the composer as bystander or participant?

'The trouble with your pieces is that they only work in performance.' That comment by a student involved in the performance of a composition of mine was very revealing. For him there was a problem in that he could not see where the piece was going until the actual performance 'made it work'. For me and many other jazz musicians this is precisely the problem to be solved: to utilise the strengths of jazz and of the musicians involved to construct a piece that needs the adrenaline of performance to make it work.
Such thinking should serve to remind us - and so many do need reminding - that a jazz composition does not exist on paper. The framework which is improvised upon, a lead sheet for 'So What', for example, may be written down. But in most circumstances a tune as simple as 'So What' would probably not be written down at all. It would be previously memorised or just heard and then copied by the players. But listen to any of the multitude of recorded performances of that tune and one will quickly realise that what does pre-exist, the simple call-and-response melody, is only a starting point, one of many possible ways it could - and will - go.
Performances of material such as 'So What', as Miles Davis shows us so well with his numerous recordings, can distort and alter the original melody so much that it is scarcely recognisable. Compare the Kind of Blue original, recorded in 1959, with the versions on the Plugged Nickel box set recorded in 1961 and the Complete Lincoln Centre Concert of four or so years later. The original seems very sedate and well-mannered compared with the looseness of the other versions, which are obviously faster but also differ in many subtle ways.

beyond 'so what'

There is, of course, a step beyond 'So What', where the players improvise on an idea, perhaps using a pre-determined tonality or melodic motif, perhaps making up a mood within which they improvise. In these cases the composer (or composers, as usually the whole group is equally involved) is a participant helping to shape the performance. Such a piece may only happen once and may not even be recorded. Ephemeral art which does indeed 'exist only in performance'. Not that this makes it good - or bad. The performance must be judged, like any other, on its appeal to the listener. One would assume that this listener has previous knowledge of the genre and the artist, and is, to a greater or lesser degree, an informed listener.
In the case of 'So What', the composer, Miles Davis, has shown us what he can do with his own tune on countless occasions. One can even propose that he could be considered to be a participant in other performances also. Not physically there, of course, but, in that he wrote a tune with so much openness, it could be said that he is, in a very real way, participating in every performance which supports such freedom.
The same applies to many other jazz tunes. Like 'So What', they were probably written for a specific occasion, but, if they possess the required openness, they can be played with a fresh approach in other performances. Herbie Hancock's 'Watermelon Man' is another case in point. (It may be necessary to point out that I am discussing the whole performance, particularly as it relates to the basic written material rather than discussing the solo sections which we would expect to change from performance to performance.)
Regardless of our readings of Davis's and Hancock's original intentions concerning their tunes, we can be sure that many jazz composers are aware of the freedom their compositions offers for reinterpretation, and welcome it.
One should accept, however, that many tunes played by jazz musicians, standards such as 'Autumn Leaves' and 'All the Things You Are', were written to be sung more or less exactly as written. This has not stopped them being interpreted loosely by popular singers and used as the basis for improvisation by jazz singers and instrumentalists. But the composer remains a bystander: usually very happy that their song is being given a new lease on life and for the resultant royalties, but perhaps unhappy at times when the tune is distorted too much.

relinquishing authorship

The composer as bystander view is commonest in classical music. Even when the composer conducts his or her own works the performance rarely differs much from what is on the paper. Tempos may change, fermatas may be longer, instrumental blends may vary slightly. The interpretation may differ in these and other ways but the piece stays recognisably the same. The reason is obvious: because it is written down. There is rarely any intention of leaving anything other than relatively minor matters of interpretation to be changed in performance. The Polish composer Witold Lutoslawski has, at times, used aleatoric methods, where groups of musicians, perhaps the entire violin section of an orchestra, have been given different sets of notes to be played randomly against each other. However, he has said 'I am not even to the least extent, counting on the possible creative ability of the performers. I do not wish to relinquish the authorship of the music I have written.'
As a party piece in some workshops, I have the musicians play a tune such as 'Here's That Rainy Day' exactly as it appears on paper. Then I have each player in turn play their individual version of four bars of the tune. It's probably as good a way of showing what jazz is as any. It allows the players to become participants, co-composers, rather than mere bystanders. In my world this is what jazz ought to be about: participation, adding individuality to a piece, being involved on a different level than just reading the notes.
The jazz composer as bystander is the normal situation in many big bands. Intricately crafted scores are presented to 20 or so musicians who will then spend a great deal of time getting the notes right. Apart from any passages where improvisation is allowed for, no deviation is permitted. Indeed, because regularity of pulse is a common factor, musicians are not even given the 'freedom' of conducted rubato phrases as they might in a symphony orchestra. Perfection is sought but, it must be said, is rarely achieved. When it is achieved there is sometimes a price to be paid in coldness and lack of heart in the music.
In my purist days I might even have argued that, without there being much possibility of change, this should not be called jazz. Now, as readers of Jazz Changes magazine will recall, I have decided not to argue about definitions. Call whatever you like jazz, but, in doing so, do not forget to relish its strengths. Make an effort to realise the vast, regularly ignored, potential of the music.
Not that I am against intricate orchestration in jazz. The wonderful Gil Evans' scores on Porgy and Bess, Sketches of Spain and Miles Ahead are great examples of orchestral jazz writing (and playing, although there are many mistakes in the performance due to insufficient rehearsal time). The presence of Miles and the role given to him is wide enough that these are real jazz scores which serve the soloist well. In what we could perhaps see as a back-handed compliment these works are now being recreated worldwide by non-jazz orchestras such as the London Sinfonietta. Thankfully, the soloists are usually of the stamp of Randy Brecker, Lew Soloff, or Tim Hagens. The composer, or co-composer as we should call Gil Evans, has left enough space for the soloist to be present as participant whatever the orchestra involved may be. In this way the composer also remains a participant.
The approach typified by such participatory scores is the exception. The composer as bystander, in a way aping classical methods, is the norm. However, there are composers working in jazz today who are trying to include improvisers in their personal vision. As I discussed in an earlier article, they are treading a difficult line between the power and complexity associated with classical composers and the immediacy of a jazz performance.
If we are honest, however, much of what is called jazz composition has narrower aims and little vision. It is all about writing complex scores to show off the technical prowess of the writer and the band concerned. The problem for such writing is that it must, almost by definition, be anonymous, written for anyone to play. Even if the piece was written for a band such as the Thad Jones-Mel Lewis Orchestra, the reality was that the personnel would change regularly. All good players, of course, but hired to fill a chair, second or third, rather than being hired as an individual or as a particular kind of soloist.
The composer as participant writes in a looser way, exploring the potential of jazz, and also involves the players as participants, as we can see with the Gil Evans scores for Miles Davis. All this is more germane to what, in jazz, ought to be the object of the exercise: to create something that has the possibility of change from performance to performance. It also concentrates on one of the real strengths of jazz: the individuality of the people involved and what can be achieved by combining those individualities. This is one of the real resources of jazz composition. The others are texture, the instrumental possibilities inherent in any grouping (about which we can learn much from orchestral music), and tradition, what we can learn from the past.

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