Technology has a way of catching up to us. Every year, machines become more and more advanced, and every year those advancements make it possible for a machine to be able to perform a task as good, if not better than, a human. 65 years ago it would've been impossible to imagine machines that could recognize human speech, let alone carry on a conversation. Today anyone with a modern smartphone can push a button and talk to a digital personal assistant who can help us manage schedules, make dinner reservations, find directions, and even tell jokes. We're still a few short years away from being able to carry on a true conversation with a machine, but that eventuality is now not a matter of if, but when - and the 'when' in this case will become 'now' much sooner than we think.
In 1950 the logician and computer scientist Alan Turing (you may remember him from the award-winning biopic The Imitation Game about his work cracking the ENIGMA code during World War II) proposed an experiment called the Turing Test to try to determine how good machines could be at mimicking human behavior. Keep in mind that in 1950 computers didn't even have display screens, let alone the ability to understand and mimic human speech. But Turing's test was designed around the technology at the time: an interviewer behind a partition asked questions through a computer interface (which at the time consisted of punch cards and teletype tickers) and the answers would either come from a human operator at the other end, or the computer itself. If the interviewer was unable to tell whether the responses came from the computer or a human operator, then the computer was said to have passed the test.
Today, there are web chat programs that can very convincingly mimic a text conversation. Actually this technology has been around for a couple of decades. One such program, A.L.I.C.E. (Artificial Linguistic Internet Computer Entity) has been around since 1995, and that was based on a previous program called ELIZA which gave programmed responses to questions in an almost human-like interaction as far back as 1965. Nowadays many businesses use web-based "bots" similar to ALICE as customer service portals which can answer basic questions about the company's products. Often the customers don't even know they're not chatting with a human. Many of these chat bots have scored higher than 50% on the Turing Test, enough to be considered a passing grade. But none of these computer chat programs are actually capable of thinking like a human -- yet.
(Chat with A.L.I.C.E. here)
(MegaHAL and CleverBot, two other AI's that are fun to chat with)
What does all of this have to do with music? Well, just as technology has developed ways to do almost everything else, there are machines that can operate musical instruments to create variances in pitch, dynamics, and rhythm to mimic the sonic smorgasbord known to us as music. MIDI has existed for years, and sequenced synthesized digital instruments are a major part of almost every pop song being played on the radio. There is now a robot that is capable of duplicating John Coltrane's solo on Giant Steps note-for-note.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjONQNUU8Fg
But when you close your eyes and listen to that robot pumping air across a reed and moving tiny servo motors to work the saxophone keys, something is missing. Any listener can tell that the sounds are being created by a robot playing the saxophone, not a human.
Why is it so easy to tell the difference? Because music is supposed to feel like something. It's not yet possible for a machine to mimic the feeling that accompanies a musical performance. It may never be possible - although I can almost guarantee there's an engineer somewhere working on it.
But this brings up another interesting observation: while it is currently not possible for a robot to play music that sounds like it's being performed by a human, it is unfortunately very possible for a human to put on a robotic performance. Sadly, too many students of the musical arts focus so deeply on developing flawless technique on their instrument that they lose sight of the fact that flawless technique is just step one. Any robot can perform with flawless technique. Using that technique to create art and evoke feeling should be the goal of every human performer.
The next time you're practicing or performing, ask yourself this question: will people listening to this be able to tell the difference whether it's being performed by a human being or a robot? Can your playing pass the Turing Test?
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Internalize your music!
Most music students learn to play by practicing a specific scale or a specific pattern or a specific piece of music until they can play it flawlessly. The scales, patterns, etudes, and pieces are written using standard western music notation, assigned by an instructor, and practiced by the student in such a way as to master the ability to perform them specifically and precisely every time. This is the time-honored way of learning to master the skill of playing an instrument. Music has been taught and learned this way since the beginning of formalized western music education in European monasteries during the middle ages. Developing skills this way leads to virtuosic technique, enhanced muscle memory, heightened mental concentration and focus, and often a greater understanding of the emotional interpretation of a composer's intent as applied to a specific musical composition with regard to dynamics and expression. As an added side bonus, the students learn to expertly decipher a complex two-part code wherein a series of dots and lines is first translated into a corresponding series of letter-names, and then those letter names translated into their corresponding pitches on the student's chosen instrument.
All of these are Good Things. But they are not the music. The skills involved in learning to play an instrument are part of the tools a musician uses to create music; the notes on the page are part of the road map to get there; but the music itself is far, far beyond the simple mechanics of tone production and notation.
But what is beyond the notes on the page? What is beyond the set of instructions given in the form of a page of dots and lines and squiggles that all mean specific things to a musician but are just dots and lines and squiggles to everyone else? How can one begin the transition from following a specific set of instructions toward actually creating music?
Shift your thinking!
What's necessary is a fundamental shift in thinking. The music is not the notes on the page; those are just instructions. The music itself is art expressed through sound, using the elements of rhythm, pitch, and dynamic volume in such a way as to cause listeners to feel a particular emotion or emotions. The notes on the page reflect a composer's intent, instructions from composer to performer on how to create the music -- but the music itself exists only for an infinitesimally small amount of time, a singular moment while the sounds are actually being made. Prior to that moment, the music exists only as an idea in the mind of the composer which has been set out as instructions to follow; after the music's moment is over it exists only as a memory in the minds of the listeners. Even recordings are only a mechanical duplication of music which has already happened. The moment at which it is being performed live is the only time music actually exists as music.
For this reason, the performer's role in the moment is paramount in the creation of the actual music; in order to truly create music, players must learn to rise above the stature of being simply a follower of instructions, and instead become a co-Creator along with the composer and the other members of the ensemble. This involves taking part in a shared vision that starts with the composer, continues with the performer(s), and ends with the audience.
Make music instead of just playing notes!
In order to share this vision, as a performer, it must become your vision. The composer's ideas must also become your own. The music must be internalized to such a degree that there is no degree of separation between the composer's intent and your own; you must play and feel the music as if you are creating a new musical experience for your listeners, every time. Whether the music was composed by someone else or not doesn't matter; when you perform it you make it yours.
Internalizing the music involves more than just practicing the notes on the page until you can play them flawlessly. To internalize the music, you must gather the notes into groups of phrases that make sense together. Instead of thinking of notes and intervals, think of how those notes and intervals come together to make a melody. Listen to that melody as a whole, which is greater than the sum of its parts. Sing or hum it. Then take that melody and play it in a different key. Play it on a different instrument. Don't think of it as notes; think of it as a melodic phrase. By the time you're through working on it, you should be able to sing or play that melody in any key at any tempo.
