Even Virtuosity Needs A Holiday

I apologize if this piece comes across as disjointed. I’m writing this on the heels of an extreme workload/hours Iditarod at my day job.

Last Sunday morning, I was riding my bike past a local, circa-1930’s-and-fully-restored theater that sits a couple of blocks from my house. I do this every Sunday, knowing fully that a local “city church” has the venue sequestered for their services. A couple of casually-dressed, oscillating, over-caffeinated cherubim beckon me in every single time they see me. And every time I demur—primarily because I know the things that will ultimately spill from the pulpit fall far short of what I know to be true. Still, I always thank them and move on.

But this time, I decided that I was going to at least check out how they’d used the refulgent (a term I heard one of the theater’s androgynous underwriters use) high ceiling and acoustics to their musical advantage.

First, let me give you the lineup. One set of drums. One bass. Two guitars; an acoustic, and one electric. Two praise singers. The mental image makes for a thin musical backdrop, but I can assure you, such was not the case. I listened as these musicians—some of them novice at that—managed to become complements to each other’s playing; their sound full and bright, definitely becoming greater than the sum of their parts.

Here’s an odd little thing I noticed in contrast.

I’ve seen situations where our Apostolic “who’s who’s” in music have taken the same platform in what could be referred to as an impromptu “super group.” And I've many times watched the music die—or at any rate enter into a persistent vegetative state. And I have a feeling I know why this is the case—why the advent of apostolic “bands” has been phlegmatic at best.

Just simply look back thirty years, where the sum total of musical duties was carried out by a single entity—be it the accordion, the piano, or the organ. Devoid of a rhythm section, a Pentecostal piano player is not only conscripted for chord progressions, but also a style that requires one to be “all over the place” in order to galvanize a perceivable tempo and rhythm. One look at the archetypical apostolic pianist should prove to anyone that our keyboard heritage is a highly percussive one—one that plays every musical base and manages to catch as well.

This is all fine and good until the time comes to actually play in harmony with other musicians, and make the concessions necessary to bring a song over fully. I’ve noticed that pianists and organ players with these hallmarks have a very hard time applying the “less is more” doctrines to music. Band-like situations require delegation—a distinct openness to allowing others access to backbeats, counter rhythms, and chord voicings. Add a few inexperienced guitarists and bass players, and you’ve got one massive musical Hoagy to choke down. What would be an otherwise clever little double-stop on the guitar becomes an irritating, bellicose intrusion—primarily because someone’s already occupying that space.

Such is the same for many in the vocal department as well. There are times when a descending, three-octave vocal shred over a musical swell is warranted. There are also times when the contortionist choir caterwaul can start running with a wheel in the sand—and people for the earplugs. Even Mariah Carey knows when to rein in the Neapolitan Coyote.

And maybe that’s my point overall. I think my work-related coma may have me sounding like I meant to engage in a pamphleteering campaign against keyboardists and singers, when in reality it’s just my fractured attempt to remind those (myself included) who play with other musicians to listen to what they’re playing—and get a better idea of when to not play as well.