or a chord sequence as such, and more on building something within which these things exist, quite possibly in a more fragmented way. They are part of my palette rather than being the specific controlling idea.

Similarly with orchestration. As the Polish composer Witold Lutoslowski has said: 'the qualities of texture can take on a thematic substance no less compelling than the more traditional thematic materials of melody, rhythm and harmony.' This is a valid approach and one that I have adapted by using improvisatory methods to create textures from written music. These methods are discussed further elsewhere, but are succinctly summed up by one musician's comment: 'I feel like a colour in a paintbox.'

Whatever is written down, it has to be laid out in a way that informs the players without confusing them. The newer the methods, the more difficult this can be, and some of my solutions are discussed below.

Melody

The melody in jazz is usually part of a complete entity. The melodic line is accompanied by a chord progression and an implied rhythmic pulse, and this forms the basis for a jazz performance. These melodies can be simple or complex, made up of a succession of motifs or be one long seamless line. These are decisions for the composer, or for whatever god is inspiring him. However they are constructed, and whether they were created specifically for jazz use or imported from outside, they are most often used to set up the soloist, to show, at the outset, the melody and chord progression that are being used in the solos. As its (almost) universality shows, that role is important for jazz, but there are other ways of looking at melody.

When you hear Gregorian chant in a cathedral, or the Bach unaccompanied cello suites, you hear melodic lines seemingly carving their own space in the air. This aspect of melodic thinking is uncommon in jazz, but can be particularly appropriate when the soloist interprets the melody in his or her own way, adding their own texture and timing to the written notes.

The development of such free interpretation of melody is discussed further in the next section where I discuss techniques such as 'motif improvisation' and 'shadowing', where two or more musicians make simultaneous individual interpretations of the given motifs or melody. My interest in such developmental ideas has undoubtedly had a strong influence on my writing, and, interestingly, I have found that some lines work better when shadowed than they do when played unison, and that some change quite radically when shadowed.

When an equally weighted new melody is set alongside an existing one, counterpoint is created. Somewhat rare in jazz, although the work of Bill Holman and Gerry Mulligan is exemplary, counterpoint can shape the composition entirely. The five contrapuntal lines I wrote for 'The Hackney Five' provide a lot of rhythmic interplay in the opening theme statement. The resulting 'oddness' helps shape the ambiguity which makes for many different possibilities during the solo sections, where the individual lines are used as freely placed backgrounds.

The treatment given to a melodic line can offer new opportunities for compositional development. A long melodic line can be repeated many times, and treated in different ways on each pass to heighten the tension. This can be done melodically, harmonically, rhythmically or orchestrally, alone or in some combination. When a melody is made up of a series of short motifs, each motif can be introduced separately in consecutive passes in such a way that gradually they form the complete melodic line. Also, each independent motif can be repeated while being orchestrated or harmonised in different ways. Such 'fragmentation' of the melodic line can be written into the composition, or be improvised in performance.

Melodies or individual motifs can be used in place of a set of chords as the starting point for a solo. They can even be incorporated into the solo, as both George Russell and Gil Evans have shown. In one section of my composition New Conditions, three trumpets, soloing collectively, were asked to perform the difficult but very effective task of incorporating some written unison motifs at specified points in their solo.

Harmony

'The chords: Where do they come from? Where are they going to? Is it absolutely necessary to know? Just listen, that is enough.'

Claude Debussy's place in the evolution of harmony is shown in that quotation. This approach to harmony is very liberating. It allows jazz composers to move away from the set rules and formulae of Broadway songs and to use harmony as blocks of sound, as units of colour, which do not need to resolve in a conventional way.

One should not, of course, forget the strength of a good conventional chord progression, still the usual bedrock for the theme-solos-theme form. But some arrangers and composers have moved away from this, as Gil Evans did when, rather than using the whole chord progression of 'Django' for solos, he only used the repeating two chord section. Others, like Miles Davis, often extended the normal harmonies, as in his Lincoln Centre version of 'My Funny Valentine', while in 'Nefertiti' he had the melody and accompanying chords repeat endlessly throughout the piece as a backdrop to the soloing of Tony Williams.

In many of my pieces the harmony is simple, often modally based with little harmonic movement. In others a series of chords, perhaps even one complex chord, will help to structure the piece. The introduction to New Conditions gradually introduces a series of complex clusters that form the basis of all the future development, both melodic and harmonic. Such chords can be played as written, but are usually created in performance by the players colouring and individualising their given note or notes.

In some compositions I have used a recognisable chord progression, usually a blues, not as the only compositional factor, but rather as a 'building block'. For the ending of The Third Colour, after the piece had progressed through various musical areas, a bone-simple blues progression, with lots of space and room for development, seemed appropriate. The simple bass pattern, the harmonic ambiguity of having no stipulated quality for the thirds and sevenths, and the requested mysteriousness of approach, all tend to obscure the traditional compositional aspects of melody, harmony and rhythm, and also served to blur the line between what is written and what is improvised.

