There was something about the song that was unique and I wanted to dig into. And because I needed inspiration for a new lesson, the timing was perfect. The first thing I like to do when figuring out how a tune works is to lay out the main chords as an inventory. For this tune, the chords are pretty simple:
Am–G–D–Am
Yet again, Tom Petty takes a simple harmony and crafts an enduring rock anthem around it. We all joke about three-chord rock, but this is not only three-chord rock, it’s modal as well. So, why is this a Dorian chord progression? Just looking at the chords might be enough if you’d studied harmony a ton, but if you haven’t, the next step we should take is to spell out the chords into their individual notes:
Am = A C E
G = G B D
D = D F# A
Now that we’ve deconstructed the chords, the next task is to decide which note you think is home, or in theory-speak, the I. In this case, it’s pretty clear that A is home. We keep coming back to it, and it really does feel and sound right. With that done, we can take the chord tones and alphabetize them, starting with A. This yields a string of seven notes: A–B–C–D–E–F#–G.
Okay, we’ve taken inventory of all the notes contained in those three chords, starting from our root (A). The next step is to ponder the harmonic consequences of this discovery. What makes this a Dorian progression is the D major chord with an Am tonic. This D triad brings us an F#, which is not the normal F you’d see in an A Aeolian, aka A natural minor, scale (A–B–C–D–E–F–G). With Dorian, you end up with a scale that sounds minor, but with a raised 6, compared to natural minor. This yields an intriguing sound that’s not quite as dark as the minor scale you’re accustomed to. Many people describe and teach Dorian as a minor scale with a raised 6, and that’s exactly what we have here.
To get familiar with this sound, grab “Last Dance with Mary Jane” on your favorite music service and play along in A Dorian. Ex. 1 shows a handy scale diagram based on the 5th fret root of A on the 6th and 1st strings.
Now that we’ve connected the chords to the Dorian mode and we have a scale fingering, let’s hear some riffs in context.
For Ex. 2, I’m keying off the fact that this Dorian scale position is in the same spot as the familiar minor pentatonic scale, so we’re getting to use both the mode and the pentatonic in the same phrase. I’m featuring the F# (or the 6) as the signature note that makes Dorian unique, and also because it’s the 3 of the D major chord. You can play that F# whenever you want in this progression, but it’s extra awesome over the D chord.
Click here for Ex. 2
With its bluesy beginning, Ex. 3 is another line that relies on the pentatonic scale lurking inside of the Dorian scale. Again, when the D major chord occurs in the second measure, I’m calling attention to it with the F#. It’s a simple way to connect with the Dorian scale and still keep that rock/blues feel we all love.
Click here for Ex. 3
For our final example (Ex. 4), I stayed away from the pentatonic sound and tried to create a simpler melody with just the Dorian scale. It starts in the middle of the guitar’s range and follows a see-saw pattern of “go up a few, go down a few.” At the start of each chord change—every two beats—I align to the chord in the progression: A for the Am chord, G for the G chord, and F# for the D chord. This is a little bit of voice-leading that reminds me of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps.” It not only helps you anchor the chord progression, but it connects with the mode at the same time. We’re only using a portion of Ex. 1’s two-octave scale pattern—sometimes simple is best.
Click here for Ex. 4
But wait there’s more! While the opening chords clearly spell out an A Dorian progression, the chorus shifts to yet another modal key. This song keeps on giving us things to learn and practice—how cool. When the chorus starts, we hear the following chords:
Em–A–Em–A–G
As before, let’s pull the chords apart to see what’s inside:
Em = E G B
A = A C# E
G = G B D
And just like last time, we need to determine the root. In this case, it’s clearly E minor, so we’ll call this an E something mode. Starting with E, let’s ascend through the pitches to see what we get:
E–G–A–B–C#–D
This gives us six notes. While we’re missing the second note after E (which, in a seven-note scale, would be some type of F), we can still conclude it’s another Dorian scale, this time in the key of E. Relative to E, C# is a raised 6 and this matches our general idea of Dorian construction: minor scales with a raised 6. It’s really cool that this song allows you to practice in two keys, A Dorian for the verse and E Dorian (E–F#–G–A–B–C#–D) for the chorus.
Ex. 5 is a scale diagram for E Dorian. Note that it’s the same pattern as our previous A Dorian scale, just shifted up to the 12 fret to place the E root on the 6th and 1st strings.
The chorus is my favorite part of the song because it’s a moment where everything comes together—the chords and Petty’s vocal melody combine for a beautifully haunting Dorian sound. Pay attention to the “ry” in the melody of “Mary” to hear that C# over an Em chord—that’s the distinctive Dorian color at work. It’s one of the reasons I’ll keep this song in my arsenal of material for teaching Dorian to students, along with Pink Floyd’s epic “Breathe” from Dark Side of the Moon. (Go work out the Dorian key for that one.) For now, use the above examples for inspiration and find your own riffs and ideas for “Mary Jane.” Let your creativity and ears be your guide.
I hope you enjoyed exploring how to reverse-engineer a simple song. Over time, this process will become faster and you’ll be able to hear the modes more easily. The next time a tune really tickles your ear, take it apart as we’ve done here. Who knows? It may spawn a soloing concept or a song idea you wouldn’t have otherwise considered.
At the Fillmore in January 1997, where Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers made their historic 20-night stand to reclaim their musical soul—and leave an indelible impression on their audience.
With Petty as host, the Fillmore show attendees were treated to a tour of American roots music, psychedelia, foundational rock ’n’ roll, and Heartbreakers’ hits and obscurities, plus guest appearances by Roger McGuinn, Carl Perks, and John Lee Hooker.
