A New Reflection

27. Improvisation

"Okay, this time let's try trading fours on the second verse," Malachi suggests.

God, let's please not.

The protocol for trading fours is to exchange eye contact with another player in the band, in order to pass them the following section of measures to improv; instead, I keep my eyes glued to the piano keys and pray no one notices. There are only five people in our jazz band, but I do manage to go unnoticed a surprising amount of the time through masterfully awkward avoidance.

This semester I am taking a jazz appreciation course, which has been delightful, and I also registered for jazz piano lessons. My piano teacher suggested a few weeks in that I should join Jazz Band Club for additional experience. Somehow, it failed to occur to me that my personality and improvisation don't exactly mesh.

After the events of the past week, including my first escapade drinking and the hand-holding and hug with Joshua, today's practice session has knocked my overinflated confidence back to baseline.

"How's it coming along in here?" Our band instructor, who is a premier jazz musician in the Portland area, barges into the practice room with a spark of energy, carrying a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and swinging a blue lunch box in the other.

"What's good, Professor B?" Henry greets our professor with a smooth smile.

"Let's hear some! What'cha got for me?" Profesor Baldwin solicits. He bites off a large section of his sandwich, causing a slice of lunchmeat to hang precariously in between the limp slices of wheat bread.

Malachi cues us, and we launch into "Take Five," which is my favorite of our repertoire, but unfortunately I find it near impossible to keep up with the chords. I strike at the notes haphazardly, hitting about one per measure and breaking into a thick sweat.

"Slow down, drums!" Baldwin exclaims, shrinking back as if he is being assaulted by the aggressive clang of the cymbals. Forest, a careless boy who drowns his insecurities in impermeable layers of arrogance, refuses to lessen the intensity.

"Hold up!" Our professor cuts us off with an emphatic wave of his hand and turns his attention to Forest. Firm but light-hearted, he commands, "Take it down a notch on the drums, man."

Forest bangs out a run of overproduced drumming in response, ending with a deafening cymbal clash. He is like a child who has just been asked to lower his voice, and instead of complying, impulse leads him to shriek and squawk and blow saliva-slinging raspberries.

"What are you doing?" Baldwin squints his eyes at Forest, and the two end up in a staring contest for a brief moment that shreds up my intestines with nerves, until Forest bows his head in defeat.

"From the top!" our professor calls, unaffected.

As we play, he bounces between the members of the band with spirited feet, offering corrections and encouragement.

"Saxophone solo, take it!" He points to Tommy, whose notes balloon out of his instrument as effortless bubbles, rising, falling, crescendoing deliciously.

"Trumpet, let me hear you!" I notice Rachel's face shade over in red, her tight brown curls bobbing as she blows without hesitation; I'm not certain the combination works, but she blasts out the notes with confidence, sharp and tight.

When it's my turn, I completely freeze up. Improvisation doesn't mean you merely play any combination of notes at random; they have to meld with the key and the general melody of the song. Everyone else seems to understand how to do this, or maybe they have prior music experience that I do not, but to me the technique is a complete mystery. It doesn't help that I am petrified to be playing in front of a famous guitarist.