A guy walks into a bar and says “set ‘em up, Joe, I got a story you oughta know” – but it’s not about “a brief episode,” but the tapestry of what constitutes an exceptional musical life. Bill Mays’ Stories of the Road, the Studios, Sidemen & Singers: 55 Years in the music biz is a unique collection of eclectic stories which flow in such a way that you can hear the author’s voice, and his passion.
To me, it is more than the book’s blurb boasts: “a delightful, humorous, and entertaining collection of anecdotes from a musician who has truly done it all.” There are 25 chapters in this 173-page book which in the aggregate is a tutorial about what it is to play music at Mays’ level, earn a good living playing nothing but music, all while revealing secrets us mere “amateurs” can only speculate about.
What separates a “professional” from an “amateur” pianist such as me? “How to Tell If You’re an Amateur Musician” by Justin Colletti is a revealing article on the subject, very accurate in its assessment, other than really making clear how much an abyss there is between the two. Mays’ book underscores those differences but Colletti’s article makes me feel a little better about them.
Here I must digress. Bill Mays and I are about the same age and have similar middle-class backgrounds, his on the West Coast (CA) and mine on the East Coast (NY). We were raised on the music of the 50s and in high school we were ‘rebels,” more interested in cruisin’ than schoolin’. It took a catalyst, a mentor, to bring us into the life for which we were best suited. For Mays, that was a church choir director who was a professional trumpet player who recognized talent in the young man and took him to see the great Earl Hines and that experience changed his life: he knew immediately he wanted to play jazz piano. It didn’t hurt that Mays’ father, although a preacher was a versatile musician, and his mother had a “sweet voice” and therefore he was from a musical family, and he was given gospel and classical piano lessons since he was five years old.
I on the other hand had little of those influences but it took a high school teacher, Roger Brickner, to set me on my indirect path to becoming a publisher. Nonetheless, I did have some music lessons when younger, too few in retrospect, and if it were not for some wishful fantasy when I was around fifteen years old or so about becoming the next Elvis, I would not have briefly picked up the guitar. That was serendipitous as the guitar revealed chord structure to me and even long after I abandoned piano lessons I would fiddle around with the piano, playing it not as I was taught, but with chords. I long ago lost the ability to sight read other than the melody line and the chords and improvise the rest.
I know that it sounds “almost professional” but the chasm of ability between one such as Bill Mays and an amateur such as myself, at best a busker, is deeper than is apparent. Simply put, I know enough to know what I don’t know and to this day I am in awe of the jazz pianist, especially one such as a Bill Mays.
This separation between the professional and the amateur can be best understood as the difference between a native speaking his/her language and a foreigner with a year or so training in that language. Sure, the latter person can sort of understand some of the language, but to really speak it is to think in that language, not to try to translate it.
The great jazz musicians have that ability, playing alone, or playing with other musicians. To me it’s always a wonder that they can instinctively play with each other, even transposing keys on the fly, and to play standard songs so abstractly that the original song is almost not apparent.
Not that all jazz is totally abstract. What I love about Bill Mays’ renderings is that he rarely strays too far from the melody. He can of course get into that other universe, but that is not his style. Neither is it of one of my other favorite pianists, Bill Charlap who approached Bill Mays for a couple of lessons when he came to NYC. Per Mays I advised more openness, fewer notes, and more space in his playing. No wonder the two sound similar in a way, and I can hear some of the color of the playing of the late, great Bill Evans (Bills are wild!) in their work.
I’ve never seen Evans or Charlap play live, but I listen to their music all the time. I’ve been fortunate enough to catch Mays a few times at the Colony Hotel in West Palm Beach. Early next year we will see Charlap in person on a Jazz Cruise.
A few years ago a friend of mine, a bass player, David Einhorn, knowing how I feel about Stephen Sondheim and Bill Mays, gifted me a CD, Our Time, the second CD recorded by Tommy Cecil and Bill Mays of Sondheim’s music. I immediately bought their first recording, Side by Side. These are precious, priceless, so little of Sondheim’s music recorded in this style.
Amusingly, Mays recollects about their attempt to get a response from Sondheim regarding the recordings. Although “Steve” acknowledged their receipt, he never did comment. Gods are busy people!
The only similar recordings I know are the ones recorded decades ago by the Terry Trotter Trio, all of which I have, covering Passion, Sweeny Todd, and Company. Interestingly, according to Mays, early in his career he sought Trotter for advice about professional career directions having admired Trotter, that advice freely given as so often is the case in the jazz world, a small world indeed when it comes to the leading performers.
To me, a particularly fascinating observation in Mays’ book is the following: Generally speaking, it seems we jazz musicians know a lot more about the world of classical musicians then they do of ours. Indeed, we are often much more adept at playing in that style than the other way around – witness the lame attempts by some “name” classical players and singers to try to breach the divide.
I’ve often thought that in my amateur world. Sometimes we’ll meet a new acquaintance, one who has a beautiful grand piano in their home, so the natural question is “who plays in the family?” Frequently, the “player” is one with years and years of classical lessons (I’d give my right arm, no, make it my left leg for that advantage) but then comes the confession that he/she either can no longer play or rarely plays. That would never happen to a jazz pianist (or even to me, who can be away from a piano for a month, but sit down and play as if I never missed a beat, if I have the melody line and the chords).
I’m sure that Mays and most other jazz pianists can play classical, perhaps not at the concert hall level, but their understanding of the genre is substantial. I know that was the case with Oscar Peterson, who I saw perform in NYC when I was in college, but who also came back to live performance after his stroke, with a weakened left hand but his right hand making up for what his left hand lost. Also, our favorite young jazz musician, Emmet Cohen, who we’ve seen live several times, is a skilled classical musician (love it when he drops in some Bach in his jazz phrasing) and is probably the most versatile of all jazz musicians today, playing any style of jazz. He is remarkable.
Another amazing pianist who we’ve seen, also mentioned by Mays in his book, is the late great French jazz pianist Claude Bolling who is probably best known for his “crossover” work, walking the fine line between classical and jazz, particularly his Suite for Flute and Jazz Piano.
There are so many interesting stories here, not to mention laugh a minute moments, but most of all this book is about a guy who is totally in love with what he does best. These range from live gigs at clubs, solo, or with “his” trio, or as a sideman, with an extensive discography and having worked in the world of film (as a performer and arranger), and as an accompanist to almost 200 singers, some of whom we’ve seen perform live and many of whom we’ve heard.
Whenever I’m asked the question what I would ideally have liked to have been if I were not a publisher, professional jazz pianist is right up there or writer (and when much younger, pitcher for the New York Yankees!). Indeed: amateur, someone who does something out of love, and in my advancing age, I still have the piano and word-processor at my side every day. Bill Mays’ book describes that alternative life, but I never had the supreme talent, nor learned skills, only the passion. It is wonderful to have all three and few jazz musicians have “recorded” their experiences such as Mays has in this wonderful book. It has that personal voicing as does his music. Thanks, Bill!
 |
| My room where it happens |