When we improvise jazz, we are functioning as both composer and performer - and sometimes also audience. It is therefore doubly important to internalize the groups of notes, melodies, and phrases; not only that, but your entire musical thought process must be internalized in order to be a successful jazz improviser. Even something as simple as a scale should be so much a part of you that you can roll it off in any key at any tempo without even thinking about it.
Practice scales with intent
One way to internalize your music is by practicing scales with intent. Instead of just mindlessly running scales, treat your scales as if they are melodies to be internalized. Break your scales into smaller groups of notes, 3 or 4 or 5 notes at a time, and play these patterned scales in every key until your fingers can play any part of any scale starting from any note, on a moment's notice. Do the same thing for arpeggios and other patterns.
Make music in the moment
But Remember that all of this is just preparation; the music itself hasn't happened yet. The music happens when you play your melody while someone else is listening. All of the practicing and all of the preparation you do to develop skills, this is all to prepare you to be able to Create music in each singular moment of interaction between yourself and your audience. Then that moment is gone and you're on to the next moment. When you internalize the music and make it your own; only then can you expect your audience to respond to what they feel in the moment, instead of just observing.
All of these are Good Things. But they are not the music. The skills involved in learning to play an instrument are part of the tools a musician uses to create music; the notes on the page are part of the road map to get there; but the music itself is far, far beyond the simple mechanics of tone production and notation.
But what is beyond the notes on the page? What is beyond the set of instructions given in the form of a page of dots and lines and squiggles that all mean specific things to a musician but are just dots and lines and squiggles to everyone else? How can one begin the transition from following a specific set of instructions toward actually creating music?
Shift your thinking!
What's necessary is a fundamental shift in thinking. The music is not the notes on the page; those are just instructions. The music itself is art expressed through sound, using the elements of rhythm, pitch, and dynamic volume in such a way as to cause listeners to feel a particular emotion or emotions. The notes on the page reflect a composer's intent, instructions from composer to performer on how to create the music -- but the music itself exists only for an infinitesimally small amount of time, a singular moment while the sounds are actually being made. Prior to that moment, the music exists only as an idea in the mind of the composer which has been set out as instructions to follow; after the music's moment is over it exists only as a memory in the minds of the listeners. Even recordings are only a mechanical duplication of music which has already happened. The moment at which it is being performed live is the only time music actually exists as music.
For this reason, the performer's role in the moment is paramount in the creation of the actual music; in order to truly create music, players must learn to rise above the stature of being simply a follower of instructions, and instead become a co-Creator along with the composer and the other members of the ensemble. This involves taking part in a shared vision that starts with the composer, continues with the performer(s), and ends with the audience.
Make music instead of just playing notes!
In order to share this vision, as a performer, it must become your vision. The composer's ideas must also become your own. The music must be internalized to such a degree that there is no degree of separation between the composer's intent and your own; you must play and feel the music as if you are creating a new musical experience for your listeners, every time. Whether the music was composed by someone else or not doesn't matter; when you perform it you make it yours.
Internalizing the music involves more than just practicing the notes on the page until you can play them flawlessly. To internalize the music, you must gather the notes into groups of phrases that make sense together. Instead of thinking of notes and intervals, think of how those notes and intervals come together to make a melody. Listen to that melody as a whole, which is greater than the sum of its parts. Sing or hum it. Then take that melody and play it in a different key. Play it on a different instrument. Don't think of it as notes; think of it as a melodic phrase. By the time you're through working on it, you should be able to sing or play that melody in any key at any tempo.
When we improvise jazz, we are functioning as both composer and performer - and sometimes also audience. It is therefore doubly important to internalize the groups of notes, melodies, and phrases; not only that, but your entire musical thought process must be internalized in order to be a successful jazz improviser. Even something as simple as a scale should be so much a part of you that you can roll it off in any key at any tempo without even thinking about it.
Practice scales with intent
One way to internalize your music is by practicing scales with intent. Instead of just mindlessly running scales, treat your scales as if they are melodies to be internalized. Break your scales into smaller groups of notes, 3 or 4 or 5 notes at a time, and play these patterned scales in every key until your fingers can play any part of any scale starting from any note, on a moment's notice. Do the same thing for arpeggios and other patterns.
Make music in the moment
But Remember that all of this is just preparation; the music itself hasn't happened yet. The music happens when you play your melody while someone else is listening. All of the practicing and all of the preparation you do to develop skills, this is all to prepare you to be able to Create music in each singular moment of interaction between yourself and your audience. Then that moment is gone and you're on to the next moment. When you internalize the music and make it your own; only then can you expect your audience to respond to what they feel in the moment, instead of just observing.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Goal-oriented musicianship: why it's not ideal to have a single-minded goal in the creative arts
I get this from students all the time: "I only need to take lessons to prepare for this one solo contest/audition/chair test/etc". Invariably, those are the students who call me to start lessons 4 to 6 weeks before a big event in their musical-instrument-playing lives, they don't want to work on anything but that one piece of music, and then they quit taking lessons immediately after completing that one event. This helps nobody, in the long run. The amount of time they have given themselves to prepare is usually woefully inadequate, the amount of work they're willing to put into their goal is usually not enough, they are generally expecting me, their teacher, to instantly wave my magic wand and make them good enough at it to pass their audition with my super-secret unicorn ninja powers. Along the way, they will work themselves up to make this one goal, this one contest, this one audition, into the most important event of their entire life, and then when they inevitably don't do as well as they had hoped, they will likely be so crushed that they'll think about giving up music altogether; and they'll likely blame me, their teacher, for not adequately preparing them to win their contest.
First of all, it's great to have goals, don't get me wrong. I think every one of us has had at least one challenging piece of music that they want to get really good at in order to pass an audition or perform at contest. Auditions (both formal and informal) are a regular part of every career professional musician's world. Solo contests (when I was coming up they used to call them "solo festivals") are a part of every school music program.
But let us focus on the reason behind the goal-oriented nature of these school music programs and allow ourselves to question whether we are truly doing a disservice to kids by making music into a competitive sport as opposed to a creative art form.
Solo Contests in schools exist because music department heads can point to those as a quantifiable reason for their need to keep their music programs funded; when the bean-counters in the administration buildings decide how to allocate funding, they need to see result-based activities, which music in and of itself is not. It's not easy to point to a young musician and say "wow, little Johnny really felt that Bach sonata, let's give his school more money." It's not easy to point to a high school jazz ensemble and say "wow, they sure are playing those blues licks, there were some wrong notes in there but I admire their creative spirit so let's give them more money."