Rhythm

Rhythm is rightly seen as one of the basics of jazz. It comes in two forms, the subtle rhythmic variations of a jazz musician, and the underlying 'pulse', usually four beats to the bar, which is still seen by many to be a prerequisite to the music. A musician's rhythmic subtlety is, I feel, essential to jazz, but the absence or disruption of the usually constant pulse can be a useful compositional device. The stop-time sections of older music show an effective absence of stated pulse for a limited number of bars, and some music - solo cadenzas, rubato passages, much free jazz - has no pulse at all.
The disruption of the underlying pulse can be seen in different ways. In various Miles Davis versions of 'Walkin'' the texture is altered and the pulse disrupted when the piano drops out for the first few choruses of Miles's solo. This produces a seeming clarity about the bass and drums, and when the piano does come back his playing appears to be much stronger and more meaningful than if he had been playing all along. The same effect is achieved in other situations when the drums drops out and then returns.

The pulse can be disrupted by deliberately putting something in a new time against the prevalent pulse - triplets are a basic example of this, while a lengthy passage of five beats against a 4/4 pulse is at the other extreme.
The feel of a constant pulse can be altered by changing rhythmic moods within a piece or section of a piece. Much more rarely, the pulse can be disrupted by deliberate speeding up or slowing down. This is seen in some of Charles Mingus's work, particularly 'The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady', while the late Betty Carter had a wonderful trick of encouraging her rhythm section to get faster, or slower, very gradually, until they reached the tempo of her next song.

Composers have been using time signatures other than 4/4 for many years, long before the rise of 'world music' made them fashionable. But unusual time signatures must sound natural to work effectively, and be as capable of swinging, as capable of being moved away from, as anything in 4/4. Bandleader and trumpeter Don Ellis had a reputation for very unusual rhythmic patterns but they were often unsubtle and relentlessly pounded out. Few of the soloists, apart from Ellis himself, were able to cope with the challenges presented to them. (As one critic said: 'Bad jazz is bad jazz, whether it's in 4/4 or 17/8.')

Most jazz has a constant pulse, whether in 4/4 or 17/8, and whether that pulse is implied or strongly stated. However, there can be different subdivisions, different bar lengths, within that pulse. Many of my pieces have an 'odd bar', one which, although it shares the same underlying pulse, differs from the norm, such as a single bar in three or five within a predominantly 4/4 section. This anomaly wasn't forced or predetermined, but arose naturally during the writing process. The same is true when, at times, I have used rhythmic changes to accent the underlying chord changes of the blues. 'Song Three' from Songs for My Father uses 9/8 for the tonic and 6/8 for the subdominant, with the last four bars being 5/8, 6/8, 9/8, 9/8. And it does swing.

The isolation of a rhythm can be an effective compositional device. As will be discussed below with reference to Bread & Circuses, a distinctive rhythm can be first clapped, and then played with specified notes, before the musicians, in a process known as 'thickening', are let loose to add their own notes to the given rhythm.

Orchestration

There are two sides to the conventional approach to orchestration in jazz. The first, shown in this famous quote by Charles Mingus from the liner notes to Mingus Dynasty, draws attention to the lack of colour in the normal jazz big band: 'And still playing arrangements as though there were only three instruments in the band: a trumpet, a trombone and a saxophone, with the other three or four trumpets, three or four trombones and four or five saxophones there just to make the arrangement sound louder by playing harmonic support to the leading trumpet, trombone and saxophone. What would you call that? A big band? A loud band? A jazz band? A creative band?' The second, from Walter van de Leur's excellent book, Something to Live For, the Music of Billy Strayhorn, reminds us that another approach is possible: 'Ellington and Strayhorn shared a fascination for orchestral sonority, harmonic richness, and formal balance.'

The common element between Ellington, Strayhorn and Mingus is that in their different ways they used the individuality of their musicians to create their orchestration. Ellington, with Strayhorn writing with and for him, had his own regular band, and the two composers could use the individuality of the players and, because they were working with a set instrumentation, produce more interesting orchestration. Mingus, although he had a pool of players with whom he worked regularly, did not have the chance to work constantly with a fixed personnel, and, if truth be told, generally relied on others for his orchestration. This undoubtedly had an effect on how he wrote, but it is also highly relevant that in the period he was working the music was changing, more was becoming possible.

