PG's Nikos Arvanitis explains and demonstrates the individual sonic qualities and contrasting characteristics of the most-used modulation effects on guitar by citing the Police, Heart, Prince, Nirvana, Whitesnake, and Pearl Jam.
The jazz bassist returns to share the four fundamental things that every bassist should work on.
Last month, I had the immense pleasure of speaking with New York upright-bass extraordinaire Scott Colley. Over the last 40 years, Scott has played in all kinds of amazing situations led by some of the most celebrated names in jazz, including Herbie Hancock, Abbey Lincoln, Pat Metheny, Michael Brecker, Andrew Hill, Chris Potter, Roy Hargrove, Dave Binney, Carmen McRae, Joshua Redman, and so many others. Naturally, we had so much to discuss that one article just wasn’t enough (see last month for the first part of this interview). This portion focuses on more bass-specific questions from that same interview.
PG: Scott, you’ve had some really incredible bass teachers, and you’ve also been teaching for many years: What are four things that you think every bassist should work on?
Scott Colley: These four things apply to every instrument. I want to stress that the things that are important for bassists to work on are also important for every other instrument. As a bassist, you definitely know when you play with somebody who hasn’t mastered these four things. All of the instrumentalists that I love to hear as bass players, and the people that I love to hear on any other instrument, have these very solid components in common. Lastly, none of the things that I’m about to mention are things that you achieve and are yours for life. They’re a process and need to be nurtured constantly. I still regularly work on these myself.
One—consistent time. This will serve you in any genre of music. Whether you’re required to maintain consistent time or not in the music you’re currently playing, your ability to do it when it’s necessary, or in other words, maintain the same tempo from point A to B, is vital. You have to nurture this skill constantly because as you play with different people, even great drummers, they’ll influence what we’ll broadly refer to as “your absolute time.” For sure, as a bassist, this is a skill that you need.
Two—feel. Your relationship to time in the moment, like: “What does this feel like? Am I playing a funk groove, is it swinging, is it straight eighths?” Whatever the feel—and this is true of classical music; this is true of everything—does it feel good? Does it feel the way that I intend?
“I still practice each one of these things that I’m mentioning to you every day, even if it’s for 10 minutes before I go to a soundcheck, while I’m on the road playing every night.”
PG: So, how do you go about working on these?
Colley: The way I practice these is with a metronome or some form of “absolute,” knowing that playing with individuals is not that. But I’ll practice with a metronome for a while, and then, after a certain time, turn the metronome off and turn the recorder on. I’ll analyze the recording for:
A—Is my time consistent? Am I able to maintain a consist tempo from point A to B? And B—Does it feel good in the moment? If not, then why? What am I not making in the groove, or what was I doing when the tempo drifted from 60 bpm to 65 bpm? What was I doing in that moment—triplets, quintuplets? Did I not know where to shift?
PG: How long are these recordings you make?
Colley: They’re all just really short. Just one to two minutes.
Three—tone. When I went to California Institute for the Arts, I was very fortunate to work with a bass player named Fred Tinsley, who was in the Los Angeles Phil [Philharmonic] and, before that, the New York Phil. He also played with Dexter Gordon and a bunch of other great jazz musicians. He sounded a lot like Wilbur Ware when he played jazz and was an amazing classical bassist. The whole physical approach that I have to the instrument is distilled from things that I learned with Fred. Fred was all about using the weight of your body to play the instrument and the things that are challenging on acoustic bass. So, when I started working with Fred weekly, he was like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa…. Slow down all that stuff. Here’s the bow. Use the bow.” He slowed everything down and had me play long tones all the time, focusing on finding a center on the instrument. He would say, “There’s no hurry to learning this. There’s no shortcut to learning this.”
Four—intonation. Lastly, working on intonation on acoustic bass is a constant. Again, it’s not some trophy that you obtain where you say, “I now have great intonation.” It takes constant work and maintenance. Yes, it’s about “Where does my hand go,” but also, “Once my hand is in that right position, am I really listening to the note?”
