After Donald’s wake up call, I began to study and practice in earnest. I already had lots of books, accumulated from moments when I thought the secret to getting better was to buy another one. Silly me…
Endless drills and exercises provided endurance and furthered my acquaintance with my horn. I started opening those books and paying attention, stretching my mind, seeking understanding that would go beyond just having a big library.
I sought out local teachers. There were some who were willing to take me on. Typically, I would bring a blank music book with me, and the teacher would write notes at the top of each page. Then, I was told, “Learn this in all keys”.
I wanted to protest at the number of pages, sometimes exceeding what I thought to be reasonable. Then came that smile and the challenge, “Same time next week?” I bet Donald would have liked that.
Franny and his wife endured many days and nights of my honking and screaming in his garage [a.k.a. payment (sic) to a kind and generous friend for the space to screw up and learn]. One afternoon, Maureen was hanging Franny’s summer wash and cursing the goddamn sax exercises in the garage. Thank God for ballads.
The spirit of jazz had permeated my playing from day one. Now I was beginning to understand its tradition. I have grown to mistrust those who claim to have arrived. They don’t realize that the journey never ends…