STAN TRACEY

Freedom is nothing without self-discipline

Since the days when I was the house pianist at Ronnie Scott’s, I’ve got into a lot of different areas, which I’ve found very rewarding.

When I hear albums that I made ten years ago, I can hear that I’ve expanded since then. It also makes me very brought down about the way I was playing then, because when I’m listening to myself, in my mind I’m going along with what I’m doing, hearing it different, and sort of willing myself to do it different. I’m sure this happens to everybody, to some extent—it has to be that way, if you’re developing.

During those years, working at Ronnie’s. I made a lot of space for myself. By that I mean I tried to think about it in a broad way, simply because I think the music benefits that way—at least, I hope it does. But I got worn out physically; so I had to leave. I mean, I was prepared to stay on forever; I got in a very zombie–like state about the whole thing. I really physically needed to leave there.

Since then, it’s been fun. I’ve recorded with various size groups, including suites I’ve written. I’ve also got into things like the Duo—with Mike Osborne’s alto, Tentacles, Open Circle, my present trio and quartet. I’ve got an octet pad—not a very big one, but it’s there. And I’ve just finished writing a suite based on four poems of Spike Milligan’s, for a string quintet and rhythm section, which we did at the Newcastle Jazz Festival. I was very happy about the results; it was fun to do, because it was completely different, as far as I was concerned.

I’d say making that move was a conscious decision; I felt inside me that I still wanted to go on expanding. And if I was going to do that, the thing to do was to play with the people who were thinking that way younger musicians. So that’s what I did. You get something from everybody you play with, but I suppose it was Mike Osborne mainly who helped me expand. It’s just that Mike lives just down the road from me; he was round all the time during that period, and we played together a hell of a lot. It’s hard to put into words what it is about his playing; I mean, if you could be inside my mind when I’m playing with him, you would understand . . .feelings are one thing, words are another. Rapport, yes—everything falls into place, he always seems to do the right thing. Also he’s a tremendously sensitive musician—he feels moods changing a fraction before they change, so that when it happens, he’s right there making it happen.

And I’ve enjoyed playing with Keith Tippett—we do a piano duo, whenever we have the opportunity. We did a concert up in Edinburgh, and one at the Wigmore Hall. which was recorded. This was strictly free improvisation. I have a rapport with Keith, and it’s like fun when we play together, because we can both feel each other out the whole time. For me, the fact that he has sort of a lighter approach than I have, that’s what makes it better, because you’ve got the two. And sometimes we interchange: he will take on a percussive role, and I’ll become more lyrical. I can percussively highlight what he’s doing, and conversely, he can highlight some of the figures that I do—you know, put a different interpretation on ‘em. It’s good.

It’s lovely with tenorman Art Themen, too—but in a different area, somehow. It’s a similar thing, as far as feeling each other—but every rapport is different. Not in a clinical sort of way, you do adapt to whoever you’re with. If I seemed to take on another identity that time with Stan Getz—well, that’s a matter of compromise. I feel that the most important thing is the music. I don’t think one should change completely to get it together, but a compromise is good, because it’s up to you how much freedom you leave yourself within that compromise. If it’s a battle of wills, then the music suffers, and it’s a waste of time.

It’s true that I used to say the ‘free’ area of jazz wasn’t for me. But at the time, I was so into harmony, I was getting too clever harmonically—the more I went into it, the more I nearly disappeared like the proverbial Dodo! So when I came out of that and went into free music, it was sort of a million light years away from the way I’d been thinking. And having been so heavily into harmony, I found it difficult at first not hearing those sounds while I was playing. But now I’ve got some different sounds going on in my mind, and I can live with the two now more comfortably.

Really, this thing of letting your mind go as far as it’ll take you is a bit of a challenge—it’s not always at attractive as it sounds. It’s like being let out of a confined space—you don’t know which way to go. So the game is to try and discipline yourself to a direction, even though you know that all directions are available.

I haven’t done away with swinging—I enjoy it, that’s why! I’ve found that I’ve been able to call on my experience in both areas to supplement what I’m doing. I didn’t think I would at first, but it seems to be happening more now. Yes, free playing definitely helps me when I play tunes. I don’t feel so bogged down by bars; it’s just a sound over a space of time.

I don’t have any more big band things in mind. First of all, financially, it’s impossible. You could do it about once a year on the BBC. But the reason I’m not so keen on it is: when you get a big band that’s working together all the time—let’s go mad, and say four times a week—the way arrangements come together when you’re playing that regularly is so beautiful. Okay, so you assemble once a year, the guys are good players, and to the average listener the band would sound good. W,hen you know what is possible when a band works regularly, I find it a drag; so I’d really sooner not nibble at it. Because you always end up thinking: “If only . . .” As for my listening—now, when I’m at home, I only listen to straight music. Because all my life, from when I first started listening to records until a few years ago, I’ve listened to jazz records—and never to straight music.Now I’ve amassed a load of tapes, which I play whenever I can. I’ve got so much to catch up on. Yes, it’s a vast field; there’s a whole new world there. Maybe my late exposure to it affects my jazz work, unconsciously —but certainly I’m n,ot conscious of that. I know I can never use music listening simply as outside enjoyment; I’m always in there with it.

What happens, to some extent, now is that I fit my playing to the gig.

You get a feeling for what type of gig it is, you know; you can tell by the people who’ve been booked or whatever. Actually, sometimes I get into both areas, and it really doesn’t seem to make that much difference; it’s just if I happen to feel like it. I’m fairly lucky in that I usually play with musicians who will go into any area that the music takes us to. Sure, Dave Green and Brian Spring are like that—it’s a great joy playing with them.

They’re very flexible: they feel whatever moods happen, and we just go along together. With Dave and Brian, I feel at liberty to go where I want—and I hope they do.

I wouldn’t really like to do more writing than I do. I’ll tell you—I hate writing; I really have to drag it out of myself. Once it’s done. and it’s being played, I’m ever so happy—but getting it down on paper is something else. It’s like giving birth! It’s a very lonely feeling; it’s just you, your judgment, your musical ideas. I suppose playing is my main outlet; I’d sooner be playing than writing, anyway. When it’s all coming together, when I’m writing, I enjoy it then—most times, it’s a battle.

One quite successful bit of writing I did was “Under Milk Wood”, my musical impressions of Dylan Thomas. My wife Jackie and myself have got this label together, Steam, and we’re reissuing the record. We secured the masters; the company who originally put it out have gone to America—they had a lot of other things going, and they were quite happy to let it go.

In the British jazz field now there’s a lot of talent, but there’s a great lack of opportunity to develop. If there were more things happening, the music would grow much quicker, stronger. You can put the blame on to a lot of things, such as apathy by the media. And I think you’ve got to own up that there’ll never be a huge audience for jazz—although it’d be beautiful if there was. Possibly if somebody thought they could make money by promoting it—that’s when the music happens. It’s just the fact that nobody thinks that there’s any money in jazz—and at the moment they’re right!