Improvisers Teach How To Listen

It was 7:30 p.m. on Monday at Never Ending Books, and Bob Gorry of the New Haven Improvisers Collective had a few instructions for the musicians gathered in the room. 

The collective always started with the same exercise, of playing long tones together, ​“whatever that means on your instrument,” Gorry said. ​“It’s very important for listening and for figuring out the room. It’s really important that you hear everybody.” 

The idea was to play a tone as long as possible, then pause and play another, while listening to everyone else. ​“If you can’t hear someone,” Gorry said, ​“play quieter.”

The New Haven Improvisers Collective has been holding monthly free improvisation workshops on the last Monday of the month at Never Ending Books for 18 years; only the pandemic interrupted its schedule. In addition to being a vehicle for fostering community and helping musicians find collaborators, the workshops have become multigenerational, a place for younger and older musicians to meet one another, trade ideas, play and listen, grow as musicians, and — who knows — maybe even find a sound on their instrument they’ve never played before. 

On this Monday, nine musicians (including this reporter) formed a ring around the perimeter of the storefront room at Never Ending Books. The total instruments included guitars, bass, drums, piano, saxophones, baritone ukelele, and violin (that’s me). Gorry was ready for it all. He explained that other workshops had included multiple drummers, or six electric guitars, ​“and then someone will bring a flute, and we manage.”

Long tones filled the room, making chords that shifted in and out of tonality, relaxed, unhurried. Sounds blended, rose and fell with one another. As Gorry instructed, we then switched to a more rhythmic pattern, letting the music gather intensity. That broke into a first bout of free improv — ​“If at any point you don’t know what to do, just do whatever you feel like,” Gorry said as encouragement — that led to a friendly cacophony, and returned to long tones.

The room felt tuned.

Gorry then suggested that the group move to a first free improvisation, with a few pointers. ​“Leave space,” he said. No one should be afraid to stop playing, or play in spurts, or listen to someone else to get inspiration. ​“Most of this is about listening,” Gorry said. ​“You play off of your listening.” He also told us to attend to our dynamics, to find places to play loud and quiet.

Gorry started with a burst of notes. The piano answered. Taps on a djembe, rolls from the drum kit. Spare notes from another electric guitar. Suddenly the music jumped in energy, with lines from saxophones, stabbing notes from guitars, cascades of sound from the piano. The drums tumbled and dashed. Everyone’s heads were up, looking around, listening, communicating. A pulse grew out of the music, a stomping beat. Layered phrases emerged from that. A few instruments engaged in what felt like a round of joke telling, frantic lines as if from cartoons. 

The music kept building, and I found a new sound on my instrument, the violin, which I’ve been playing for 45 years. It wasn’t dramatic or revolutionary, but there was something between the pressure of my fingers, the speed of the bow, and the lightness of the hair on the strings, that created a texture, a feel, that felt somehow brimming with energy and deeply serene at the same time. It was the kind of music I always strive to make and perhaps never fully succeed at — except in this moment, just playing a few notes. For maybe 10 seconds, it was all there.

And then it was gone.

“Excellent, perfect,” Gorry said to the group. 

Next Gorry suggested that we play as trios: one person playing lead, the other assuming the role of accompanist, and the third musician providing color. When the lead decided they were done leading, the roles would get passed to the left, around the circle, so that everyone had a chance to play all three roles.

I was assigned accompanist. The saxophonist to my right began with leading; I accompanied him the best I could, and we ended up doing a small duet in the key of G, with color from the baritone ukulele. The roles switched; I led, then passed that position to the ukulele player, who led Gorry and the pianist. Ideas morphed, textures changed, from instrument to instrument, getting stompy when the trio was guitar, piano, and drums, then romantic when it became piano, drums, and guitar, then angular when it became drums, guitar, and bass. The roles came all the way back around. Everyone had spent more time listening than playing. Somehow, the saxophonist and I ended as we began, on a G.

There was still more. We played over a strict 4/4 meter, everyone hitting the downbeat on every other measure to stay together. Then there was one final free improv. Somewhere during that, I tried to recapture the new sound I had made. I was hoping to be able to deploy it elsewhere, everywhere. But I couldn’t do it. The music around me was different than it had been; it wasn’t asking for that sound to be made again. I made a sound that got close, but it wasn’t the same. It didn’t need to be. I would have known that in the first place if I’d played less, and listened more.