A 60-Second Harmony Lesson from Herbie Hancock - by Benny Green

 © Copyright ® Steven Cerra, copyright protected; all rights reserved.

The anecdote that pianist Benny Green relates below about his encounter with Herbie Hancock in Japan while both were touring the country with a select number of other Jazz pianists has taken place countless times both formally and informally in a variety of settings since time immemorial.

In a way, it’s another example of the adage: “Jazz can’t be taught but it can be learned.”

And, in my experience, the best way to learn Jazz is to learn it from those who have already demonstrated what you want to “say” on your instrument when you play Jazz.

How did they get to where you want to be in terms of technical proficiency and expressiveness? 

In the final analysis, it’s rarely about what gear you use, or what practice techniques you employ or how you conceptualize the music - all of which, of course, are important - but it’s usually about something simple and direct that breaks down barriers to entry. Accumulate enough of these lessons through studying with or listening to the masters and the results can be transformative in terms of the quality of your playing.

To wit -

“On too many occasions, I’ve reached out into an abyss of the unknown, hoping something "different” and beautiful will manifest, while lacking substantial grounding of any real semblance of sure footing from which to proceed.

Whether though divine intervention or merely law of averages, sometimes a happy accident might occur when one doesn’t really know what they’re doing, but as bassist Ray Brown cautioned when he felt that I tended to leave too much to kismet or chance - “If Oscar, Phineas, Ahmad, Hank Jones and Tommy Flanagan come out to hear you, and there they are sitting in the front row - you'll want to have something prepared”.

During an afterparty for musicians who’d played the Mt. Fuji Jazz Festival in 1988, in a small corridor adjoining the ballroom of our hotel and relatively out of view and earshot of other attendees, one of the pianists noticed a small upright piano.

Billy Childs, Mulgrew Miller, Renee Rosnes, me, and possibly Gonzalo Rubalcaba, (who was on the festival program that year although I’m not positive whether he made this particular hang), gathered around the piano with Herbie Hancock - all seeking an impromptu lesson, be it collectively or individually.

What wound up happening was that each individual in turn played a little for Herbie, who then provided each of us with some candid personal feedback.

What I recall of Mulgrew and Herbie’s exchange, was that Herbie encouraged Mulgrew to employ more “close fingering” and less of a raised-finger position in articulating his single-note right hand lines. Mulgrew expressed great appreciation and value for what Herbie had suggested, and I remember him later intimating that this exchange marked (paraphrasing) - a significant kind of turning and growth point for him.

I stood hovered over the other pianists’ shoulders as they played, halfway more caught-up in taking in the incredible good fortune and rarity of such a once-in-a-lifetime moment, than fully absorbing the informational gold that Herbie was imparting.

When it came my turn, I hadn’t given any real significant forethought to what I’d play. As embarrassed as I was about to become, the spontaneity of the situation, and the reality of the lack of preparation on my part, exposed my musical immaturity in no small way. I’ve since learned that a student’s musical shortcomings being fully exposed, is an ideal place from which a teacher can access and address the truth of a young musician’s stage of development. If one seeks to learn, they need not pretend that they know more than they do, that’s just a defensive stall from allowing the teacher to help.

Although my teacher and New York Father, Walter Bishop, Jr., was completely in my corner and believed in my potential all the way, the first time he heard me play outside of our lessons, comping for horns in a jam session when I was 19, he called me out of the club and onto the sidewalk. “What the hell were you doing up there? You sound like a striped tie on a plaid shirt - too busy. I see we’re going to need to work on your comping”. That’s some real love - Bish cared so much and was so invested in helping me, that he’d said “We”.

I began attempting to play “Someone To Watch Over Me” for Herbie. I guess I was trying to play what I’d hoped, on a wing and a prayer, would somehow turn out to be some sort of dramatic harmony.

Herbie stopped me after about 11 or 12 bars, and motioned for me to get up from the piano.

“If you want to play this song - or any song - you first need to learn how to do this -“

And with that, he proceeded to play the song in a way markedly unlike how I’d characterized Herbie Hancock’s playing to myself prior to that moment. He played what sounded like a very plain and authentic piano sheet music arrangement, with perfect counterpoint and voice distribution and of course, a gorgeous touch that made the upright piano sound like a grand. It was nothing fancy, no bells or whistles, it was just correct. He played “ Someone To Watch Over Me” - really straight, and good. To illustrate what I lacked, he served the melody rather than using the song as a vehicle to show off his wares.

This was undoubtedly an invaluable schooling in building one’s own house - whatever shapes and forms it may ultimately become, from solid foundations.”