SINCE the early 80s up to the present, many a time have I been in conversations with both old or retired, as well as active, musicians about their choices of stage performance. Almost always, we would slide into the subject of impromptu gigs, commonly called jamming.
On this, the jury is still out, though not unanimous, with mostly those not in favor of the practice of jamming, as gaining a slight edge.
Since there are opinions that have cropped up through the years, dismissing those against jam as fearful, depriving themselves of ‘free flight’, and sticking to the standard norms of ‘practice makes perfect’, I draw the line and respect their discipline and exactness (which leads to mastery). That, even as I have 56% riding on the horse of the jammer. For what it’s worth, I see both sides as just two sides of the same coin. But to explain my 56 percent…
For those who may have visited the famous Hobbit House along Del Pilar Street in the 70s, a lucky night would consist of band gigs featuring an unlikely improv performance jam from one known only as Pepito.
With eyes closed and his long hair flowing down his khurta, he would always occupy the extreme left of the stage, sans microphone, and just chant his way through the entire set list, but always mindful to keep in tune or in harmony with whatever song is being played.
At the time, many in the audience paid him no mind, dismissing his act as merely ‘tripping’ and flipping. Then, sometime later in the late 80s, I was present at Mayric’s, a pub near UST, when an artist friend was just into the opening of his signature song Agila (eagle), when another artist suddenly went up the stage and did a kata-like impromptu dance, complete with yells.
My respect for such performers is thus… In those rare moments devoted to pure improvisation, one is no longer aware of tones, much less the notes being played. Interpretation is key. It’s freely surrendering to what’s both the familiar and the still-unknown at the given moment.
In blues, for example, considered as one of Pepito’s favorites, it’s akin to celebrating his forgotten grieving years all over again and taking them to the surface as though to reclaim them.
In the words of Spy, one musician I know, in the jam, it is both “raw, imperfect, and utterly perfect all at once.”
Nothing else matters (as the song goes). At this, I’m always reminded, one’s passion is powerful enough to break through any pain and, more often than not, it is never too late.
