BY DAVID DEBOOR CANFIELD (Fanfare magazine April/May 2012)
Composer-pianist Gary Smart is a rare bird indeed, being a classical musician other than an organist who can improvise. His career has encompassed a wide range of activities as composer, classical and jazz pianist, and teacher. His diversity of teachers may be unique among pianists, as he has worked with everyone from Ralph Kirkpatrick to Jorge Bolet to Oscar Peterson. His work has been supported by the Guggenheim and Ford Foundations, the Music Educator’s National Conference, the Music Teacher’s National Association and the National Endowment for the Arts, and his music has been heard at the Kennedy Center and Carnegie Hall, as well as at venues throughout Europe and Asia.
I was particularly keen to interview Dr. Smart, since he and I share a love of improvisation (although I would not put myself in his league in that area). We also both attended Indiana University. So it was a great pleasure to engage him in a conversation via the Internet, which I did in late November of 2011. Fanfare readers have met him previously (33:5) in an interview by Peter Barwasser, so I’ll attempt below not to re-walk the path that my colleague has trodden.
Q. What precipitated your desire to become a musician?
A. I’m told I was singing and dancing for friends and family as a toddler, a natural show-off. I remember hearing a piano tuner play our piano after doing his work. He had been a silent movie pianist in Chicago and could he play! I was so excited. I kept pestering my parents for lessons. Finally they relented and by the time I entered the first grade the piano was already the center of my life.
You know, maybe my eclectic musicality began right there. Mr. James, that piano man, played everything – the “classics”, salon music, pop tunes, rags, jazz. It’s a very American attitude, I think. Pluralism. I gave my first full piano recital when I was eight or nine. In junior high I played the Pictures at an Exhibition. I think I was pretty good. But there was little for me to compare myself to, except Walter Geiseking and Artur Rubinstein on recordings. I suppose I was a kind of prodigy. I grew up in small Midwestern town culture. Sports and academics were quite as important. It all fit together. I had a wonderful childhood.
Then too, I loved jazz and pop music. I read sheet music easily and started notating my own stuff in grade school, all on my own. And even though Miss Adelaide, my piano teacher, absolutely forbid improvisation and jazz, I happily improvised jazz and all kinds of music and screwed around changing written music to suit myself, ignoring traditions and labels to my heart’s content when I was alone at the keyboard. That was my world, with my rules. My music. My artistic attitude has always been positive. I love my life and what I do.
Q. Wow! Launching your career with Pictures, my favorite piece of music! How do you balance all of your musical activities, as described above? Do they “compete” with one another, or achieve a symbiotic relationship?
A. Certainly the different musical activities do “compete” for my time, but really they are all a part of the same thing. For me improvisation is simply composition in the moment and composition a carefully considered improvisation. It takes no time or effort to change from one to the other. Most days I do both and the two activities support one another.
Q. You were at Indiana University the decade before I came there to study. Was David Baker already on the faculty by that point, and did you do any jazz work with him?
A. I spent most of the 1960’s at IU. I had some wonderful teachers-mentors there: Alfonso Montecino, Sidney Foster, Jorge Bolet, Bernard Heiden, Roque Cordero, Gene Bayless, Gary Wittlich, George Gabor, Bill Bell and many others. It is a great school, isn’t it?
Yes, I did work with David. I remember his joining the faculty and taking over the jazz program. He’s a fine musician. But I didn’t study improvisation or jazz theory at IU. I was a piano performance major as an undergrad. I’m one of those musicians that learned jazz as an apprentice, just listening and playing. I did that as a kid. I listened to loads of recordings, often playing along. I joined the Musicians Union at fourteen and started playing gigs, mostly dance band jobs. I learned hundreds of tunes from a fake book and from that I learned keyboard harmony and harmonic form.
As a freshman at IU I was put into an advanced theory group. I said that there had to be some mistake, that I didn’t even know what “music theory” was! It was explained that I had tested well and that I should give it a try. I spent a very interesting year, learning the labels and broadening the concepts that I actually already did know. I do remember being stunned that most piano majors couldn’t sight read or improvise. I had thought those were basic skills. Now—don’t get me wrong—there was much I did not know: that world of Western European music, the many styles and traditions, the cultural associations, all of those masterworks.
What I remember most fondly about David Baker was his generosity. He invited me to play, to take part in projects, even when I was very young. His influence on me was directly musical. I played his charts and compositions, improvised with him, learned under his guidance. I also worked with Jerry Coker at IU. His polytonal harmonic thought was very influential on me at the time. I also had the experience of making a four month State Department tour of the Mideast with Jerry’s IU big band. It changed me—the diverse, vibrant cultures, the food, the music!
