Tom Pierson

Tom Pierson was a piano prodigy, playing with Houston Symphony at the age of 13.He studied and taught at the Juilliard School in New York, before going on to pursue several different careers. His electric quintet played regularly in New York clubs for years, followed by a large big band that he still conducts and composes for here in Tokyo. In between those groups, he also worked on Broadway, as he confesses later in this interview, where he learned to conduct. Later, he scored films for Woody Allen and Robert Altman, two American directors whose scores are integral to their productions. Pierson has also consistently recorded with his piano trio, most recently releasing “Right/Left” in 2001. For the past two years, he has been writing a symphony, which, as he explains, demands extended periods of time. He still finds time, though, to grace Tokyo’s many live houses with his trio. He took time to talk with Jazznin at an all-night eatery in Shimo-Kitazawa.

What is it that attracted you to music?

The great thing about music is you can grow until you die. I heard Conte Condoli, when he was like 75 years old, and the trumpet is a very physical instrument, but he sounded superb.

Some people seem to stop at a certain point, though.

Music is a real lie detector,  a picture of your psychological guts. I was thinking today about how jazz, in the 60s, and other art forms were everywhere, and then the Reagan era set in, which we’re still in--the Reagan era of jazz. The one person who I thought could carry it through was Herbie Hancock. On “Sextant” and “Crossings” he had a great, great band. Herbie could have been the one to lead jazz into the next generation, but he didn’t. I stuck with him as far as “Headhunters” and even “Thrust” but when he started singing on a computer thing….

Technology for technology’s sake?

Yeah, but what happens to the music? Music is the notes. You have to learn this language. I’m bitter I guess because Herbie was my god. After this wonderful explosion of his youth, to just let it go. Even with classical composers, their early music is often incredible and then their later stuff no one listens to. Then you have someone like Verdi and the greatest music he ever wrote was when he was 80, “Falstaff” and “Othello” for example.

You are working on classical music recently.

I just finished a symphony. It was a two-year project. The score is done, anyway. For some people it’s not done until they hear it. But for me, it’s done. I’m going to put on a show of it myself. It may take me a year or more to prepare the parts. It’s an immense number of notes, 47 minutes, and 80 musicians. There’s one part that I refer to as 13 mini-concertos going on at the same time. I’m going to send it to the conductors I know, but I could be handing scores to them for twenty years and nothing ever happens. Contracting 80 players takes time, though I’ve started to think it’s just five big bands, so what’s the big deal? At least I’ll get to hear the work and get a tape of it.

What made you want to do such a huge project?

I’ve always wanted to do it. I’ve written classical music over the years, and my brass quintet was recorded. I had a concert here where they played my violin sonata, and a piano sonata. But the last time I really worked on a large score was for Robert Altman. I got to use the London Symphony Orchestra. Usually, in film scoring, you are imitating some genre. You get to paint a picture but he wants it to look like Chagall. Ever since then I wanted to write for a large symphony orchestra. It was just a matter of getting my schedule organized. That sounds so banal, but I decided I was going to turn down work and take three days a week. Then once I got that in place, it just flowed from there. It was an immense amount of work. If you are working steadily, you get into zones. You can look back down the mountain and see where you’ve come from.

When you keep everything out to get insulated, then your energy flows.

Society is structured where people are working for people. Everybody’s a slave to somebody. Like Dylan said, “You gotta serve somebody.” But an artist’s job is not to serve anybody but himself. I’ve read a lot about Beethoven. His secretary wrote a book and the most profound thing he said about him was that he was only motivated by a strange sense of self-gratification. That’s an amazingly profound statement of artistic creation. If you have to satisfy everyone else, then your energy is just dissipated. From the artist’s point of view, they want you to show yourself. That’s why they came to the show. They want you to say something with your heart and soul. So, it’s a sad thing that the jazz business has gotten so promotion-oriented. The sense of creation is lost. I’ve read all these biographies, Count Basie, Dizzy Gillespie, and Ray Charles and they are all totally motivated by the music they are making. These guys had to take phone calls and whatever, but that was way down on the priority list. What they really were interested in was whether they could use a flat sixth in a major seventh chord. A guy like Ornette Coleman couldn’t be tempted by anything. They were connected so closely to the sounds they were making. Now, there are a lot of musicians who come onto the stage with their agents on their mind, and they aren’t connected to the sound they are making.

That close, personal connection is essential.

In jazz, so many players are in a world where they are listening to CDs and have all these phrases, but they really need to get down to the raw materials, the notes, rhythm, and form. This is what you touch. But instead, a lot of players are thinking about, say, Michael Brecker, he plays so fast, so I want to play fast, too. One of the best breakthroughs I had as a player is that I could not play fast. It wasn’t me. I was forcing it. It’s a real disease, everyone thinks they’re Bird. It was natural for him to play that fast and when he played that fast he could make beautiful phrases. He found his natural metabolism, so he was able to create. The music exists with these contrapuntal relationships between the different metabolisms. The great bands are all guys who are being themselves. I lost a gig here once because the saxophone player asked me my philosophy of small groups, and I said, well everyone should be themselves. And the sax player said he thought everyone should support the leader. I didn’t get that gig. Some people feel that way, but it doesn’t make good jazz.

As you’ve been working, for almost two years, on this huge composition, does that change the way you think about playing?

