No Part Of The Buffalo Goes Unused

Published: Fri, 07/01/22

, so it's safe to say that, if nothing else, this is probably a cool idea. But lately I've been having second thoughts about how much help the audience really needs. In particular, I've been reconsidering my own approach through the filter of the old writing advice rule "show, don't tell."

Said re-examination has been prompted by preparing for my recent record-release show (a raging success, I am led to believe) and my ongoing effort to make the most of any given workday, a project always made more urgent by the summer months' trifecta of no school, a proliferation of random kid activities, and the oh-so-grownup practice of actually going on vacation. Unlike for E.B. White, June and July tend to give D. Hamburger a feeling of urgency, a sense that from now until late August, one simply cannot be messing about with any activities that qualify as less than essential.

Which dovetails somewhat with my more general sense that in most creative pursuits, there is more to be gained from specialization than working as a generalist. Of course, this pretty much involves casting a wide net to start with, then gradually throwing back more and more of of the things that looks inedible until one day, lo and behold, you're that guy on the dock who only has one kind of fish for sale. (Or only waterlogged boots, or some obscure kind of poisonous crustacean. Doesn't matter which, so long as you dig handling toxic shrimp or enjoy being the go-to guy for unmatched, disintegrating footwear.)

Having arrived at a point where I'm writing songs a certain way, and playing them with a certain kind of blues-derived guitar vocabulary, I'm thinking it doesn't really matter to the listener what kind of fish I threw back to get there. In the past, following the Dinerstein doctrine, yeah, I would chuck all kinds of various things into a solo show: old standards, a Django Reinhardt instrumental, reconstructed Willie Dixon, Hank Williams or Dylan songs. Mostly because I like all those things, it's fun to play them, and a solo show provides the flexibility to present a wider, looser repertoire because there are no worries about what the band has or hasn't learned or rehearsed.

But really – if I've done my job to the fullest, in terms of writing my songs, honing the arrangements and putting the set together, the show should be complete in and of itself. As a songwriter, playing standards or Hank Williams songs in a show is like laying out primary sources, instead of doing the deeper work of synthesizing them into one's own point of view. Maybe the listener feels or discerns those influences, maybe they don't; ultimately, that shouldn't matter. (There is, of course, an opposite end to this continuum, where interpretive idols of mine like Ben Webster live. The mere existence of such a continuum of course implies the many points along it I am presently attempting to rule out by choosing the specific orientation of "songwriter.")

At least, that's my working premise, and I need one to help me prioritize my time, particularly the time I spend practicing, writing and/or recording. If the point is to do successful solo shows of original material, then the writing and recording and practicing of that material is the priority. Other interests and practices, like playing swing tunes, learning bebop improvisation and memorizing other peoples' lyrics are still important, because they ensure that the original work has strong underpinnings and a constant influx of rigorous ideas. But for me, right now, they might not belong onstage.

Even if those primary sources stay in the practice room, they still inform a different and equally essential part of being a musician: having fun. In the places I tend to hang out, the two best passports to musical interaction are knowing tunes and being able to improvise. Knowing all the words, and chords, to some standards, blues and country tunes are the essential equipment for socializing musically with others in casual, offstage situations, allowing you to hang out and toss some songs around. And if you can solo on those tunes too, so much the better.

Which means no part of the buffalo goes unused: learning tunes and learning to improvise inform what happens onstage, while improving one's fluency with making music offstage. There's even a third benefit: the more you learn about songs and improvisation, the better your hearing and the deeper your appreciation when you're simply listening to music.

Another friend of mine, Ron Deutsch, holds that "In life, you're either onstage, backstage, or in the audience." I like the idea that having one way of organizing your priorities could have you covered for all three locations.

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A few months back, I did a Youtube lesson covering ten classic blues turnarounds. If you've been looking for something a little different, in today's lesson you can learn how to play blues licks in octaves, and then use those licks to create a completely different kind of turnaround that still fits the blues progression perfectly:

How To Play Blues Turnarounds In Octaves

More soon,

David
 
For organized, ongoing weekly lessons that help you learn tunes, turn them into complete songs, and start improvising, register for the Fingerstyle Five membership at www.fretboardconfidential.com