In short, most school board members do not understand music. They do not understand the complexity of creating a form of expression through the medium of sound and using that to communicate an emotional state or evoke an emotional response in others, and they for sure don't understand the value of teaching kids to be able to develop those nonverbal communication skills as an essential part of brain development. It's far easier for them to understand test scores, bell curves, and standardized exam grades.
On the other hand, as extracurricular activities go, Competitive sports are easy to point to and say "my school is the best because we win more games than all the other schools in our district." The students, parents, and fans can all rally behind their school colors and cheer for their team. The more students, parents, and fans there are, the larger the attendance at the games, and it's very easy to point to a cheering crowd of sports fans and say "See? Our football program is a success!" The school district boards and parent associations find it easy to see the value in supporting a winning athletic program, and even the losing schools are able to get funding by pointing to their programs and saying "we might win more games if we had new uniforms". But in the arts, no such competitive spirit exists. Art is creative expression that evokes emotion. Not easy to put a dollar amount on that. So the school music program directors invented the concept of solo "contests" so they could point to their classes and say "my music program produces at least ten contest winners every year" and "our school wins our district's music contest every year"
The prevailing theory among some music educators is that while they are preparing towards that goal, they will learn all sorts of other things about music in general. But what they learn is that their ability to regurgitate a practiced routine of musical notes in order is being compared to other peoples' ability to regurgitate a practiced routine of musical notes. They're learning how to pass a test - which has absolutely nothing to do with the overall purpose of music.
Unfortunately, as a friend pointed out, "teaching to the test" is the new way of doing things.
First of all, it's great to have goals, don't get me wrong. I think every one of us has had at least one challenging piece of music that they want to get really good at in order to pass an audition or perform at contest. Auditions (both formal and informal) are a regular part of every career professional musician's world. Solo contests (when I was coming up they used to call them "solo festivals") are a part of every school music program.
But let us focus on the reason behind the goal-oriented nature of these school music programs and allow ourselves to question whether we are truly doing a disservice to kids by making music into a competitive sport as opposed to a creative art form.
Solo Contests in schools exist because music department heads can point to those as a quantifiable reason for their need to keep their music programs funded; when the bean-counters in the administration buildings decide how to allocate funding, they need to see result-based activities, which music in and of itself is not. It's not easy to point to a young musician and say "wow, little Johnny really felt that Bach sonata, let's give his school more money." It's not easy to point to a high school jazz ensemble and say "wow, they sure are playing those blues licks, there were some wrong notes in there but I admire their creative spirit so let's give them more money."
In short, most school board members do not understand music. They do not understand the complexity of creating a form of expression through the medium of sound and using that to communicate an emotional state or evoke an emotional response in others, and they for sure don't understand the value of teaching kids to be able to develop those nonverbal communication skills as an essential part of brain development. It's far easier for them to understand test scores, bell curves, and standardized exam grades.
On the other hand, as extracurricular activities go, Competitive sports are easy to point to and say "my school is the best because we win more games than all the other schools in our district." The students, parents, and fans can all rally behind their school colors and cheer for their team. The more students, parents, and fans there are, the larger the attendance at the games, and it's very easy to point to a cheering crowd of sports fans and say "See? Our football program is a success!" The school district boards and parent associations find it easy to see the value in supporting a winning athletic program, and even the losing schools are able to get funding by pointing to their programs and saying "we might win more games if we had new uniforms". But in the arts, no such competitive spirit exists. Art is creative expression that evokes emotion. Not easy to put a dollar amount on that. So the school music program directors invented the concept of solo "contests" so they could point to their classes and say "my music program produces at least ten contest winners every year" and "our school wins our district's music contest every year"
The prevailing theory among some music educators is that while they are preparing towards that goal, they will learn all sorts of other things about music in general. But what they learn is that their ability to regurgitate a practiced routine of musical notes in order is being compared to other peoples' ability to regurgitate a practiced routine of musical notes. They're learning how to pass a test - which has absolutely nothing to do with the overall purpose of music.
Unfortunately, as a friend pointed out, "teaching to the test" is the new way of doing things.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
How to avoid the "Meandering Soloist" syndrome
You've all heard them. Every jazz jam has several. They play a meandering jazz solo that goes absolutely nowhere, full of fragmented melodies or patterns over the chord changes. Usually they'll play several choruses, each more painful than the last. They are the Wandering Soloists. Do Not let this happen to you.
A good Jazz solo is like a story. It has a beginning, middle and end. It engages the listener and interacts with the rhythm section. A bad jazz solo does none of these things, and can be known to actively turn off the audience. Many of the people who say they "do not like jazz" are actually saying they do not like to listen to a meandering soloist who takes 27 choruses to say absolutely nothing at all.
So here are a few tips on how to avoid the "Meandering Soloist Syndrome".
1. Have a compositional vision in mind. Conceptualize before you play. Think about what you want your solo to say. Think about what you want the overall effect to be on your listeners. When you improvise, make a conscious effort to be a composer, not just a soloist. Composers start with an idea, or motif, and then they develop it throughout the course of the piece. When you're improvising a solo, use this same concept. Your melodic ideas are the characters in your story. As you tell your story, those characters will interact with each other and give your audience a glimpse of your musical vision. Making music is about converting your imagination into a realized musical statement - but that doesn't automatically come from nowhere at all; it needs to start with the first step which is imagining and then visualizing what your solo will say.
2. Think globally, act melodically. When you're improvising a jazz tune, there is an entire group of you improvising at once. Usually only one soloist at a time is composing the melody, but all players are responsible for all of the music that is being put out there into the ears of your listeners. There is no room for egos on the bandstand; no one person is more important than any other, and all are pulling equal weight to make the music happen. The soloist needs to also be part of the groove, and the groove needs to be part of the solo.
It's important to know all of the musical elements that are taking place all the time during the course of a piece of music, and then make sure that those elements are all being fulfilled by players on the bandstand. Think of the tune you collectively are playing as a complete work - a complete musical soundscape - and decide ahead of time exactly what elements need to be fully present at all times in order to make it musical: Things like melody, groove, harmony, dynamics or energy -- these things ALL need to be fully represented 100% of the time in order to effectively convey the music. Whether there are twenty musicians on stage or two, or even one, those components need to be fully represented at all times.
