Sometimes what was just “necessary” leads you down a more fulfilling path (aka how I’ve grown to love conducting)

Immediate front, where I would face the incredible musicians of Joel’s band in just minutes. Middle- the trees of Central Park (again to those not familiar, JALC is at Columbus Circle, which is the southwest end of Central Park). Far- the east side of Manhattan.

So a couple weeks ago was another wonderful night conducting a large ensemble, that time conducting composer and guitarist’s Joel Harrison’s wonderful music for big band at Dizzy’s (for my readers who are less jazz-savvy, see the photo above for the view I got to face while conducting for the night!) Super fun spirit from the writing and musicians, who played their hearts (and guts at times) out. There was one point we’re playing Joel’s piece “Gratitude” and we’re plopping right back to a slower tempo after a couple of faster sections and I’m eye-ing Peter (the drummer) and we both have these huge smiles on our faces… and you know, that energy is so powerful.

Lately I’ve been (dare I say this word) blessed to be conducting for many different talented ensembles featuring some amazing writing. Joel Harrison’s Big Band, Meg Okura’s Pan Asian Chamber Jazz Ensemble, subbing for Remy Le Boeuf’s Assembly of Shadows on several performances, more distant (aka pre-pandemic) work with the D.O.M.E. Experience. That on top of regular rehearsals with the Meetinghouse Jazz Orchestra and, of course, performances with our own ensemble, The Erica Seguine | Shan Baker Orchestra. And I have to say, at this moment, I think I love conducting even more than composing and arranging. I still love composing and arranging of course and am still doing it; loving one thing more doesn’t make loving other things less loved. But there is something truly exhilarating about bringing great writing to life: looking at the score and figuring out how to best bring out the lines the way the composer intended, how to translate visual notes on the page to sounds in my head, and then translating that into body language in a way that encourages the musicians to shape the music the same way, finding connections in the music that the composer/musicians may or may not be aware of, feeling sound as energy and feeling that energy course through my hands and arms, and connecting both on a musical and human level with the musicians in the ensemble.

It’s fascinating because originally I took up conducting only as a necessity and means to get my own music played. I was studying composition and writing a lot of music, and quickly realized that if I ever wanted my own music played at all outside academia, I needed my own ensemble. And especially then (I was toying with the idea of having my own ensemble back around 2007) there seemed a sort of stigma that if you had your own ensemble, it wasn’t “enough” to be “just” a composer, you had to be performing in it somehow (which seems crazy because how often do we tell performers that they “have” to compose all the music when they perform? A lot of performers do, but what about those playing primarily standards? Or orchestras or string quartets playing works by other composers?) I would never hire myself as a pianist in our own big band (God, especially in comparison to any pianist who has ever graced our big band on a gig). So I figured I would take up conducting.

In light of knowing that I would be putting a big band together in my hometown (the Albany NY area) for a couple performances in summer of 2008, I signed up for a semester in conducting in undergrad in fall 2007. I struggled, particularly when it came to coordination and balancing how to be expressive and musical while also being clear and rhythmically precise (I had issues with body awareness… I would have opportunities to work on that later on). I felt like my classmates had something that I inherently lacked when it came to coordination and just “getting it.” I also asked my composition teacher about what I should do differently as a “jazz conductor.” Essentially his response: he pretty much threw me right into the waters. A grad student was doing a chamber concert of the works of Andrew Hill and was looking for a conductor, and my teacher recommended me.

So I studied the scores and recordings, showed up to the rehearsal/sound check, and the rehearsal went smoothly enough. The performance came, and I was digging the piano solo… too much. To the point where I didn’t count down getting out of the repeat or even give any meaningful cue out of it and then came a 5/4 section and because of my lack of cue no one was together and then I got lost figuring out who to follow. The grad student who got the ensemble together eventually stood up and gave a clear point to come together. To say I was wholly embarrassed and cringing during and after the rest of the performance was a severe understatement. As a slight insult to injury, the next day I had conducting class, and I was a few randomly called on to practice and get critiqued on a conducting passage. My already chronic self-consciousness was increased ten-fold when I was in front of the class.

I was starting to take a second semester of conducting class, but I had to drop it when mental health issues took over (I essentially dropped anything that was not required my second semester junior year, as well as dropped my humanities class, which with a weird way credits worked turned out fine as long as I took my senior year humanities classes on the main campus rather than at the conservatory). I had my first incarnation of the big band (just led by me as I didn’t meet Shan yet) play a couple of times in Albany that summer. The only thing going through my mind: “Don’t f*** up.” It was more the mindset of get through it, and if I don’t f*** up, my music will get played. I didn’t actually enjoy the process of conducting at the time, just saw it as a necessity.