Q. David, who’s about to turn 80, recently fell and broke his hip, but you’ll be glad to know that he’s bounced back very quickly, and has resumed teaching. Why do you think that improvisation among classical musicians, other than organists, became a lost art? As you point out in the notes to your CD of improvisations, this was not always the case, and was routinely taught to students from the era before Bach through perhaps the middle of the 19th-century.
A. I know what you mean, but to some extent “classical” performers do—must—improvise when they play. One improvises every gesture, every phrase of the music. We’re not robots! But yes, the notes and rhythms are given in the notated classical score. Improvisation of the “score” itself, even a part of it, perhaps that has been neglected.
Still, I think there must be many other improvising “classical” performers out there. I think immediately of Robert Levin, who improvises Mozartian cadenzas brilliantly. In any case, I have the feeling that we are entering a new era. Many young “classical” performers are interested in improvisation in various styles. Style and improvisation. Now there is a topic for a book. One can improvise in any "style". What is "classical" anyway? Actually, I think the term itself is morphing.
Back to your question. Why did it stop? Maybe specialization had something to do with that. Perhaps as the repertoire of masterworks grew, there was a greater need for performance specialists and less need for composer-performers. Then there was the rise of the middle class amateur. For them, music was indeed just the notated score. And don’t you imagine that educational practice was at fault too? Teachers put much more emphasis on the intricacies of the “komposition”, a holy book to be recited in ritual, rather than on the intuitive activity of improvisation. So improvisation was less valued. On the other hand, who can seriously criticize the artistic production of nineteenth century Europe? Those composers certainly left us a treasure chest of composed music.
Q. I note in your previous interview that you currently teach the art of improvisation. I presume this refers to classical improv in addition to jazz, no?
A. I tell my students that I believe in learning a lot more than I believe in teaching. I can show, I can tell, I can make metaphor, I can encourage, I can suggest ways to think, to act, to practice, to perform...but I cannot “learn” for the learner. That only the student can do and that is the big job. Yes, I give some private lessons to pianists. I have no particular method to sell, no text. We play together. I comment, they ask questions. Some are jazz students, some new music ("contemporary classical") students.
My favorite class is the required improvisation class for all our senior performance majors. The class has vocalists, trumpeters, flutists, cellists, percussionists, everybody. I might compare it to the old TV show, “Whose Line is it, Anyway?” I just give assignments. They play in duos, trios, once in a while in a large group, and I listen and comment. I play for them and with them. The students are a little shy at first, fearful of “making mistakes,” but in a couple of weeks, after just playing around, having fun, relaxing, gaining confidence—things happen! You would be amazed at the latent creativity in those kids. Oh, of course I riff on this or that material or technique now and then, but it comes out of play, out of a context that just evolves. Sure, some things fall flat. But other things are wonderful. It’s different every semester. Great fun. And the process is very natural, quite essentially musical.
I make no distinction between musical worlds in that class. Classical, jazz, world musics, pop, new music—it's all material. So I suppose what we do is mostly “free improvisation”. We do touch on many of those genres I mentioned. I am not exaggerating when I say that students love the class. I think it is because they are again experiencing that feeling that drew them to music in the first place: being “one with the music.”
Q. Exactly how does one go about teaching students to improvise?
A. I really don’t know. How did you teach your children to talk? Talk to them. Listen. Encourage them to listen, to try to talk. After a while, they can talk! It’s the same with music. Now, of course there are levels of accomplishment. It does take years to become a "brilliant conversationalist". I'd like to make this point clear here: one must practice improvising in order to become a capable improvisor. Years ago a colleague heard me practicing the day before an improv concert. "What are you doing— Practicing?!" he exclaimed. "You're a fraud then! You don't really just come up with that stuff out of nowhere!" Well, no. And neither did Bach or Beethoven. It takes years of practice to learn to extemporize music. It is not magic. It is art. It is a hard won music making ability.
Q. Have you liked some of your improvisations enough to undertake the laborious procedure of transcribing them into notation?
A. No, though I have transcribed others’ improvs for my own benefit. But as I have said, I feel that composing, which I’m always doing, is just “very slow and careful improvisation”. You know, since you bring it up, if someone else wanted to transcribe any of my improvisations, I confess I would find that interesting.
Q. Well, as much as I like them, I’m afraid that I won’t be the one to volunteer to do it! Even with absolute pitch, it’s a real chore. Do you think the art of improvisation will ever make a substantial comeback among classical musicians?
A. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. That would be very healthy and great for our musical culture. I do know that the National Association of Schools of Music has suggested that every graduating music major should have some experience in improvisation. That is what led to the creation of my class. At the University of North Florida we took the suggestion quite seriously.