I have written elsewhere on the change in Gil Evans's approach. After his magnificent highly orchestrated scores for Miles Davis, funded by major record companies, he started writing much more freely, creating lengthy pieces based on a scrap of an idea. This was in some part economically driven, but undoubtedly was also a response to the new opportunities shown in jazz from the late 1950s - which in part he helped develop with his work on Kind of Blue.
The approach Gil Evans took in the later stages of his career is, I believe, relevant to the current situation where big bands are few and far between. The majority of them do indeed deserve Mingus's criticisms, and have no interest at all in creative writing (though to be fair, this is not their aim). Writing interesting music for a big band is therefore very difficult in today's climate and many composers have a pile of music which, although some of it may have been recorded, is now gathering dust because of the difficulty of finding the circumstances, and perhaps the exact instrumentation, to ever play them again.

Like many composers I have been looking at ways to deal with this situation. What has developed from my experiments with different approaches to composing is based on a different, third, approach to orchestration in jazz. This has resulted in a bunch of scores that are playable with any instrumental grouping. They are designed to use the creativity of the group playing them, and work in such a way that new angles are often revealed during a particular performance.

Such methods lead to 'orchestration by accident'. Instrumental choices are made, textures are created, voicings developed, which could have been written down - but weren't. A melodic line which would, if orchestrated, have been given to a soprano saxophone because of its wide range, could, in different circumstances, be given to a bass clarinet, thus changing the textural possibilities of that particular performance. Similarly, a group of musicians can, with some minimal instructions, develop an interesting, and constantly changing, textural background from a given idea - a chord progression, a pedal note or notes, a scale and so on. The way is left clear for creativity and for happy accidents to happen, like the formation of uncommon instrumental blends. Not setting out to copy Ellington's trademark of 'cross section voicings', but achieving similar results through different means.

There is no doubt that the end result loses some of the strengths possessed by pre-written music, in particular the ability to fine-tune textural densities. But that loss is replaced with something very important for jazz - the ability of each musician to react to what is happening around him.

The discovery that I could group instruments, and therefore possible textures, by range rather than by instrumental group, and that, where possible, I could even seat the players in a way that would maximise this effect, was very liberating for me in terms of texture. In 'The Miró Tile' the pedals which open the piece, and become an important structural device, recurring several times, are individualised (coloured and articulated) by a close-knit group of low instruments. This, like the product of many improvisationary techniques, could be the result of written music, but, if it were, would be played the same way every time. The philosophy here is that it should be improvised within some set parameters. The result is that the recurring pedals are very different each time it is played. Given the effect of a low grouping of tuba, bass saxophone, baritone sax and bass trombone, the result, not surprisingly, became known as 'mud' when it came time to index the sections for the Third Colour CD.

Writing out the parts

In orchestral music and the conventional big band each player has his own part, extracted from a full score. In a small jazz group there may be no music with each player working from memory. Or there may be a simple lead sheet, which, with a pre-set or improvised routine, makes that lead sheet into a performance. This is the approach that I feel is best suited to working in an improvisatory way. In the words of Duke Ellington: 'Music saves time. It provides a basis for change.' In my world, as in his, both parts of the quote need equal weight.

In its simplest form the players get what can be called universal parts, each with the same music, transposed as necessary, with few if any dynamics, various written instructions, and with some of the ideas being changed or developed during the rehearsal process. This places a demand on the player's memory that ordinary big band playing does not. In this way, it is closer to ordinary jazz practise, where the musicians have to remember routines and chord progressions and be able to adapt quickly to changing circumstances.

Much, then, is decided in rehearsal, using the parts as a guide. What appears on the paper may seem to be notes to be played by anybody, but the director has to read the situation and decide who should play which part when. This process echoes Billy Strayhorn's words about Ellington changing the parts in rehearsal because 'the part and the person weren't the same character'.

There are practical benefits too, in each player having a shorthand version of the score. The music can be used by many different groupings, and be more quickly adapted than conventional written music when the expected instrumentation is not available.

There is, of course, a danger that this method is used to present things that could more easily be said using ordinary scoring techniques. Other ways could perhaps be found to present that situation (using this method can force you to look at everything differently) or 'designated parts' can be used, allotting specific notes to specific players. If taken to its ultimate, this will result in a section where the parts are written as normal, but there is of course no reason why different methods of notation cannot be used in the same piece.

Some colleagues have seen the universal parts approach as a pragmatic response to dealing with odd-shaped groups and missing musicians. Although I recognise these practical benefits, this way of presenting the music has developed as a by-product of my aim as a composer. That aim is to write relatively simple music which can be developed in performance by the musicians involved. Working out ways to present these ideas on the paper has actually helped to develop my ideas and techniques.

Some of the notational aspects of my work can be seen in the manuscripts elsewhere in this website. In the next section, after the techniques have been discussed, there are some examples of signs and gestures which I have found useful, although these are constantly being revised and adapted for new circumstances.

Close analysis of the melodic, harmonic, rhythmic and orchestral aspects of four of my compositions will be found in Summing Up, which concludes this project.

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