Column #4: To Thine Own Self Be True
Published March, 2000

Michael Morris was a nervous bassist. After all, it had been some time since his last foray into that scariest of worlds, the jazz jam. How long had it been? Probably all the way back to music school some eight years ago, when he decided not to lead a life devoted to studying Paul Chambers and Ray Brown. Not that Michael didn’t appreciate those guys and their music; he was just more in touch with, say, John Entwistle and Pino Palladino than Mingus and Pettiford.

The move paid off. Morris found work in the pop, rock, and even jazz-rock idioms almost immediately upon leaving school. Peer recognition followed soon after, and his playing voice developed steadily over years of sessions, gigs, and varied musical experiences.

Then a funny thing happened. Some new bass cats moved into town and were making the scene something fierce. They’d heard Morris was one of the guys in town to call, so they did. Morris was flattered, enjoying the ego-stroke right up until the moment they asked him to come down to their “jam” at the local club. “You know,” one of the new cats said nonchalantly, “just some standards and stuff.”

The very word “standard” struck fear in Michael’s heart. For all of his so-called reputation, he knew only three genuine Real Book tunes off the top of his head: “Footprints,” “So What?” and “Invitation” (and that only due to Jaco). Pretty pedestrian stuff. Morris declined for four consecutive weeks before finally giving in.

And so there he was, gig bag over his shoulder, walking into the club. Nervous.

The house band was about to start playing, and the cat who’d invited him waved from the stage as he tuned his bass. Morris nodded back from the bar just before knocking down a stiff drink to take the edge off. Two minutes later, the waitress arrived at his table to take a follow-up order, but she was drowned out by the opening chords of the band’s first tune: “Invitation.”

Well, he thought, so much for that one.

It was just as well. The house bassist was also the bandleader, and he tore into the tune with the confidence of someone who’d played it a thousand times. On a fretless, no less. Morris knew “Invitation” well enough to know its changes weren’t the easiest to solo over, but it hardly mattered to this cat. Half-diminished scales on the augmented chords? Constant melodies over wildly changing tonalities? What, him worry? And that was before he whipped out the harmonics. Morris tried to sit back and enjoy it, but he ended up with a lump in his throat instead.

The drummer began playing in 6/8 while the crowd applauded the end of the first tune. No, Morris thought, it can’t be. Alas, it was “Footprints.” The guitarist and violinist each took a solo. Both were stellar, with noticeable arcs and mature pacing. The bassist was stretching out, fully in his element. The second drink both arrived and disappeared somewhere during the violin solo.

Thirty minutes and three tunes later, the house bassist welcomed a friend to the stage. New Cat whipped out a hot-looking 6-string and counted off a funk groove. He had his right fist balled and thumb pointing up à la Marcus, and the slap sound was huge, not to mention deep in the pocket. Morris was still lamenting his lack of decent slap technique when, to his horror, the violinist began playing the melody to “So What?”

You have got to be kidding me! he cried silently. What the hell am I going to do now? Play “My Generation”?

By the time New Cat was improvising and singing his solo simultaneously, a full-on Morris Meltdown was officially underway. His mind was fast becoming a well of musical poison, spilling over with the things he either didn’t do well or didn’t do at all. Not exactly fertile ground for ideas on what tune to play.

“So What?” ended. New Cat left the stage to a rousing cheer, giving five and change to every band member. House Cat approached the mike again. “We’ve got a very special guest here tonight … Michael Morris is in the house. Come on up, man!”

Scattered applause followed. Very special indeed, he thought.

Morris searched his brain for the answer. What trick could he pull out of his sleeve to counter what he’d just witnessed? How could he impress this waiting crowd? Or, at the very least, simply avoid total embarrassment?

As a new drummer sat down, the violinist popped the question. “What do you wanna play, man?”

It was the way the question was posed that saved him. Although he appreciated what he’d just seen, he didn’t want to be that kind of player. If he did, he’d have been shedding that stuff for years--then maybe he would have gotten to the point where he felt comfortable with it. But he didn’t. And he was fine with that. Why couldn’t he be fine with that right now?

“Well,” said Morris, “how about ‘Mercy, Mercy, Mercy?’”

The other guys looked puzzled for a second and then collectively shrugged and agreed. “Sure,” the violinist said. “Can you take the first solo? I’m fuzzy on the bridge.”

Blues and pentatonic scales danced joyously in Michael’s head, and the tension flowed from his body like water from a busted dam. “No problem.”

* * * * *

The song ended to considerably more applause than Morris had garnered upon his introduction. House Cat was waiting for him as he left the stage.

“Man, that was great. Real down-to-earth groove. Thanks a lot for coming down. I really didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh, stop it. You and that other guy were just unbelievable. Totally out of control.” Morris smiled and shook his head. “In all honesty, it’s weird that I’m even here. I usually don’t do things like this anymore. I mean, you guys just coming out of school, playing like that--is everyone back there that good now?”

“Hmmm. I wouldn’t say they’re all that good, but the good ones keep getting better younger and younger. You wait--in a couple of years they’ll be out here kicking my ass. There are plenty of guys back there just as good as I am, if not better.”

“Yeah,” Morris said as he slid his Fender 5-string back into his gig bag, “but they’ll never be you.”

By Bryan Beller, copyright 2000 United Entertainment Media. Reprinted from the March, 2000 issue of BASS PLAYER. Reprinted with permission from BASS PLAYER. For subscription information, please call (850) 682-7644 or visit www.bassplayer.com