Typically in most standard jazz combo situations, there are four basic roles: pulse, percussion, harmony, and melody. In the standard lineup of bass, drums, piano, and horn, these roles are fairly standardized: the bass plays the pulse that identifies the time, the drummer plays the percussive hits that make the tune rhythmically interesting, the pianist adds the harmonic content in a percussive way that complements the drums, and the horn plays a melody over the top. But if any of those roles are changed or removed, the other players need to come together to fill the void and continue to make the tune musically complete. For example if the bass drops out, the pianist typically uses his/her left hand to cover the bass line. If the drummer drops out, the other players might adjust their style of playing to be more percussive. If the pianist drops out, someone else needs to cover the harmonic content -- and so on. This way, collectively, everyone in the group contributes to the overall music.
Players of melody instruments need to be hyper-aware of this while it's going on. During your solo, pay attention to what the bass, drums, and piano are doing. If any of the essential elements are missing (harmony, pulse, percussion, etc) then as a soloist you need to adjust your style of playing to at least imply those elements in your solo. Note that there is a difference between making sure all of the elements are represented vs overplaying. Do not overplay. If the bassist is already taking care of the pulse, no need to duplicate his efforts. If the pianist is already setting up the harmonic framework, don't step on that. Leave some space for the rhythm section to add percussive hits. But if those elements are not being covered by other players, adapt your playing to make sure that the full music is happening.
3. Play with impeccable time, all the time. As with above, the time needs to be 100% solid all of the time. You should all be feeling the collective pulse of the music together. Soloist, rhythm section, and audience should all be feeling the collective pulse together. If your solo melody is not part of the pulse that the rhythm section is laying down, it will not sound like it belongs.
You get impeccable time by practicing with a metronome. Practice scales, arpeggios, patterns, and then go through every tune you're working on with a metronome. Not an Aebersold play-along, not Band-in-a-box, but a simple Metronome. Those play-along-tools are great for ear training, they'll tell you if the lick you're playing fits over the chord changes that a typical rhythm section might play, but other than that they're fairly worthless for developing time - and they're actually detrimental if your aim is to develop a solo that doesn't meander.
Your time can further be improved by setting the metronome to 1/4 of the actual tempo, so a click happens only every 4 beats. This causes you to internalize your time and think about things like starting and ending phrases on time instead of just playing robotically to a click.
When I was an undergrad, I went out and started sitting in around the Denver scene. I'll never forget the lesson I learned from the drummer Bruno Carr. I had been practicing with the Aebersolds, I could get around Rhythm changes fairly nicely, but I really didn't know how to interact with a rhythm section yet, and my time was more ambiguous than it should've been. I was playing a melody without any regard for letting the rhythm section know I even knew where "one" was. And Bruno just stopped. One loud rimshot and he was out. I heard him lean over behind me and tell the bassist "You tell that m--f---er I'll come back in when he figures out where he's at!" Soon I was all by myself, having to be responsible for my own time, my own melody and harmony, my own form, everything. I made it through that tune, I simplified my playing and made my time-feel very deliberate to let the rhythm section know I knew where I was, and I played a melody that made sense, and then they came back in. Bruno came up to me afterwards and told me I had an open invitation to sit in with him anytime after that, which I took him up on frequently and learned a lot. But I'll never forget that first lesson...
4. Know the Tune. Know the melody (and if possible, the words). If you're sight-reading changes, it will sound like you're sight-reading when you solo. It's important to do a little homework and familiarize yourself with a tune before you try to go compose a jazz solo in front of people. And here's a tip: They're called SONGS. A lot of songs have words. Even if you're playing an instrument that requires your mouth to be actively blowing into it (hence making it impossible to sing lyrics simultaneously) you should always know the words and melody to every tune you're trying to blow a solo over. The reason why is simple: Phrasing. A song is like a poem; it has form. Think about the different types of poems you studied in literature class: there's usually a meter to it (a pulse that puts the poem into a definite rhythmic context in time) and sometimes certain words rhyme. Even poems that don't have rhyme or meter always do have a definite sense of phrasing -- and most SONGS (poems set to music) definitely do -- we can learn from that and adapt it to our playing.
And guess what: A lot of jazz standards correspond to traditional poetry forms. There are Limericks (which roughly correspond to the AAbbA (2 longer [A] phrases that rhyme with each other, followed by 2 short [b] phrases that rhyme with each other, follwed by one final [A] phrase that rhymes with the first two [A] phrases.) - go listen to the jazz standard "Doxy" for a melodic equivalent to a Limerick form. If you know the words and melody, you know the phrasing form of the song and that's the key to playing an intelligently-phrased compositionally-minded solo over the same form. Even modern tunes like Wayne Shorter's "Fee Fi Fo Fum" correspond to a logical phrasing form similar to that of a Limerick (although in the case of that tune the two [B] phrases are not shortened, but the melodies do "rhyme" with each other.)
5. Know when to say when. If you can't make sense musically in one chorus of solo, why would anyone want to hear you go on for 23 more? Guys like Michael Brecker could play fifteen million choruses and push the energy higher and higher each time. Trane could blow a 60-minute solo on "Impressions" and keep it interesting for the whole 60 minutes. You're not them. Keep your solo short, concise, and to the point, unless you really have something to say. If you (1) have something to say, (2) if you're continuing to build your ideas and develop your motifs, and (3) if you're keeping your rhythm section engaged and bringing the entire band along with you, then you can and should keep your solo going for as long as those three things are still true. But when your solo has run its course to its logical conclusion and all you're doing is meandering, it's time to "take the horn out yo mouth" and let the tune go on.
6. Dynamics! Playing a meaningful well-phrased melody with good time amounts to only 2-dimensional thinking. To play 3-dimensionally, one must add the variances of soft and loud. In the case of a jazz solo this will especially bring your playing to the next level. Manipulate the energy of your solo and vary the dynamics in a way that makes sense. Most of the time this means starting out softly and building to a fortissimo -- but it can also be effective to start out strongly, then drop down to pianissimo as you develop your motif so that you can build it back up to fortissimo by the time you finish. Bonus points if you can effectively communicate your intent to use dynamics to the other members on the bandstand. If your rhythm section is sensitive and if they're listening to what you play, they'll go loud and soft with you. But if they've already tuned you out because all you've been playing thus far is self-aggrandizing, meandering meaningless notes, then you'll need to get their attention first.
These 6 pointers are by no means the end-all-be-all of how to craft a good solo. But hopefully they are enough to help players to avoid the Meandering Soloist Syndrome, or MSS, which is a very serious condition that will eventually lead to invisibility, or at the very least, irrelevance.
