The Brooklyn Rail

I’m nearly eighty. I’ve played the tuba as a jazz improviser for nearly fifty-nine years. The tuba, a brass instrument, is not a trombone or a trumpet. It’s big, cumbersome, heavy. Earlier there was never a question. I always played a gig standing up. It’s different now. I sit down because my legs and lower back begin to hurt after an hour of standing. I’m trying to figure out the best way to support the instrument sitting down, using a stand, like a snare drum stand, with three legs at the bottom. The legs stabilize the stand which has a vertical tube that rises to a rectangular carriage that supports the tuba. I sit forward on a drum stool and raise the tuba up to a point where it’s level with my face, making it easier for my embouchure. With the horn and mouthpiece in this stationary position, I can hit the upper registers more confidently, more dependably than when the horn was strapped around my back, and I was always leaning forward and getting tired.

You ask if age has influenced my approach to improvising. Probably. I came up as a trumpet player, which expanded my approach to the tuba. I don’t get stuck on basslines. I understand their importance and build on that. My close friend, the multi-instrumentalist Howard Johnson (1941–2021), taught me how to be an accompanist, how to adapt to the musical context you’re in, and how to approach the tuba as a soloist, accessing the instrument’s upper, as well as its lower, registers. You limit the instrument’s potential if all you’re trying to do is mimic the upright bass. There are things the tuba can do that the upright can’t. Each note played on the tuba has a distinct decay. I had to figure all this out early on, in my thirties.

I still remind myself that playing the tuba requires a special kind of breathing. You discover ways to play time and keep time, so as not to interfere with the drummer’s ride cymbal. Rather than taking one giant breath every time you need to breathe, you take a breath in-between each note so you can keep playing the notes as they go by. You use your diaphragm, you pant, and in-between your diaphragm expanding and contracting, you play the note. Circular breathing is one continuous breath while you’re playing a sequence of four or five notes. It doesn’t require a series of breaths in-between each note. On some passages, I’ll circular breathe. On others, I’ll “pant.” Sometimes I’ll even change the rhythm so I can exhale. I’ve figured out a way to exhale in between notes to avoid the gag response by inhaling and exhaling through my nose. Sounds bizarre, right? It is! I wrote a book about this technique. It’s called The Breathing Bassline.

There’s a lot one learns through time. How to breathe on your instrument is an ongoing lesson. So is knowing when to play, how much to play, and when to lay out (not to play). It’s easier for me to lay out now, which is counter-intuitive for a band leader. I’m more comfortable with being quiet or playing softer. Sometimes I just want to listen, because what I’m playing or might play isn’t as important as what someone else is playing at any given moment. Who ends up taking the lead in the ensemble has nothing to do with who the band leader is. It depends on who’s playing what and when and how this enhances the music. At a recent rehearsal with my son Curtis on violin and Kelvyn Bell on guitar, the two of them started playing some amazing shit as a duet. All I could do was listen. There wasn’t a thing I could play that would have enhanced what they were already doing, so I laid out. Eventually, I jumped back in with a long tone (a continuous note). That was my reentry.

You ask about my daily routine. How I practice and stay in shape. I eat well (lots of fresh vegetables), and try to keep my weight down by not overeating. I ride a bicycle and stretch out. I practice by playing long tones and arpeggios. To warm up, I stand and play, torquing my body to either side, like a whirling dervish, while keeping my head stationary. I usually practice during the day. Recently I started playing at night, too. I always prided myself on the strength and power of my playing. Playing at night means playing softer to respect the neighbors. What had been a big blast has become a softer, purer sound. Since the pandemic I’ve lost about a minor third of my register, making it harder to hit the high notes. I’m figuring out how to use what I still have and to make it as musical as it can be. Playing the tuba feels great. Always has. That’s the bottom line. Being able to play is worth all the hassles, schlepping the instrument to gigs, getting it in and out of taxis, and carrying it up and down stairs. Once the band starts to play, life’s inconveniences fade back.

Compiled from two conversations, recorded on August 29, 2018 and August 12, 2023, both transcribed and mutually edited.