Mike Lee Jazz

Jazz is a funny business. Sometimes I think someone is playing a trick on me. There’s the thing I want to be known for, playing the tenor. Then there’s the things that I get recognized for. There’s a few of these. People always respond to my soprano playing. I practice that horn about once every six months for as long as it takes to find a good reed, whereas I practice the tenor for hours a day. There’s composing. People seem to love my tunes. I have no clue how that became my strength. Lord knows I don’t compose enough to claim this as a strength or even a focus. But, hey I like my tunes, too, so I’ll take it. There’s this underlying feeling that I’m under-appreciated as a tenor player. I’m grateful for all of the people I’ve gotten to play with and for all of the great places I’ve traveled, but I have too many open days (weeks, months) in my schedule to claim satisfaction with the way my playing career is going.

Now jazz education might be an area where I’ll actually leave a mark. Education is part of every jazz musician’s life in one way or another. We have to educate ourselves first and foremost.  If we have paid attention to the process while we were teaching ourselves to play, we probably will be good teachers. When I was learning to play, I was frustrated by the answers I was getting to my question, “how do I learn to improvise?”  I was determined to not only learn to play, but to answer this question.

As I started to book my first tours as a solo artist, I found that many of the proprietors of the night clubs I was booking would recommend that I contact the local university about doing a clinic while I was in town. I then realized that the clinics would often pay two or three time what the gig was paying, so I realized that teaching could turn these “for the love of jazz” tours into real paydays.

But while the motivation to book clinics was initially financial, a strange thing happened when I actually got in front of an audience of eager young musicians. I felt strangely “at home.” And this feeling wasn’t just about being a respected professor – although there was definitely some of that – but I found that by having an attentive audience and describing what it was that I was trying to do, before I played, an environment was created where I flourished as a performer. Suddenly, the detailed work I had been doing for years was no longer invisible or over the head of my audience. If I remarked on the importance of rhythmic variety, or of integrating blues sensibilities with more modern approaches, or of establishing a groove, and then played in a way that emphasized that quality, a certain synergy of performer and audience was  established which allowed for unusually palpable sense of understanding. Of ten the energy of these clinics was such that students would line up to buy my CD afterward – usually in much greater numbers than patrons would at a night club. Up to this point, I had experienced a great amount of frustration playing music which was often forced to compete with cash registers, the loud conversations of patrons and restaurant owners who constantly exhorted my band to play more quietly. I was just stunned by the respect and kindness that was exhibited by the students and faculty of the institutions at which I presented workshops. It was as if I had found myself.  I don’t know if this is “my purpose.” but it’s definitely part of my purpose.