To this day I tap on a table top. At restaurants, on flights, at home on the dining table, on my knees, anywhere with or without a surface. I imagine the notes I’m playing. I hear them in my head, D-E-F#-G-E-A-F#-D. Single notes, block chords, both hands-in unison or independent of one another, any key signature, songs, scales, Bach, Little Feat, whatever comes to mind. Occasionally, I’ll play the notes in mid air. There is a magic to it. I love the tactile sensation, the way the fingerings change depending on the key I’m in. The act of playing keyboards is ingrained in my soul.
My teacher, Ruth Neuman, taught me this trick a few years after I took my first lesson from her at the age of five. She said, “You might not always have a piano to practice on, but you will more than likely always have a desk or hard surface at your disposal; take advantage of keeping your fingers limber and see what it does for your imagination”, leaving me with the final instructions of not feeling self-conscious of what others might think. As a boy in school I would often make use of the exercise on my desk, with the occasional questions from teachers or the quizzical looks from my other students.
I was blessed to have a very wise teacher. Ruth’s guidance was essential to my growth as a musician. Every musician’s ability is tested by the plateaus encountered. I have very small hands. Anyone who has seen me play has remarked at the quickness in which my hands and fingers move over the keyboard. As far as the written note, my piano vocabulary was principally the Romantic era of music, with a healthy dose of Bach and Mozart thrown in from time to time. I had a tough time reading the syncopated rhythms of Latin music and modern or popular pieces. Ruth encouraged my exploration of playing by ear as well, recognizing that I was interested in many kinds of music, while ensuring I could read music, classical or otherwise-not something that was tolerated by too many teachers in the fifties. Perhaps the greatest gift I was given by Ruth Newman was a sense of myself as a musician. Concurrent to my studies was a major movement in music: Rock and Roll, that was to ultimately guide my decision as a professional musician years later.
My career as a professional musician is as much a result of my limitations as well as my strengths. I have used my limitations: small hands, not a brilliant sight reader, a weak left hand, impatience, and a host of other attitudes that would impede progress. I have also made choices that would maximize my strengths: a vivid imagination, a good ear, a love of learning, commitment and determination, and a belief that the hard work will pay off if intelligently applied. I don’t want to downplay the aspect of having fun, either. I knew I wasn’t going to be a classical pianist. My inability to perform as a concert pianist led me to playing in a rock and roll band, where improvisation played a higher part. I used my classical technique (fingering, in particular, and a knowledge of scales) to advantage in my improvisations, and later in my writing. Above all I have had a vision (circuitous as it might be) of what I wanted to do, where I might be in the long run, and how I might maintain my enthusiasm for what I love to do, which is play music. The heart of the matter is the heart of the artist.
Being aware of how you intellectualize your performance, mindful of: technique, tone, the acoustics of any given situation, the intent of the music (written or improvised), playing with a group and all of the antennae required, or simply playing solo, whether at home, in front of a small crowd, a sea of people, being under the microscope at a recording studio, home recording, recording onto a computer sequencer, performing familiar music, unfamiliar music, being able to hear or not, the ability to adapt to any situation. All the intellectualism is put to the side when you tap into the realm of feel and intuition. It is where your spirit takes over and you enter into a state of being that encompasses the moment, now. You are now playing from the heart.
I look for balance between what is in my mind and what I want to unlock from my heart. The ear can give false clues as to what you are hearing. Many times I have gone on stage and felt I couldn’t hear properly, and, quite naturally, it effects my performance. My remedy is to try relaxing, rather than tensing up or banging harder on the keys. I also imagine that people out in the audience can hear every note I am playing. Of course, I will continue to search for a decent monitor balance, turning instruments down, more often than not, rather than up, depending on how much trouble I am in (the mistake is usually compounded by turning everything up). It is amazing how many times I’ve been able to walk off stage feeling good about what I played, especially when I thought the concert was going to be a disaster.The amount of performances that have completely baffled me are very few and far between in the last few years. What I am really relying on is my ability to make the best of a bad situation. I simply want to put myself into the music, using any advantage I have available to me at the time.
My job in the studio or on stage is to bring life to the music. By pouring as much emotion into my playing as possible, I try to find that place where I can trust my intuition.The art of listening is paramount. What I love about jazz, blues, and rock and roll, is the way musicians play off of one another. Unquestionably, the better players can hear, the better they play off of each other. The flow or tradeoff that occurs between musicians , in sometimes blinding speed, does not leave much room for analyzing what is being played, so much as how one reacts to what is being heard. Sometimes, by divine accident, musical elements converge, as in jams. Recently, working with Phil Lesh, from the Grateful Dead, I had the pleasure of reacquainting myself with the joys and challenges of jamming. Basically, taking a form of music and stretching it to the limit. There are those times when everyone is completely playing free, yet able to maneuver in any direction-not unlike birds that fly together and change direction in mid-flight. It is an exhilarating feeling. Ultimately, it is the art of letting go.
Bill Payne
Los Angeles, March 2000