As with any other person who is 18, 19, 20 years old, I also wanted everything to “happen now.” But now that I’ve been doing this for decades, I still practice each one of these things that I’m mentioning to you every day, even if it’s for 10 minutes before I go to a soundcheck, while I’m on the road playing every night. These are the fundamentals that I will constantly work on until I stop playing. You know … that’s just the way it is!Photo by Leo Cackett
Small acts of kindness can go a long way. Embrace them. Perform them.
This is a story about a small act of kindness. It occurred in 1995 at a club gig, but the tale is rooted a dozen years earlier, when I started to develop my guitar playing in earnest. My bookend idols then were Roy Buchanan and Gang of Four guitarist Andy Gill—a roots and blues icon and a conflagrant punk-rock innovator. It might seem they had nothing in common, but listening reveals a shared love of taking risks, unpredictable turns in their playing, and a determination to push the envelopes of angularity and tone. Roy played a Tele and Andy had a Stratocaster, and when I initially took to stages, I had one of each.
I’d first heard Andy when Gang of Four’s blistering, brilliant 1979 debut album, Entertainment!, came out. Absolutely nothing sounded like Andy, with his piercing tone and atonal bombs, and his intention to screw with the conventional architecture of rock. Then there were the songs: salty, wise, withering social commentary in three-and-a-half-minute bursts. I instantly loved Gang of Four!
So, in 1995, during the run of my alternative-rock band, Vision Thing, I got a call from a Boston-area promoter—who I’d been begging for a gig, since he booked all the best joints in town—offering an opening slot for Gang of Four at a club called Axis. I was thrilled, but I was also conflicted, because I wanted us to be our best in front of my heroes and their audience, but Vision Thing was imploding, and that rarely makes for good work.
Moments later, in walks Andy Gill and Jon King, Gang of Four’s singer.
Maybe anyone who’s been in a band that’s a democracy can relate? As usual in such situations, everyone had a voice, but one person—me—did 90 percent of the work, including most of the songwriting. For months there had been constant arguments over direction, arrangements, gigs, attire, producers, the record label, and the beat goes on. Some members were fond of frequently proclaiming how much better they were than most of us, including me. Holding the band together for the cycle of our just-released album was exhausting and depressing, and I thought that perhaps after this “dream gig” with Gang of Four, I should just quit performing. Who needs the BS?
As it turned out, we were great on that gig—colorful, rocking, raw, emotional, and even inspired. But as soon as we got offstage, the rhythm section and Vision Thing’s other guitar player abruptly split without conversation, leaving the rest of us in our dressing room, feeling happy but awkward.
Moments later, in walks Andy Gill and Jon King, Gang of Four’s singer. They introduced themselves, thanked us for opening, and started talking about how much they liked our performance. When Andy complimented my tone and approach, I could barely stammer a “thank you.” And then, after perhaps five minutes, they split to get ready to annihilate the house.
I felt as if I’d been anointed. If Andy thought I was onto something, well, dammit, I was! Just a few words restored my belief in myself as an artist and buoyed me through that band until it died some months later. His simple act of kindness encouraged me to keep writing songs and playing, and to navigate a path that would take me to places like the original Knitting Factory and Bonnaroo, France’s Cognac Blues Passions and Switzerland’s Blue Rules, and 20 more years of clubs, festivals, theaters, and studios. Heck, maybe even to this gig.
In early 2019, while interviewing Andy for PG, I got to thank him for his kindness, and let him know he’d inspired me to continue making music. He was gracious, of course, although I’m sure he didn’t recall that night. For all I knew, he said that to every guitarist who ever played in a band that opened a Gang of Four show.
But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that he simply said it. And I try to carry that lesson with me today. If you like what another musician you see is doing, say it. And if you’re mezzo-mezzo, offer a compliment anyway—on gear, on a certain song, on a vocal inflection or a lick. Find something pleasant and encouraging to say, because you might be saving someone’s musical life. Also, this does not only apply to music. If somebody made you a great sandwich, compliment them. Hell, tell the bagger at your local grocery store that you appreciate them. It doesn’t cost anything, and can lift the spirits of that person.
When Andy died a year later, I was sad, but still grateful for his words, and grateful for a simple reminder that can be a buoy for yourself and others in the sometimes turbulent river of life: Be kind.