the problem with singers
Musicians tell a joke about a jazz player who goes to heaven (wait; that's not the joke) and is delighted to find a wonderful heavenly band made up of the greats. But, seeing they're all bitter and depressed, he goes up to Miles and asks what the problem is. "Well, man. God has this girlfriend, and she's a singer...."
Why do singers get such a bad rap among musicians? It's this way in jazz, pop, classical, you name it. One reason, I think, is that, since singing is such a natural thing — it's the original, universal instrument — vocalists tend not to know as much about the craft of music as other instrumentalists, who not only work at their own instrument but also learn about and can talk about the principles of music.
Another is all the bad habits. It's alarmingly common for a jazz vocalist not to know what key they sing a song in. That's like having to look up your best friend's phone number every time. It's also common for a singer not to be able to read the band for when to come in. This is a basic skill in an improvisational style of music: each player must know when the last player is through, or else you'll have an embarrassing blank space or one person stepping all over another. Good musicians, therefore, can put it on a silver platter for you, bringing a solo to a logical conclusion so you know it's over and it's your turn. Singers, for whatever reason, are famous for just plowing right on in whenever they feel like it, even ignoring the form of the song. Everyone else just has to adjust.
Maybe the most irritating habit of jazz singers is the propensity to shout your name in the middle of your solo. Why do they do this? You'll be playing along, getting into a really interesting line of thought in a solo, doing something that requires a bit m"BARRY BRAKE, ladies and gentlemen! Barry Brake! How bout it?" You wouldn't believe how many times that has happened to me.
I think I've figured out a reason for that last one. Maybe it's because a singer just can't imagine that anything is as interesting as singing. So when someone's playing, they want the audience to appreciate the instrumentalists by applauding — and it doesn't matter (to the singer) that it's in the middle of a musical sentence. No words are going on, so what's the interruption?
In fact, most of these sins stem from the perception of centrality that singers have. (It's why they can't keep still during solos, for instance, often leading to ridiculous chicken-necking and hip-swaying.) They really think they're on in a way that others aren't — which may, in the eyes of the average audience member, be truer than one wants to admit — and that therefore nothing else is as on.
Not surprisingly, the singers I enjoy playing with the most are the ones freest from those sins: Joan Carroll, who's essentially a player who plays voice; Loretta Cormier, who delivers songs straight no chaser and who brings her own set of charts — which she's hand-drawn herself — for the whole band; Ron Wilkins, primarily a trombonist, who also can sing better than most singers. Those are the ones I find myself working with these days, and gladder for it. All have at least this in common: they realize that what's central is not them, or even us, but the music.
Why do singers get such a bad rap among musicians? It's this way in jazz, pop, classical, you name it. One reason, I think, is that, since singing is such a natural thing — it's the original, universal instrument — vocalists tend not to know as much about the craft of music as other instrumentalists, who not only work at their own instrument but also learn about and can talk about the principles of music.
Another is all the bad habits. It's alarmingly common for a jazz vocalist not to know what key they sing a song in. That's like having to look up your best friend's phone number every time. It's also common for a singer not to be able to read the band for when to come in. This is a basic skill in an improvisational style of music: each player must know when the last player is through, or else you'll have an embarrassing blank space or one person stepping all over another. Good musicians, therefore, can put it on a silver platter for you, bringing a solo to a logical conclusion so you know it's over and it's your turn. Singers, for whatever reason, are famous for just plowing right on in whenever they feel like it, even ignoring the form of the song. Everyone else just has to adjust.
Maybe the most irritating habit of jazz singers is the propensity to shout your name in the middle of your solo. Why do they do this? You'll be playing along, getting into a really interesting line of thought in a solo, doing something that requires a bit m"BARRY BRAKE, ladies and gentlemen! Barry Brake! How bout it?" You wouldn't believe how many times that has happened to me.
I think I've figured out a reason for that last one. Maybe it's because a singer just can't imagine that anything is as interesting as singing. So when someone's playing, they want the audience to appreciate the instrumentalists by applauding — and it doesn't matter (to the singer) that it's in the middle of a musical sentence. No words are going on, so what's the interruption?
In fact, most of these sins stem from the perception of centrality that singers have. (It's why they can't keep still during solos, for instance, often leading to ridiculous chicken-necking and hip-swaying.) They really think they're on in a way that others aren't — which may, in the eyes of the average audience member, be truer than one wants to admit — and that therefore nothing else is as on.
Not surprisingly, the singers I enjoy playing with the most are the ones freest from those sins: Joan Carroll, who's essentially a player who plays voice; Loretta Cormier, who delivers songs straight no chaser and who brings her own set of charts — which she's hand-drawn herself — for the whole band; Ron Wilkins, primarily a trombonist, who also can sing better than most singers. Those are the ones I find myself working with these days, and gladder for it. All have at least this in common: they realize that what's central is not them, or even us, but the music.
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