“Playing bass is the exact same thing as being in offensive alignment in pro football, “ he tells us. “In jazz, the focus tends to be on the vocalist or the horn player. Usually, the rhythm section is relegated as the support cast; we are the back-up guys. In football, the focus is placed on the quarterback, or the running back, or wide receiver - those are your vocalist, saxophone, and trumpet players. But if your offensive alignment isn't blocking properly, if it's not creating holes for the running back, if it's not protecting the quarter back, no body's other position matters! It's the same thing as being a bass player. Most people don't notice the offensive alignment until they are not doing their job. The theory is very much the same on the bandstand; the bass player is very much like the glue that holds it all together, and when you do your job well, nobody is supposed to know you are doing it. A bass player should want to be the person who noticeably holds the band together."
It's a captivating analogy, and certainly not the only one McBride has up his sleeve. Another such concept comes to light as out conversation turns to the different kinds of satisfaction he feels when playing acoustic versus electric bass. “The double bass is organic; it's the ground, Mother Earth. That's where everything grows out of," he explains. “Electric bass is the restless child of the mother; it's great to have a restless child, because it keeps you on your toes. You've got to always be alert about what's happening. It brings a large energy around. The acoustic bass is the mother who watches over all;it gives birth to the music."
McBride, born in 1972 in Philadelphia, took on the torch at an early age from his father and great uncle, both bassists. He was gradually exposed to different styles of music, notably jazz, through rare recordings he found by digging through store shelves, and at concerts he went to.
“Dizzy Gillespie, Ella Fitzgerald, McCoy Tyner, Sonny Rollins,the Heath Brothers, I saw them all," he recalls fervently. “It seemed to me like the caliber of musicianship in New York was on such an unattainable level. I thought,'I've got to get there from Philly, so that I can try to be as good as they are, so that I can get to travel all over the world like they do, so that I can get to play with them."
His wish came true. He attended the prestigious Julliard School - but as he spent more time at all-night jam sessions, touring on the road, and generally living the life of a true jazz musician, he soon dropped out. His first album, Gettin' to It, was released by Verve in 1995.
“I was so determined, I knew it would be okay. I wanted nothing more than to be respected by my peers and older musicians, whom I idolized so much. I didn't want to be liked, I wanted to be respected. I didn't want them to say I'm good for my age, I wanted them to say I'm good. I wanted to be ready for the day I'd get a call from one of the musicians!" he declares.
And calls he got. He has since shared the stage with an impressive array of musicians, including Sting, Diana Krall, Roy Haynes, Betty Carter, Chaka Khan, James Brown, George Benson. He's even worked with Sonny Rollins, whom he used to watch in awe as a teenager, when the saxophonist would pass through his city.
Having served as the Creative Chair for the Jazz for the Los Angeles Philharmonic for the last four years, McBride continues to tour, record, and compose. His latest albums are Conversations with Christian, a series of recordings in the format of musician-to-musician interviews, and Kind of Brown, a straight ahead jazz album - both of which are produced by Mack Avenue Records.
Despite his achievements, McBirde can be hard on himself. “I don't know. I still feel that hunger," he admits. “Sometimes musicians. we can be guilty of thinking too hard; we are trying too hard to be different, trying too hard to do something that has never been done before, but just like the saying goes, 'The only thing new is the history that you didn't know.' I guess the answer is to stop trying to be this and that. Just be you. That's already different. That's already special. It's great to push the envelope and try to reach for that lost star in the sky, but keep in mind, there's the law of gravity. Balance is key."
Venice Magazine: Music to you is like...
Christian McBride:....Water. It's like air. Just like you need the sun and the rain, you nee music in your life. Cars going by, that's like a musical chord to my ears. I've been a city boy my whole life, and to me, ambulance sirens, trash being thrown, people arguing in the apartment next door, parties going on down the hall - -these are tones, these are the sounds, and they relax me; that's what I grew up with. I like hearing all that.
How did the bass find you?