Q. I’ve asked a lot about your improvisation on the piano, but not much about your conventional piano playing. What motivates you in that?
A. Aside from all we’ve discussed, I am a classical pianist, and that is an important part of my musical life. I play a few concerts every year, also do some chamber music playing. This informs everything else I do. Just a couple of weeks ago, I played a concert of Haydn, Debussy, Dohnányi and the Brahms F Minor Piano Sonata. I teach students this music every day. I only mention this because readers might assume that an improvising, jazz playing, far out composer would not have much to do with the traditional repertoire. Not so. I love this music. I draw constant inspiration from it. For instance, I have just rediscovered the Busoni transcription of the Bach D minor Chaconne – the solo violin masterwork. I have fallen in love with this piece and am now learning it.
Oh, I do realize it is not “echt,” that it is as much Busoni as it is Bach. But it is wonderful piano music and it suits me. The nineteenth century meets the eighteenth century in the twenty-first. Back to pluralism!
Q. How do your songs fit into your overall body of works? I see that they span a rather large period of time. Has having a singer for a wife precipitated greater interest in this genre for you?
A. As the notes for that CD relate, I have always loved singing of all kinds. I grew up listening to those great American pop songs, but I also love the art song and opera. And certainly Marilyn and I have lived a life in music and have performed many, many programs of songs and piano music over the years. Her attitudes and interests have definitely rubbed off on me.
Singers are so interesting in that each “instrument” is unique, and the voice and the way it is used so clearly reflects its owner’s personality. Words and music, that’s a rich subject. Song is probably the oldest kind of music. Aren’t all instrumentalists really imitating the voice?
Q. Have you written an opera, or would you like to? After hearing your Me and My Song, I feel that you might write the next Porgy and Bess!
A. That is a very kind comment. Thanks, David. I am humbled. I adore Porgy and Bess, and I stand in awe of George Gershwin. Me. An opera. Funny you should mention that. I am now in the middle of a large project, a kind of solo soprano opera, called Opal’s Diary. It is in two acts, about ninety minutes long. Marilyn and I had done it for years as a kind of chamber opera – just soprano, piano and a few props. Now I’m orchestrating it. Marilyn isn’t singing much anymore, so I have no soloist or venue as of yet. I don’t usually work this way, but this piece deserves full realization. It is one of my best works. Also, apropos of my CD, I have just recently finished an orchestration of The Major’s Letter. It is also awaiting performers and performance too.
Q. In your extensive travels to the Middle East and Japan, what have you brought back with you that has benefitted your music or piano playing?
A. I learned about cultural perspective and the richness of human expression. This is an old world and it is unbelievably diverse. So many musics, so many musicians. I am positive that many colors of sound, gestures, patterns and attitudes toward these materials have worked their way into my mind. I can think of some direct influences here and there. I have written a couple of “Japanese” works: Kiku Preludes for piano solo and Wabi Sabi for mixed octet. Both of my piano sonatas are influenced by gamelan music. My recent piano quintet, Song of the Holy Ground, is based on an Apache chant. I do find world music materials inspiring.
Q. It’s hard to imagine someone such as yourself synthesizing the teaching of a Ralph Kirkpatrick and an Oscar Peterson. Did they overlap in any way in their ideas?
A. Now that’s a creative question! Let me think. Certainly both men were totally dedicated to their music. Both believed in the power of music to change people’s lives, to inspire, to consecrate lives. Both were very focused on clarity of purpose in performance. Interestingly, both used language, i.e. certain syllables or phrases, to teach musical gesture. I picked that up from them. Both were outspoken, about music and about everything else too. Both were impatient. Neither suffered fools (or unprepared students) gladly—or for very long! They were different performers. Mr. Kirkpatrick was an intellectual, a harpsichordist. When he played, the world went away. It was subtle and intelligent, very elegant. So very musical. Mr. Petersen was a force of nature. When he played, it was often overwhelming. So creative, so lush. His technique was of course dazzling. And his rhythmic sense was the sharpest, the most invigorating I have ever experienced. Well, what they had in common was that they both could PLAY. I was lucky. I watched and listened up close. That was an education. They did their best to pass the torch. I try to do the same.
Q. If you could be remembered for just one thing in music, what would you like that to be?
A. Here’s the thing: I have spent over fifty years in music now, and I feel I’m just now becoming the artist I want to be. I think I’m doing good work now. I would like to do this for a good long time. I would like to be remembered as a “late bloomer” who just got better and better as time went on.
I’m not ashamed to say that I aspire to write a few works—somewhere along the line—that last. Wouldn't it be fine to compose a work that is performed one hundred, even two hundred years from now? How would I know? Oh, I think I would. And I would be very pleased.
Q. Well, I think it’s quite possible you already have!