A few years later, in 2011, we got the second (and current) incarnation of the big band together, now co-led with my partner Shan, and now playing in NYC. Even here, at first, conducting seemed more like a necessity than anything else. The difference this time was that, in combination of my own writing becoming more intricate and involved, and the similar challenge of Shan’s writing, I had think of approaching the music differently. Three years before a count off and either just marking the beats or simply marking the sections would have (mostly) sufficed. Now simply “following the time signatures” would lead to an unsuccessful rendering of (almost all of) our pieces. I quickly learned the importance of clear (and many) cues. I learned the importance of how to shape even the “marking of beats” with the arms and hands (slicing vs wading, pushing vs. pulling, bouncing vs. darting). When, even if something is in a particular meter, implying a different meter (perhaps in 2 instead of 4, or a 3 pattern of 3+3+4 for 5/4) would allow the music to breathe better.

Still, even the first few years of this incarnation of the band, it was primarily from a view of “Don’t f*** up.” But f***ing up happened many times anyways, and some band members kindly helped me mark where the next section was when things got off (whether because I miscued or got a time signature wrong, or felt a slow 4/4 double time, etc.)

Things started changing over 2013/2014. We had a monthly gig at a tea shop (now long closed) in Montclair, NJ. It was certainly not a prime place to have a big band, but the owner was really generous in having us and seemed to dig hosting us. The band was scrunched in a corner of the shop, contorting ourselves in a way so that we did not illegally block the only bathroom in the shop, surrounded by shelves that had old games I played as a kid and some books with profane subjects. I’m sure we were a fire hazard… and if actual fire broke out it would be difficult to dash out. We played the first Tuesday of every month, and the Monday night before Shan and I would be doing a version of Feng shui to clear the corner of the huge table and couches and in its place set up chairs.

It was here that instead of an attitude of 100% of the time “Don’t f*** up” I started approaching conducting with a sense of curiosity. I would start trying things and taking risks without worry that it would look like shit. If worse comes to worst, there were almost always more people in the band than the audience, and minus one performance where two people I knew came in who could call me out on it (…which… luck have it be, 3/4 of the rhythm section that night was not our regular rhythm section and never played the music before… and these gigs had no rehearsal and the only sound check was literally a “sound check”… eek…), I didn’t really worry about word spreading around about how incompetent I could potentially be.

By the time the tea shop closed, my confidence level raised enough that I felt I could walk into a completely different band with my music and get through it with primarily focusing on the music rather than my self-consciousness. So when I was asked to bring my music in to the Meetinghouse Jazz Orchestra (a big band that rehearsed every Tuesday at a Quaker Meetinghouse in the city… now rehearses weekly on Wednesdays) in late 2014 I was excited and only mildly nervous. That led to probably the single most important thing that has helped with my conducting- those weekly rehearsals I had/have with them from late 2014-early 2020 and only recently again.

I learned to take more risks. I experimented with balance of conducting more versus how much could I lay out (and should lay out). I sight read charts that many wonderful composers brought in and got introduced to a new wave of composers. I dealt with old charts that was in the Meetinghouse’s book that had really shitty layout styles (take the DS to take the Coda… only to take the DS again to the second Coda… and then again to the third Coda, for example; please don’t do this in your charts), charts that only had a “condensed conductors score” (which is essentially little more than a lead sheet… FYI if you ever bring a score, PLEASE don’t condense it; I like as much information as possible in front of me), charts that had interesting metric modulations, charts where my score did not match the parts and I played the game of figuring out where to get back on track, charts… with no score and I guessed what was going on by just hearing it. I learned (or at least am trying to learn) how to be a meditator amongst musicians. I experimented with gestural shapes- what’s the best way to get the band to make this shape? I could start anticipating, by the way a chart was notated, spots I knew the band wasn’t going to agree on articulation before they even played the chart. I developed a love of alterations when calling out letter names. Meetinghouse has been like a huge playground and lab for me to work on my conducting craft with big band.

During one point of this period I started seeing a psychosomatic therapist for a while. This therapist was the only therapist that I left with on a sense I got more positive than negative out of the experience (I left in combination that after her initial 20 sessions that she allowed pay what you can, I had to pay the full rate which was way too much for me, and while physically a lot of stuff improved, I only saw minimal improvement emotionally). We worked on tuning into the body, listening to what my body is telling me, balancing on a balance board (I couldn’t do this at all as a kid or in my later years before seeing her!), and grounding work. I started taking up on QiGong on an on and off basis and realized that conducting is similar to this push and pull, expansion and contraction, of energy, and started incorporating that philosophy into conducting. All those years ago that I felt something was missing in me and that I would fail as a conductor because of it, I realized it was this sense of body awareness.

My work with Meetinghouse gradually led to some people asking me to conduct for one-off things (sometimes as little as conduct one piece for them if they’re singing or playing on a particular piece). Sometimes I offered if I knew they were unsure how a piece was going to work if they were performing themselves in the ensemble. This led to then subbing for full performances with ensembles… and sometimes led to becoming a regular member of the team. I loved being a part of other composers’ music, especially since the music is great, deserves to be brought to life in the best possible manner, and I could be part of something greater than any one of us. And physically it’s awesome… it’s almost like a marathon QiGong session!

