Ain't got that swing

One of the best things about being a musician is that it teaches one humility. We learn what we do well, what we don’t do well, and sometimes we learn what we’ll never be able to do. In a world that tells people they can be whatever they want to be if they try hard enough, the reality check of learning the piano is an invaluable gift in learning our limitations.

We don’t like to talk about limits. To admit one doesn’t do something well is a counter-cultural move in a society intent on showing itself to be successful in everything we attempt. Nowhere is this more apparent than the make-believe world of social media where all photos have perfect lighting, every vacation is spectacular, every home-cooked meal beautiful, and every relationship quirky and fun. But of course none of us lives like this in real life. Behind the perfect facade, stuff happens. It’s just difficult to remember this when others appear to have their lives tidily pulled together.

This past summer I ran into a musical wall. After decades of mucking around on jazz tunes and trying to teach myself how to play I decided to take formal jazz piano lessons. I assumed the hardest thing would be learning all new voicings and how to build a decent jazz solo. What never occurred to me is that I might not have an aptitude for this musical style I love so much.

What happened? Simply put, I met my Waterloo and it is swing eighth notes. Oh, I can play them, but I feel them like the classical player that I am. Classical musicians feel the pulse on the front of the beat; jazz players feel it on the back of the beat. Weeks of banging out swing eighth notes made me realize that even though I can accent the back end of the beat, I feel it in the wrong place. This realization came with the understanding that to revamp my internal sense of pulse would require me to rewire my musical understanding from the ground up.

I don’t want to do this. At my age I don’t know if I can do it. There’s a distinct possibility that I could work for years and still never internalize the pulse like a jazz player. It’s a result of a childhood of classical music and 4-part hymns. It’s the byproduct of having started listening to jazz later in life. It’s ironic that if I weren’t a highly-trained musician I wouldn’t even be aware of how much I’m not swinging the pulse, nor would I know how foundational it is to the jazz idiom. Regardless, I ain’t got that swing. It’s a limitation I’m having to accept in my playing.

“Stay within yourself.” Years ago a jazz player gave me that advice when I was trying to improvise a solo. This advice gained new resonance this summer as I accept the strengths and weaknesses of my musical heritage. I don’t swing, but within the boundaries of what I do play well, I’ve got a universe of gorgeous music just waiting to be played. Knowing this allows me to walk away from what can’t be. After all, why waste my time when so much beautiful music needs pianists who are eager to play it?

Limitations are a gift, not a handicap. They point us toward what we do well and warn us away from the shoals of what is best left to someone else. They teach us the truth about who we are. They keep hubris in check. Best of all, they sand away the unnecessary so what’s necessary can shine. And so I encourage you: take that risk. You may succeed. You may fail. Either way, you’ve answered that question for yourself and you’ll come away richer for the experience.

Photo by Ivan Pergasi, courtesy of UpSplash