Oh, yeah. For me, playing and writing always includes the other in a positive way. For a writer to write all these different parts is a thrill. It’s all music. To be working at that level is amazing. I’m amazed at the different parts. But I love to play. When you write, you have time to think about the note in a new way. You have time to think of different ways to work out a section. I notice this with my students too. When you play, it’s easy to just get by playing what everyone else plays. It’s not quite as easy when you’re writing. You take a lot more time to think about moving this around here, or changing that over there. That’s a way of improvising. Miles said he wanted people to create right there on the bandstand. For me, these two processes really reinforce each other in a very, very positive way.

When you’re working on a classical thing, then you’re rethinking how you play chords and phrase lines.

Yeah, exactly. It’s all music, at a very basic level, the way you create music at the most basic level is all the same, whether it’s Ravi Shankar or a Brazilian musician or whoever. What’s amazing about all these different styles is it’s the same rules, the same twelve notes, basically, you can hear the same rhythm in Indian music or bossa nova or Coltrane. There’s something that we learn from any music. If you only took away just two seconds, then there was still something to be learned from that. Unfortunately, people tend to play what everyone else is playing. It’s a way people make it easy on themselves to think.

Isn’t that a result of commercialization?

The commercialism rushed in because there was an artistic gap. The business people used to be a little intimidated by the musicians. Now, the business people are kings. The producer should not tell you what songs to record, or who to play with. If you need an extra day to record, the producer should try to find you a way to get that extra day. Of course, pop world producers are like music directors because pop musicians need a director. It’s all commercially oriented anyway. But classical and jazz musicians are complete in themselves and only need someone to document them. The rise of the producer as a power center is definitely a factor in the decline of jazz.

It sounds like you’ve had some, shall I say, interactions with producers?

I like to work at a small level. When I first came to Japan, I was offered to record by a producer at a big company. He put on a CD of a group I’d never heard of, quasi-world music. It was not bad or anything, but just that kind of music. He said well, can you do that? Man, never underestimate the stupidity of your opponent. I tried to think how I could educate this person. I didn’t want to sign on and pretend to do it, and then switch it around later. So, I told him that the CD I made before was what I do. And it was the best I could do. And that was that. I mean, of course, I could make something like that. But why would I want to? Money? Now, the thing that excites me is what I can create. I told him he needed a studio musician. He wants people to come in who can be asked to imitate this thing. He wasn’t looking for an artist.

You have to resist.

All the time. When I first came to Japan, a producer from a company who I was going to record with handed me a list of the 50 most popular songs, all jazz standards. He said he wanted me to choose my play list from that list. I thought it was a joke. Now, I understand it. It’s so much better to just not get caught up I that. The reason anyone gets into jazz is not that. The CD Baby now has my music selling here and there. It’s not moving any huge volume, but it’s getting heard. It’s being disseminated without any suits getting in the way.  When was the last time you bought a CD just because it was a big label? No one does. These guys should be talent scouts, the way John Hammond was. No big label producer could name ten young sax players who are on the verge of becoming really good. No way.

So, what are you working on now that you’ve finished the symphony?

I have a commission for a trumpet sonata I have to finish. Before I started the symphony, I had three or four tunes I was just feeling my way into for the big band. I also wanted to make a few changes in several pieces. I heard things I wanted to change in new pieces from a couple years ago. I don’t want to play it again before I make the changes, because I’ll accept it as it was. I like to constantly make small changes. The big band is a great blend of writing and improvising. I like working on a million things at once, I guess. I didn’t even think about anything else for two years. The symphony was totally consuming.

So, now you have post-partum depression?

Yeah, but it used to be much worse with me. After I finished the quartet, I couldn’t write for six weeks. But now, I just kind of want to get on to my other stuff. I want this to be the way my life is for the next stretch. I look back on my life, and each of these different careers has been about ten years. I used to be very active on Broadway. That’s where I learned to conduct.

You kept that hidden.

Rightly so. It seems kind of disreputable to me now. But then I had the movie thing. Then I moved to New York and had the big band thing. Then, the piano trio thing. Before I came to Tokyo, I rarely played standards. I had an electric quintet. So, I guess the next ten years will be the composer years. I feel happy that I’ve made small changes. It’s just a focus on composition, not giving up the trio and the big band.

Was it a progression?

It was a progression. Broadway was there. I needed a job. I sat next to Thad Jones. It used to provide great employment for all these musicians. It’s interesting to consider the work they do. Some of them do all kinds of things, even weddings on Long Island. The musicians’ range extends through all these different kinds of music.

But you don’t think the movie work was disreputable?

I respect film writers. They are fantastic composers. I learned a lot from it. But when I quit learning from it, then I stopped. There was prejudice against it because critics consider it film music. It was enjoyable when it was going on, but there were no nutrients. In my film career, I worked with great directors, Milos Forman, Robert Altman, Woody Allen, and they were interesting projects, but I realized that I was inspired by the opportunity. Now there’s nothing more for me to learn from scoring film. An artist always has to develop the music. It doesn’t have to be radical, but whatever you are doing, you are reinventing and recreating with these materials. Even if you don’t dig it, you have to admit when people are doing the job of a creative artist. The point is not to say, I’m an artist, but instead, I’m trying to be an artist. The early jazz guys weren’t making money. They were making music.

(Originally published in Jazznin August 2004)