Stay relevant, my friends.
A good Jazz solo is like a story. It has a beginning, middle and end. It engages the listener and interacts with the rhythm section. A bad jazz solo does none of these things, and can be known to actively turn off the audience. Many of the people who say they "do not like jazz" are actually saying they do not like to listen to a meandering soloist who takes 27 choruses to say absolutely nothing at all.
So here are a few tips on how to avoid the "Meandering Soloist Syndrome".
1. Have a compositional vision in mind. Conceptualize before you play. Think about what you want your solo to say. Think about what you want the overall effect to be on your listeners. When you improvise, make a conscious effort to be a composer, not just a soloist. Composers start with an idea, or motif, and then they develop it throughout the course of the piece. When you're improvising a solo, use this same concept. Your melodic ideas are the characters in your story. As you tell your story, those characters will interact with each other and give your audience a glimpse of your musical vision. Making music is about converting your imagination into a realized musical statement - but that doesn't automatically come from nowhere at all; it needs to start with the first step which is imagining and then visualizing what your solo will say.
2. Think globally, act melodically. When you're improvising a jazz tune, there is an entire group of you improvising at once. Usually only one soloist at a time is composing the melody, but all players are responsible for all of the music that is being put out there into the ears of your listeners. There is no room for egos on the bandstand; no one person is more important than any other, and all are pulling equal weight to make the music happen. The soloist needs to also be part of the groove, and the groove needs to be part of the solo.
It's important to know all of the musical elements that are taking place all the time during the course of a piece of music, and then make sure that those elements are all being fulfilled by players on the bandstand. Think of the tune you collectively are playing as a complete work - a complete musical soundscape - and decide ahead of time exactly what elements need to be fully present at all times in order to make it musical: Things like melody, groove, harmony, dynamics or energy -- these things ALL need to be fully represented 100% of the time in order to effectively convey the music. Whether there are twenty musicians on stage or two, or even one, those components need to be fully represented at all times.
Typically in most standard jazz combo situations, there are four basic roles: pulse, percussion, harmony, and melody. In the standard lineup of bass, drums, piano, and horn, these roles are fairly standardized: the bass plays the pulse that identifies the time, the drummer plays the percussive hits that make the tune rhythmically interesting, the pianist adds the harmonic content in a percussive way that complements the drums, and the horn plays a melody over the top. But if any of those roles are changed or removed, the other players need to come together to fill the void and continue to make the tune musically complete. For example if the bass drops out, the pianist typically uses his/her left hand to cover the bass line. If the drummer drops out, the other players might adjust their style of playing to be more percussive. If the pianist drops out, someone else needs to cover the harmonic content -- and so on. This way, collectively, everyone in the group contributes to the overall music.
Players of melody instruments need to be hyper-aware of this while it's going on. During your solo, pay attention to what the bass, drums, and piano are doing. If any of the essential elements are missing (harmony, pulse, percussion, etc) then as a soloist you need to adjust your style of playing to at least imply those elements in your solo. Note that there is a difference between making sure all of the elements are represented vs overplaying. Do not overplay. If the bassist is already taking care of the pulse, no need to duplicate his efforts. If the pianist is already setting up the harmonic framework, don't step on that. Leave some space for the rhythm section to add percussive hits. But if those elements are not being covered by other players, adapt your playing to make sure that the full music is happening.
3. Play with impeccable time, all the time. As with above, the time needs to be 100% solid all of the time. You should all be feeling the collective pulse of the music together. Soloist, rhythm section, and audience should all be feeling the collective pulse together. If your solo melody is not part of the pulse that the rhythm section is laying down, it will not sound like it belongs.
You get impeccable time by practicing with a metronome. Practice scales, arpeggios, patterns, and then go through every tune you're working on with a metronome. Not an Aebersold play-along, not Band-in-a-box, but a simple Metronome. Those play-along-tools are great for ear training, they'll tell you if the lick you're playing fits over the chord changes that a typical rhythm section might play, but other than that they're fairly worthless for developing time - and they're actually detrimental if your aim is to develop a solo that doesn't meander.
Your time can further be improved by setting the metronome to 1/4 of the actual tempo, so a click happens only every 4 beats. This causes you to internalize your time and think about things like starting and ending phrases on time instead of just playing robotically to a click.
When I was an undergrad, I went out and started sitting in around the Denver scene. I'll never forget the lesson I learned from the drummer Bruno Carr. I had been practicing with the Aebersolds, I could get around Rhythm changes fairly nicely, but I really didn't know how to interact with a rhythm section yet, and my time was more ambiguous than it should've been. I was playing a melody without any regard for letting the rhythm section know I even knew where "one" was. And Bruno just stopped. One loud rimshot and he was out. I heard him lean over behind me and tell the bassist "You tell that m--f---er I'll come back in when he figures out where he's at!" Soon I was all by myself, having to be responsible for my own time, my own melody and harmony, my own form, everything. I made it through that tune, I simplified my playing and made my time-feel very deliberate to let the rhythm section know I knew where I was, and I played a melody that made sense, and then they came back in. Bruno came up to me afterwards and told me I had an open invitation to sit in with him anytime after that, which I took him up on frequently and learned a lot. But I'll never forget that first lesson...
4. Know the Tune. Know the melody (and if possible, the words). If you're sight-reading changes, it will sound like you're sight-reading when you solo. It's important to do a little homework and familiarize yourself with a tune before you try to go compose a jazz solo in front of people. And here's a tip: They're called SONGS. A lot of songs have words. Even if you're playing an instrument that requires your mouth to be actively blowing into it (hence making it impossible to sing lyrics simultaneously) you should always know the words and melody to every tune you're trying to blow a solo over. The reason why is simple: Phrasing. A song is like a poem; it has form. Think about the different types of poems you studied in literature class: there's usually a meter to it (a pulse that puts the poem into a definite rhythmic context in time) and sometimes certain words rhyme. Even poems that don't have rhyme or meter always do have a definite sense of phrasing -- and most SONGS (poems set to music) definitely do -- we can learn from that and adapt it to our playing.
And guess what: A lot of jazz standards correspond to traditional poetry forms. There are Limericks (which roughly correspond to the AAbbA (2 longer [A] phrases that rhyme with each other, followed by 2 short [b] phrases that rhyme with each other, follwed by one final [A] phrase that rhymes with the first two [A] phrases.) - go listen to the jazz standard "Doxy" for a melodic equivalent to a Limerick form. If you know the words and melody, you know the phrasing form of the song and that's the key to playing an intelligently-phrased compositionally-minded solo over the same form. Even modern tunes like Wayne Shorter's "Fee Fi Fo Fum" correspond to a logical phrasing form similar to that of a Limerick (although in the case of that tune the two [B] phrases are not shortened, but the melodies do "rhyme" with each other.)
