Together, or Just at the Same Time: My Jazz Listening Test

My best listening happens when there's nothing else. Just me, a pair of headphones I've worn so often they feel like part of that quiet, and the record. 

In that nothingness, a record has nowhere to hide. It either connects or makes me cringe. 

I've felt that cringe once again just recently.

I put on Matt Slocum's A Dissolving Alliance and the music instantly felt off. At first, I couldn't understand why. Then it hit me: Everyone was talking at me at the same time. They weren't shouting. No. But there was just so much being said that I didn't know what to hear for. I couldn't even understand what anyone was saying. I felt confused. Overwhelmed. Even a little anxious.

(You can read my review in the Listening Room.)

I put the record aside. But I also realized that I'd felt the same way before.

I suspect you may know what I mean. Sometimes a jazz record makes you cringe, and you know it's not because of the style, arrangements, or choice of material. It's because of a far less tangible quality.

I've been thinking about it recently, and I think I finally know what that quality is.

And oddly enough, it's also something that would make us cringe in real life. 

Imagine you're having a conversation with two people. 

In one scenario, one person's speaking to you. The other is merely listening, perhaps nodding occasionally to reaffirm what the first one is saying. 

Usually, that can be quite a pleasurable experience.

But consider another scenario. This time, both of those people are talking to you over each other. Each tells an unrelated story, completely oblivious to what the other person's doing. 

That'd be far from enjoyable for you, right? 

Sometimes, the records that land on my desk feel like that second scenario. And I've realized that whether they do or don't is one of the first things I notice. 

I call it interactive awareness, and it's become my first test for any jazz record.

Interactive awareness is exactly what it sounds like; it happens when musicians respect one another, follow each other, leave space, and support whoever is speaking rather than push their ideas over them. 

It works the same way as a good conversation. Someone talks, someone listens. And when the roles switch, they switch together.

Some of the most classic albums we love, and listen to over and over again, are based entirely on that. 

Kind of Blue, Waltz for Debby, Something Else... Each of them is almost entirely improvised. And yet, nothing is chaotic. No one is interrupting anyone else. Everyone works together, creating music that I am sure has been an absolute joy to record, and remains enjoyable to listen, way past the recording stops. 

One of my recent discoveries, Mat Maneri Quartet's "Mist" contains an incredible amount of that interactive awareness, even though the music is very much free flowing, and built around loose themes. And yet, it's cohesive. Nothing seems out of place. You can follow each player when they're talking to you. And most importantly, you enjoy listening.

Interactive awareness doesn't guarantee a great record.

So many other factors are at play, after all. Yet without it as the foundation, little else seems to matter, anyway.

But there are records that don't seem to put much attention on that awareness. They seem filled with what I call playing for playing's sake, music that serves the individual, not the group.

Perhaps it's because, for these musicians, the joy of playing is more important? Or maybe that energy in the room, one that arises when they immerse themselves in improvisation, is enough?

I can't answer that, of course. Only they can.

But I do wonder whether that approach, particularly if captured and released on a record, actually provides any value to us, listeners. Or does it simply reduce us to observers or admirers, left to figure out what's going on by ourselves?

Since I've realised it, interactive awareness has become the first lens through which I evaluate new jazz records. 

It's not the only thing that matters, of course. But if I don't hear that awareness underneath it all, I reach for the STOP button.

I know the record won't offer me much.