Photo by Steve Minor
Tickets disappeared fast, but my sister scored a few for a show early on in the run, and when the day came, we set up camp on Geary Boulevard sometime around mid-morning in hopes of a shot at the front row. We weren’t alone. Our day in line was hilarious in a beautiful, old San Francisco kind of way, which is to say full of randomness, bacchanalia, and various brands of benevolent psychosis. The new friends we met were capital “C” characters. The air was fragrant. And for several hours we partied together, ate fried chicken and mashed potatoes from the KFC down the block, traded concert stories, and talked about record collections. Standing in line, I noticed something else. If you could be bothered to be at the Fillmore preposterously early and spend hours of your life sitting on cold concrete at great risk of terrible disappointment, you had a shot at the 10-20 tickets the Fillmore kept in reserve. I took note, and thought that if the show was good I might give it a try another day.
I guess I wouldn’t be writing this now if that first show wasn’t pure joy. We did make it up to the front—well the second row, anyway. And for a few hours I stood right there at Tom and Mike Campbell’s feet. I had expected a special show, and that I would have a blast. But I went home that night buzzing. I felt the same the next day. And by the time the 20-show run was done, I’d seen four of them.
“Our day in line was hilarious in a beautiful, old San Francisco kind of way, which is to say full of randomness, bacchanalia, and various brands of benevolent psychosis.”
There is an inexplicable warmth and magic about the Fillmore. There are grander and prettier venues in the world. But few are as rich with ghosts and aura. It may look like a simple old dance hall, but the grand chandeliers, psychedelic posters, and red velvet always lend a sense of sanctuary. And when you imagine the figures that stood on that stage, and feel the weight of that history, it feels even more enveloping and spiritual. Up on stage, the Heartbreaker’s mountain of old equipment seemed at home amid the Fillmore’s gold and crimson glow. Tom and Mike’s blonde Fender Bassmans looked dusty and earthy. And if you squinted, the scene looked a little like the barn shot on the back of Neil Young’s Harvest recreated in a Victorian bordello.
One of the Heartbreaker’s motivations for the Fillmore was a desire to shed their showbiz sheen for a minute. Certainly, the Heartbreakers machine had taken on a kind of predictability in the years leading up to the Fillmore run. But whether they considered it or not, the Heartbreakers were also taking part in a great tradition of cultural dynamism and exchange—dating back decades to the migrations of the Byrds, CSNY, and, in a way, the Beats before them—that of shaking off the shackles and glitter fix of Hollywood and heading to the North Country to get loose. Not coincidentally, the atmosphere around the Fillmore shows had the uncanny feel of a Grateful Dead show. The environment was intensely positive and contagious, and the Fillmore hummed with the energy of a fantastic party, well before the Heartbreakers even took the stage.
The exterior of the Fillmore, with Geary Boulevard in front.
Photo courtesy of Wiki Commons
At each of the four shows I attended (each spent rapt, leaning on the stage at the feet of Mike Campbell), the band kicked off with a three-punch flurry of Chuck Berry’s “Around and Around” (in the fashion of the Stones version), the 1987 nugget “Jammin’ Me,” and “Runnin’ Down a Dream,” which was traditionally a set closer. It takes a very confident band, sitting on a mighty cache of tunes, to come out swinging that hard. And as the band got cooking over the course of those first three tunes, you felt a giddy momentum and sense of movement gather in the crowd. From there, each show took its own shape, and on most nights the sense of anticipation and surprise pivoted around the set switch-ups and the covers the band threw in so effortlessly: JJ Cale’s “Call Me the Breeze and “Crazy Mama,” Mike Campbell taking solo turns on Ventures tunes and the Goldfinger theme, a beautiful, moody take on Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine,” the Zombies electric 12-string lament “I Want You Back Again,” and, in a nod to the creative conduit between L.A. and the Bay, the Grateful Dead’s “Friend of the Devil”
“The Fillmore hummed with the energy of a fantastic party, well before the Heartbreakers even took the stage.”
Then there were the guests. Roger McGuinn grinning as the band of assassins behind him summoned the amphetamine drive of “Eight Miles High” once again. Carl Perkins grinning even wider and devilishly, in real blue suede shoes, as he dazzled Campbell with his own very underrated and deadly picking. Guest turns can feel terribly contrived on big stages—just another showbiz move to get a few wows. But like so many other little moments at the Fillmore, these were peppered with spontaneity. I distinctly remember Mike Campbell laughingly waving away the clouds of pot smoke as Perkins, a classy gent and one of rock ‘n’ roll’s elder statesman, took the stage. And at one point during the McGuinn guest set, Campbell took the black Squier Telecaster he’d just used for “You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere” and gifted it to one of the regulars from the line out on Geary. She hadn’t yet missed a show, another front-row lunatic told me. I suspect he hadn’t missed many himself.
If I am honest, when I listen to the Fillmore performances as they appear on the new release, they seem much smoother and more polished than anything I remember hearing on those four nights. Up in the front row, I was taking more than a little heat from Campbell’s Bassman and Kustom amps, not to mention a whole lot of drums and cymbal splash. It all sounded so incredibly raw and rambunctious. So, I can’t help but think about how cool it would be to have a go at that mix—to coax all the rowdy grit I heard from this weird Southern hippie amalgam of the Stones, Byrds, and Dead turned into a monster tavern cover band that growled, roared, laughed, and drove 1,300 souls to beaming happiness for 20 nights. Maybe I’m wrong, but I have a feeling my old buddies from that line outside the Fillmore would really love it.