5. Know when to say when. If you can't make sense musically in one chorus of solo, why would anyone want to hear you go on for 23 more? Guys like Michael Brecker could play fifteen million choruses and push the energy higher and higher each time. Trane could blow a 60-minute solo on "Impressions" and keep it interesting for the whole 60 minutes. You're not them. Keep your solo short, concise, and to the point, unless you really have something to say. If you (1) have something to say, (2) if you're continuing to build your ideas and develop your motifs, and (3) if you're keeping your rhythm section engaged and bringing the entire band along with you, then you can and should keep your solo going for as long as those three things are still true. But when your solo has run its course to its logical conclusion and all you're doing is meandering, it's time to "take the horn out yo mouth" and let the tune go on.
6. Dynamics! Playing a meaningful well-phrased melody with good time amounts to only 2-dimensional thinking. To play 3-dimensionally, one must add the variances of soft and loud. In the case of a jazz solo this will especially bring your playing to the next level. Manipulate the energy of your solo and vary the dynamics in a way that makes sense. Most of the time this means starting out softly and building to a fortissimo -- but it can also be effective to start out strongly, then drop down to pianissimo as you develop your motif so that you can build it back up to fortissimo by the time you finish. Bonus points if you can effectively communicate your intent to use dynamics to the other members on the bandstand. If your rhythm section is sensitive and if they're listening to what you play, they'll go loud and soft with you. But if they've already tuned you out because all you've been playing thus far is self-aggrandizing, meandering meaningless notes, then you'll need to get their attention first.
These 6 pointers are by no means the end-all-be-all of how to craft a good solo. But hopefully they are enough to help players to avoid the Meandering Soloist Syndrome, or MSS, which is a very serious condition that will eventually lead to invisibility, or at the very least, irrelevance.
Stay relevant, my friends.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
It's been awhile since I've smoked anything...
Now, now, before you read too much into the title... I'm talking about meat, people, MEAT. Briskets. Pork shoulder. Ribs. Slow-cooked for several hours over a natural wood fire, there is truly nothing better.
But while we're on the subject, here is my opinion on what you probably thought I was talking about:
It's now legal for recreational use in Washington and Colorado, and it's legal for medicinal use in a handful of other states. I think it should be legal everywhere. There is no reason for it to be classified as a Schedule 1 drug the way it is. Now don't get crazy, it's still extremely dangerous to get behind the wheel after toking a huge doobie, but no more so than the hundreds of yahoos who try to drive after they've had a few shots of their favorite intoxicating beverage. There are plenty of ways to give it the same legal-but-regulated status as alcohol or tobacco. Studies have shown that puffing on a spliff is a whole lot less deadly than drinking. Making recreational cannabis into a legal intoxicating substance with the same overall regulatory structure as alcohol would seem to make sense. Here's another fact: Cannabis doesn't make people violent, the way alcohol does. Legalizing it would not produce a spree of violent criminal behavior; it would instead produce a couch-ful of happy, hungry people. People who would love to eat some of this BBQ:
Here's what I'm thinking of trying today:
I'm going to take a few dozen strips of bacon and weave them into a mat. On this mat I'm going to spread out about an inch-thick layer of ground beef which I will have mixed with an egg and rolled oats (think meatloaf mix). I'll add a few chunks of chopped ham and maybe some fried pork rinds on top of that layer, and crumble brown sugar over the thing. Then I'm going to roll it up, tie some string around it, sprinkle some of my Dry Rub mix on it, and pop it in the smoker for a few hours. It won't need to be on the smoke all day like a more substantial cut of meat, but it should get a really nice smoky flavor.
I'll let you know how it goes.
But while we're on the subject, here is my opinion on what you probably thought I was talking about:
It's now legal for recreational use in Washington and Colorado, and it's legal for medicinal use in a handful of other states. I think it should be legal everywhere. There is no reason for it to be classified as a Schedule 1 drug the way it is. Now don't get crazy, it's still extremely dangerous to get behind the wheel after toking a huge doobie, but no more so than the hundreds of yahoos who try to drive after they've had a few shots of their favorite intoxicating beverage. There are plenty of ways to give it the same legal-but-regulated status as alcohol or tobacco. Studies have shown that puffing on a spliff is a whole lot less deadly than drinking. Making recreational cannabis into a legal intoxicating substance with the same overall regulatory structure as alcohol would seem to make sense. Here's another fact: Cannabis doesn't make people violent, the way alcohol does. Legalizing it would not produce a spree of violent criminal behavior; it would instead produce a couch-ful of happy, hungry people. People who would love to eat some of this BBQ:
Here's what I'm thinking of trying today:
I'm going to take a few dozen strips of bacon and weave them into a mat. On this mat I'm going to spread out about an inch-thick layer of ground beef which I will have mixed with an egg and rolled oats (think meatloaf mix). I'll add a few chunks of chopped ham and maybe some fried pork rinds on top of that layer, and crumble brown sugar over the thing. Then I'm going to roll it up, tie some string around it, sprinkle some of my Dry Rub mix on it, and pop it in the smoker for a few hours. It won't need to be on the smoke all day like a more substantial cut of meat, but it should get a really nice smoky flavor.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Oregon Music News interview with Tom D'Antoni
Hi everyone!
Tom D'Antoni and I sat down last week and talked about jazz. Some of it got videotaped. Here is the video and a link to Tom's article:
http://oregonmusicnews.com/2012/12/18/video-pete-petersen-making-a-septet-sound-like-a-big-band/
Now here's the thing: I have discovered that I don't do interviews well. By which I mean I don't really know how to look at the camera, and I don't ever know what to say until after it's done, at which time I keep wanting to add "oh yeah, and I forgot to mention..."
So here are a few "oh yeah and I forgot to mention" moments:
We talked a bit about arranging, and specifically why I like to write for a 4-piece horn section. That pretty much got covered in the interview, except that I forgot to mention that although I've been inspired by big band writing from the beginning, writing for a smaller group really is its own thing. There are some textures and colors that are only possible with a 17-piece jazz orchestra, and try as we might it's impossible to replicate that with only 4 horns. Still, it's possible to make some things sound very big-band-esque, and that's some of what I aim to accomplish when I write for the septet.
