My first lesson was started with a warning:
"If you
become a musician you will never hear music the same
way." The weight of that statement is continually
reasserting itself on me. And I couldn't be happier.
I was like a lot of teenage boys, I think. I wanted
to latch onto something I could feel, something that
would set me apart somehow. And I wanted to impress
girls. Maybe it was being the new kid in high school
and getting an unexpected seat judging that years
talent contest. A boy from my class was in a punk band
that covered a Devo tune.
I was amazed.
This isn't to say that they were great musicians or
that the performance was noteworthy. But these were
people I saw every day doing something extraordinary.
They were making music. And people -- me included --
were having a great time. Even some of the teachers!
Grownups actually smiling, bobbing their heads and
tapping their feet to the rhythm. And everybody
clapped!
It got me thinking. A great deal.
I wanted somehow to get that feeling again. That rush
I felt when they started playing. That flush when I
saw my classmate creating this sound, this electrical,
organic thing. But drums seemed like a lot of stuff to
carry around, a whole bunch to physically coordinate
for a clumsy kid, and the one thing no one wanted to
hear being practiced. There were an ocean of guitarist
and the instrument seemed "shrieky" to me. And I couldn't sing. Maybe that bass...
I discreetly asked questions of the musicians I knew.
I read about bass in magazines and encyclopedias. I
planted the idea in my parents' heads that I might
want to get back into music, years after dropping
chorus and the violin. Something about the choice
being mine made everything more appealing, too.
Things sort of snowballed after that. My dad leased a
bass and a small amp. Lessons turned into playing with
other people, joining bands, and writing my own music.
Everyone, it seemed, needed a bass player. I didn't
even have to be good, I just had to be there. I
learned on the fly. I started to read the
instructional columns in whatever magazines even
printed the word 'bass'.
And then I noticed that my teacher had been right.
Musicians hear music fundamentally differently than
anyone else. To pick out the part, we learn to focus
on one instrument at a time, to separate them all. We
become instrument-specific in our thinking. Part of
this is healthy. To learn, it's absolutely crucial.
Then we learn to listen in a third way. We become
cognizant of the parts others are playing so that we
can react to them. We learn to tailor our own parts in
the moment to complement the piece we're playing.
And then we learn to hear the whole again when we try
writing music.
At least that's what we strive for. That's the goal.
Having the sensitivity to hear all of it without
losing sight of the whole, to be able to contribute to
the beauty of the thing, is what the artist spends a
lifetime trying to do. In essence, we are always
trying to communicate and to learn better ways to
communicate.
But I digress. I really just wanted to describe the
uniqueness of being a bassist and an instrumentalist
whose primary role is to support and provide harmony. It's an interesting thing. Sometimes
it's vexing.
Sometimes it's terrifying. And it's rewarding in ways
I could never have anticipated or predicted.
The instrument, the electric bass, is one of the
youngest in the world. There have been the innovations
of synthesizers, samplers, sequencers, and turntables
since the generally agreed upon introduction of the
electric bass or bass guitar in the early 50s and its
role in the musical landscape continues to evolve and
metamorphose.
Originally it was created to help maintain a presence
in the lower frequencies on stage and in the studio
where electric guitars were drowning out other
instruments with their amplifiers. And it was pretty
tough to dance or even move about when your instrument
of choice was as ponderous as an upright bass. And
there were issues of portability to consider as well.
There was a great deal of scorn and ridicule for the
fledgling creation. Veteran string bassists saw the
electric as a guitar with a longer neck and two less
strings. It couldn't be played with a bow. It was
reliant upon electricity and amplification. It had
neither the subtlety nor majesty of its ancestor. And
there was no history behind the thing.
What kind of technique would be implemented in
playing it? What was the ideal sound for such a thing?
Surely it couldn't produce the warmth and living pulse
behind a band. And it was tiny to those used to
playing on scale lengths of more than fifty inches. It
was a toy. A bastard cousin. An abomination.
But its proponents were vehement. It wasn't long
before there were real artists playing them. And the
demand for electric bass in the studio was undeniable,
as was its appeal to the youth who listened to radio
and went to concerts. Accepted or not, the electric
bass was here.
Each decade spawned innovators technically and
stylistically. Construction quality improved not only
on the electric, but on the strings, amplifiers, and
accessories. The prominence of the electric bass grew
as a new role for it emerged. People liked being able
to hear that low groove, not just feel it. And the
upright was still present. As recordings grew more
precise and efficient, the progenitor's place was
guaranteed.
While it may seem remiss to leave the names of
pioneers from this piece, it would become something
altogether different if I were to string a list of
heredity and contribution here. I would do justice to
no one by giving them tiny blurbs and I would diminish
their significance entirely. I may redress this in
future outings, but not in this foray. And I'm getting
away from the subject matter again.
So with so much progress and excitement in the bass
community, what could be wrong? After all, weren't
bassists getting as much press and publicity as anyone
else? Video alone should have insured that.
Think of it this way: How many bassists can you name?
Everyone can name a guitarist or a drummer or a sax
player or a cellist who they know for their ability.
Most people recognize bass player who sing in bands or
who have great hair. Can you name a great bass line or
point out an almost magical moment of bass playing in
a song?
Another question: Should you be able to name these
things? Has there been a transcendent player or a
piece so spectacular that you couldn't possibly have
missed broadcasts and accolades, praises of its
brilliance?
After 20 years of playing, it's still not uncommon for me to come off
a stage and have someone say, "That's the biggest guitar I've ever seen. And
it's so
pretty!"
This is not a gripe piece, though. I merely want you
to open your ears. When you crank up your favorite
song, take a moment to try and hear the other music,
the music underneath the melody. In a great song, be
it jazz, pop, classical, or what have you, the
accompaniment and arrangements that help to make it
great are as important as the out-front bits. While
the singer and the guitarist step forward to solo, try
catching what the drummer and the bass player are up
to.
We slap, tap, pop, strum, pluck, hammer, pull, and
thump our way through ballads and bombast playing
everything from one string to eighteen on a single
fretted or fretless instrument. We put in as much time
as any other artist honing our craft, we haul our
share of gear, and we hit walls, too. We spend our
careers making others sound great and holding together
the wildly different elements of melody and rhythm. We're physicality and finesse, subtlety and
subterranean shake.
We are the makers of the other
music.
We're bass players.