But most importantly my attitude literally went 180 degrees from “I don’t like it. I’m actually terrified. But it’s necessary” to “Wow, this experience is so cool! What wonderful music, I’m grateful to be part of this. And I can’t see myself doing anything else.” I still don’t believe there should be a “requirement” that the composer has to actively be performing in their ensemble in some way… but for me, I’m glad it led me down the path it did.

Anyways, it was an awesome night… it’s been actually a wonderful run of various conducting gigs (and hopefully many more!) And without doing too much self promotion- I’m out there if anyone needs a conductor. I would love being part of bringing your music to life.

Composing as Self-Discovery

Recently I was asked to “come in” (aka log into zoom and fumble as I toggle between displays of scanned sketches and hitting “play” on iTunes, while cursing silently about why the sound isn’t playing, or why I can’t zoom in on my now magnified digitalized sketch, and oh, how to toggle on my Zoom HN4 [the audio device] between my piano mics and my device’s mics…) as a guest composer for a class with the University of Connecticut’s Jazz Ensemble, run by John Mastroianni, as well as Earl MacDonald, who runs the department. It was a fun time! The students were a very insightful bunch, and questions ranged from where a composer gets their ideas, to what to do when you realize your piece starts sounding like someone else’s (been there!), to what constitutes as jazz (which has been one of my [almost] life-long questions, and could comprise of an entirely different blog post, but to put it really short: I’ve cared less and less over the years if a piece of music fits into a “mold,” whatever that is, and more so about the essence of it, which is, as Duke Ellington would say, “Beyond Category”.) We did an exercise of recalling a vivid memory, emotion, or experience, and brainstormed how these ideas could be translated into music, starting from the vague/broad and gradually working into specific musical details.

For my presentation, I compiled a list of themes I’ve found essential in my composition/musical/creative journey up to this point. I find that most of these ideas can apply to just about any creative process as well:

Speak from your own experience- There is plenty of great music out in the world about the political situation, about the environment, about social issues. There is plenty of great music that swings and is great for dancing. There is plenty of great music that is abstract, “avant-garde,” or serialist. There is plenty of great music that is inspired by someone’s culture or travels. Creating music about any of these things is great if it “resonates” with you on a personal level. And if it doesn’t, there’s some other story you have that is just as important as the music that’s “trending” in the world right now. Find out who you are, and create music true to that. Perhaps it’s something really bizarre that fascinates you… maybe some very geeky sci-fi novel you grew up loving. Or maybe it’s a more esoteric experience you can’t quite put to words but can feel fully. Maybe it’s one memory in your past that really stuck with you. Or perhaps a struggle you’ve faced. Think beyond the category of “is it ‘traditional?’” or “is it edgy or avant-garde enough?” Think beyond whether what you write (or play, or create) will be a broad enough “universal” external message, or political or social enough.

Both feet in the present- You may hear “one foot in the past, one foot in the future.” Our only reality is this moment now. When we’re concerned with whether our music pays enough “homage” to the past, or whether it will usher in a newer “modern” era, we are not being authentic and open to our present experience. Everything we’ve experienced in the past (recordings we’ve come to love, what we’ve been taught, what we’ve liked and didn’t like, pieces we’ve learned, etc.) will naturally come through whatever you create without needing to focus on if it pays enough respect to the past. What you create… through your own authentic lens, will create something that has never been quite done before and therefore creates “the future” (whatever that is). Trying to chase either the past or future will always fall short of your greatest potential- the present.

Acknowledge fear, uncertainty, vulnerability, and it’s potential for growth- Sometimes the pieces we’re most afraid of writing, or the new direction we might want to take as a performer but are afraid to, or the new ensemble we dream of but then doubt of…. These often are our breakthroughs in disguise. And even if we eventually decide it’s not for us after trying, we still have gained a lot of growth and knowledge from pursuing these avenues. Often when we feel fear, we tend to run away, or stuff it, or don’t allow ourselves to feel everything we need to. But (at risk of sounding like some generic new age coach) this is usually a signpost to pursue exactly what fear to meet a need we may not be aware of yet.

If you are a composer, put your own band together now- The best possible way to learn as a composer is by experience: hearing your own work, and then obsessively ruminating about how you can more effectively and clearly get your message, your sound across. You can be told all day what a clarinet sounds like doubled with trumpet. You can study a score with a recording and get an approximate idea (in someone else’s context) what that sounds like. You won’t truly know until you just try it. I’ve had many “happy accidents” (accident?, of course I meant that!) just by being curious if something would work, sounds I now have in my palette that I use from time to time. And the ones that don’t…. Out comes the eraser…. Speaking of which…

Don’t be afraid to just catapult a few bars, a whole section, or even most of the piece out into the abyss to be eaten by Carrion Beetles- Many a time I’ve been stumped of how to finish a piece or write a section of a piece… all because I was in a dependent marriage with some delusional not-as-great-as-it-seemed brilliant section that HAD to be in the piece. Sometimes all it took was a [72 measures, getting rid of that section I spent days getting the voicings just right, re-doing the entire concept] little innocent snip, and now the piece had a chance to develop freely, to finally breathe.

That’s not to say it’s not painful… and I have yet to find it get easier.