I love to compose original tunes as well as arrange tunes that have been written by others. Both require a different head-space; when I'm composing an original tune I sometimes don't think about the arrangement at the time, or I'll think of ideas but I don't come up with a full arrangement until after I've got the melody and rhythm and chord changes solidified. Sometimes I'll think about what kind of timbre I want certain voices to sound like, but most of the time the composing process is completely different than the arranging/orchestration process.
Another thing we talked about was odd-meters. I think playing (and writing) in 7 has always been something I've dreaded. I've never felt comfortable in 7, or 11, or 5... most of the Prime numbers in fact. I think that is the case for most people. When we walk, we are unconsciously thinking in a 2-beat (duple) meter, because we are using 2 legs alternating back and forth. Our heartbeat is a simple duple meter. 4 is just a multiple of 2, so 4 is easy to conceptualize as well. 3 is a very common meter & we've all heard a lot of waltzes. A lot of swing feels like triplets. So those things all help rhythms in 2, 3, and 4 feel mostly natural and intuitive. 7 is its own beast. I think there is a tendency by composers to write things in 5, 7, or 11 just to show that they are "educated". Like there's no other reason to write in 7 except because it's in 7. Almost like they are being counterintuitive on purpose. I don't feel like that's something I need to do. Music should feel intuitive, not labored. But then I listen to the famous Paul Desmond tune "Take Five" which feels natural in its simplicity - that tune feels like it's perfectly natural and comfortable to be in 5, like 5 is the most normal thing in the world. This is the secret to composing and playing in odd meters, and is the nugget of truth that I wish I would've been able to think of an easy concise way to say during the interview: Music should always feel intuitive and natural in order to convey its true purpose of making listeners feel what the composer/performer wishes them to feel; odd meters need to also feel intuitive and natural or else they defeat the basic purpose of music.
We also talked a bit about Ellington and Strayhorn and their contribution to the art of arranging & orchestration. Duke really was ahead of his time. The more I learn about orchestration, the more I'm drawn back to the colors Duke was able to get from his orchestra.
As I watch this video I am reminded of Max Headroom. It's definitely a portable handheld cam. Sorry the video is so choppy. But considering 30 years ago it would've required a TV crew in a production studio to do an interview like this, I am glad for the advances in technology that make it possible for Tom and I to be able to sit in a relaxing tea house and talk.
I didn't really talk much in the video about the gig we've got coming up on the 30th: I wanted to get a chance to mention that this gig is going to be a lot of fun. Here's what I'm thinking: most of us are working the next night (Dec 31st) so let's all cut loose and have a great time the night before. If you're a musician bring your horn (or your voice) and sit in. Let's eat and drink and be merry!
Tom D'Antoni and I sat down last week and talked about jazz. Some of it got videotaped. Here is the video and a link to Tom's article:
http://oregonmusicnews.com/2012/12/18/video-pete-petersen-making-a-septet-sound-like-a-big-band/
Now here's the thing: I have discovered that I don't do interviews well. By which I mean I don't really know how to look at the camera, and I don't ever know what to say until after it's done, at which time I keep wanting to add "oh yeah, and I forgot to mention..."
So here are a few "oh yeah and I forgot to mention" moments:
We talked a bit about arranging, and specifically why I like to write for a 4-piece horn section. That pretty much got covered in the interview, except that I forgot to mention that although I've been inspired by big band writing from the beginning, writing for a smaller group really is its own thing. There are some textures and colors that are only possible with a 17-piece jazz orchestra, and try as we might it's impossible to replicate that with only 4 horns. Still, it's possible to make some things sound very big-band-esque, and that's some of what I aim to accomplish when I write for the septet.
I love to compose original tunes as well as arrange tunes that have been written by others. Both require a different head-space; when I'm composing an original tune I sometimes don't think about the arrangement at the time, or I'll think of ideas but I don't come up with a full arrangement until after I've got the melody and rhythm and chord changes solidified. Sometimes I'll think about what kind of timbre I want certain voices to sound like, but most of the time the composing process is completely different than the arranging/orchestration process.
Another thing we talked about was odd-meters. I think playing (and writing) in 7 has always been something I've dreaded. I've never felt comfortable in 7, or 11, or 5... most of the Prime numbers in fact. I think that is the case for most people. When we walk, we are unconsciously thinking in a 2-beat (duple) meter, because we are using 2 legs alternating back and forth. Our heartbeat is a simple duple meter. 4 is just a multiple of 2, so 4 is easy to conceptualize as well. 3 is a very common meter & we've all heard a lot of waltzes. A lot of swing feels like triplets. So those things all help rhythms in 2, 3, and 4 feel mostly natural and intuitive. 7 is its own beast. I think there is a tendency by composers to write things in 5, 7, or 11 just to show that they are "educated". Like there's no other reason to write in 7 except because it's in 7. Almost like they are being counterintuitive on purpose. I don't feel like that's something I need to do. Music should feel intuitive, not labored. But then I listen to the famous Paul Desmond tune "Take Five" which feels natural in its simplicity - that tune feels like it's perfectly natural and comfortable to be in 5, like 5 is the most normal thing in the world. This is the secret to composing and playing in odd meters, and is the nugget of truth that I wish I would've been able to think of an easy concise way to say during the interview: Music should always feel intuitive and natural in order to convey its true purpose of making listeners feel what the composer/performer wishes them to feel; odd meters need to also feel intuitive and natural or else they defeat the basic purpose of music.
We also talked a bit about Ellington and Strayhorn and their contribution to the art of arranging & orchestration. Duke really was ahead of his time. The more I learn about orchestration, the more I'm drawn back to the colors Duke was able to get from his orchestra.
As I watch this video I am reminded of Max Headroom. It's definitely a portable handheld cam. Sorry the video is so choppy. But considering 30 years ago it would've required a TV crew in a production studio to do an interview like this, I am glad for the advances in technology that make it possible for Tom and I to be able to sit in a relaxing tea house and talk.
I didn't really talk much in the video about the gig we've got coming up on the 30th: I wanted to get a chance to mention that this gig is going to be a lot of fun. Here's what I'm thinking: most of us are working the next night (Dec 31st) so let's all cut loose and have a great time the night before. If you're a musician bring your horn (or your voice) and sit in. Let's eat and drink and be merry!
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Ridin' that Train
[note: clearing out the archives... This was originally written a little over two months ago. The train pulled into the station while I was still typing, and it was a mad scramble to get my stuff put away and get off the train, then I did gigs all weekend, then I came home and SLEPT... so the publishing of this blog got pushed aside and eventually sidetracked. Sidetracked... there's a railroad expression for you. See, there's only one main track going from town to town. When an express train or a freight train needs to get through in a hurry, it has to go around the passenger trains that stop from town to town - so the passenger trains are sometimes temporarily moved over to a short piece of track that runs to the side of the main track. SO the slower train is "sidetracked" temporarily while the faster train goes around it. If there are a lot of train cars with higher priority, the slower train can be sidetracked for quite a long time. As is what happened with this blog entry... Anyway, here it is, rolling along again...]
Originally from August 18, 2012
Why don't more people take the train? Are we so addicted to our cars that we would rather subject ourselves to several hours of eyestrain, road rage, accidents, and horrible gas-station food, than a nice leisurely train ride? I'm writing this from a comfortable seat in a rail car on Amtrak's "Cascades" line between Portland and Seattle. The train takes about the same amount of time as the aggravating drive through the I-5 corridor. There is access to Wi-Fi, AC outlets, and other amenities that make this trip even more pleasant than traveling by air. The dining car has a variety of hot and cold entrees and snacks and a fine selection of local microbrews. And now that gasoline is looking like it's going to top $4/gallon again, a rail ticket from Portland to Seattle actually costs LESS than a tank of gas.
But the primary thought that pervades my reckoning at the moment is far less practical. As I ride comfortably gazing out the window at Puget Sound, I feel connected to an incredible history. Our nation has literally grown up with rail travel. From the very first days of the Industrial Age, trains were the primary means of moving people and cargo across long distances. The automobile and the interstate highway system have only really been around in abundance for the past 60 years - before that time, if you wanted to travel from once city to another, you took a train. In almost every old movie if a character needed to travel any kind of distance, there was a train involved. Our grandparents and their parents and grandparents traveled by train all the time. Trains are part of our cultural heritage.
It is strangely troubling, then, that a large portion of our society has disconnected themselves from this heritage, choosing instead to crowd onto already-crowded freeways or to pack themselves like sardines into a flying metal tube. I can appreciate the convenience of the latter; for any great significant amount of distance such as a cross-country trip, it is preferable to spend 3 or 4 hours belted into an airplane seat rather than 2 to 3 days by car or train; but for medium to short distances such as the commute between Portland and Seattle, there is nothing like the train.
Unfortunately, rail travel has had a rough couple of decades. Decreased ridership means decreased revenue from ticket sales, which makes it more difficult to keep tracks maintained and trains upgraded. We have already fallen behind the rest of the civilized world in rail technology; Europe and Japan both have high-speed rail lines connecting most major cities; US trains still run comparatively slow. Federal funding for rail travel has dwindled, while federal subsidies for the fossil-fuel industry have skyrocketed.
However, the passenger experience on the train is still much improved over even 10 years ago; As I walk from my seat to the dining car I see almost every passenger using a laptop computer, an iPad, or other electronic device, watching movies or surfing the internet, and when I arrive at the dining car I see even more passengers enjoying a leisurely meal as if in a restaurant or bistro. The food fare consists of microwaveable items (burgers, & sandwiches) snack foods (bagels, fruit, candy) as well as some local specialty items (Snoqualmie Falls oatmeal, Ivar's clam chowder) soft drinks, and a full bar of beer, wine, and spirits. Contrast this to a typical airline meal (do they even still serve meals on airlines anymore?!?) or the gastrointestinal disaster that is truck stop/gas station food along the interstate.
Rail travel is a refreshing, relaxing, change from the aggravation of the "I-5 Drive".
Originally from August 18, 2012
Why don't more people take the train? Are we so addicted to our cars that we would rather subject ourselves to several hours of eyestrain, road rage, accidents, and horrible gas-station food, than a nice leisurely train ride? I'm writing this from a comfortable seat in a rail car on Amtrak's "Cascades" line between Portland and Seattle. The train takes about the same amount of time as the aggravating drive through the I-5 corridor. There is access to Wi-Fi, AC outlets, and other amenities that make this trip even more pleasant than traveling by air. The dining car has a variety of hot and cold entrees and snacks and a fine selection of local microbrews. And now that gasoline is looking like it's going to top $4/gallon again, a rail ticket from Portland to Seattle actually costs LESS than a tank of gas.
But the primary thought that pervades my reckoning at the moment is far less practical. As I ride comfortably gazing out the window at Puget Sound, I feel connected to an incredible history. Our nation has literally grown up with rail travel. From the very first days of the Industrial Age, trains were the primary means of moving people and cargo across long distances. The automobile and the interstate highway system have only really been around in abundance for the past 60 years - before that time, if you wanted to travel from once city to another, you took a train. In almost every old movie if a character needed to travel any kind of distance, there was a train involved. Our grandparents and their parents and grandparents traveled by train all the time. Trains are part of our cultural heritage.
It is strangely troubling, then, that a large portion of our society has disconnected themselves from this heritage, choosing instead to crowd onto already-crowded freeways or to pack themselves like sardines into a flying metal tube. I can appreciate the convenience of the latter; for any great significant amount of distance such as a cross-country trip, it is preferable to spend 3 or 4 hours belted into an airplane seat rather than 2 to 3 days by car or train; but for medium to short distances such as the commute between Portland and Seattle, there is nothing like the train.
Unfortunately, rail travel has had a rough couple of decades. Decreased ridership means decreased revenue from ticket sales, which makes it more difficult to keep tracks maintained and trains upgraded. We have already fallen behind the rest of the civilized world in rail technology; Europe and Japan both have high-speed rail lines connecting most major cities; US trains still run comparatively slow. Federal funding for rail travel has dwindled, while federal subsidies for the fossil-fuel industry have skyrocketed.
However, the passenger experience on the train is still much improved over even 10 years ago; As I walk from my seat to the dining car I see almost every passenger using a laptop computer, an iPad, or other electronic device, watching movies or surfing the internet, and when I arrive at the dining car I see even more passengers enjoying a leisurely meal as if in a restaurant or bistro. The food fare consists of microwaveable items (burgers, & sandwiches) snack foods (bagels, fruit, candy) as well as some local specialty items (Snoqualmie Falls oatmeal, Ivar's clam chowder) soft drinks, and a full bar of beer, wine, and spirits. Contrast this to a typical airline meal (do they even still serve meals on airlines anymore?!?) or the gastrointestinal disaster that is truck stop/gas station food along the interstate.
Rail travel is a refreshing, relaxing, change from the aggravation of the "I-5 Drive".
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