Through my father. I saw my father play when I was six years old and I knew that's what I wanted to do. Mu mother bought me my first electric bass just after my ninth birthday. I fell in love with it; I knew I had found my calling. I feel very fortunate that I was so young and discovered what I loved. I did toy around with the idea of playing professional football. I still have dreams about that once in a while, and I did play a little bit, but after my first concussion, I realized it was music 100-percent, unequivocally. Once my mother saw that I was becoming serious about it, she enrolled me in a middle school in Philadelphia that had a really good music program, and that's when I started playing the acoustic bass.
How did Jazz come into your life?
Through my great uncle. When I started playing acoustic bass in junior high, he got so excited. He said, “Come over to my house. I got something I want to play for you. Now that you are playing the upright bass, I have got to turn you on to the cats. “ So all night long, he played Charles Mingus, Jimmy Garrison, Oscar Pettiford, Ray Brown, Percy Heath, Ron Carter, Paul Chambers, and I loved it! Part of the reason why I loved it was because my great uncle never took the persona of a teacher, where he is talking at me, saying, “Now, you need to stop listening to pop music." No, he never did that. he was all inclusive in his approach; he appreciated what was popular or hot at the time. He told me, “That's cool too. Just add this to the mix as well."
What was it about those recordings and musicians that made you want to be a part of it?
Jazz musicians were so supremely elegant and highly intelligent to my eyes. To me, they represented high-fashion thinkers in music. But they also had this kind of street swagger, gangster vibe, too. They could talk about politics and religion, but could start fighting at a bar or on the street. I thought they were super hip and wanted to be around that. [laughs] On a musical level, it seemed to me that any time you try to learn not only the art, but also the science of music, ablut things that go into what makes a good musician, jazz was the ultimate test. Because here is a musician who composes on the spot. That's what improvisation is: left brain and right brain working simultaneously. You've got to know what chords go in, which notes fit, how to put the phrase together to make it sound musical.
Where is the best place to learn - -the bandstand or the classroom? You went to Julliard, but walked away after a year and went on the road.
As far as being a jazz musician, the best way - actually , the only way - to learn is on the bandstand. The classroom only sets you up; it only helps you acquire the tools that you'll need to be on the job. You don't know how well your tools work until you get on the job. There is this kind of accepted belief that those kinds of opportunities are dying down for young jazz musicians today. I am not really sure if that's the case. Maybe the caliber of musicians that my generation had has thinned out, so to speak, because the nusicinas of my generation, we were the last generation to really have hands-on training with the jazzmene of the golden era, like Milt Jackson or Art Blakey. So there is this myth that a lot of the younger guys now won't get that. Well, they won't in a way, but they will get it through us. I love nothing more than meeting some young musicians and putting some heat on them, and making them feel the same fright I felt getting on stage with Freddie Hubbard, for instance. [laughs] The difference now is thatalot of young musicians want you to tell them how great they sound. They want you to tell them it's okay to be different, which to them means finding a way around practicing. I want to tell them, “Don't be different. Be good at what you do. Everybody is already different; you don't have to try to be."
Who were some of your mentors?
I've had many. I really do my best to soak up everything from everybody; they don't have to be popular. I believe that everybody has a certain aura. I believe in their personality, a specialty, so I try to focus in on what that is.
Any anecdote to share from a moment shared with one of them?
I played with Wayne Shorter for the first time about 12 years ago. We were at his house , rehearsing to his legendary song, “Speak No Evil." And I was looking at it and noticed there was an introduction written down that was never on the recording. Wayne turned around and said, “Oh yeah, that was supposed to be a part of the song, but we didn't record it." And I said, “Why not?" And he said, “We were too drunk! [laughs] He was honest. I miss being around guys like that; keeps you honest.
How do you make sure the ego does not interfere with the music created on the bandstand?
The nature of the bass as an instrument is not one that stands out; it's not that loud. Most people don't consider it sexy. It's a big and stays on the side or background. You know, like a trumpet player can do his solo and move to the side, a piano player has the option not to play for a moment, drummers are always loud because they are trying to show off to the girls or other drummers - but bass players don't necessarily have options. I want to be able to [teach] younger cats to have a hunger for fame. You get known by getting respect. There is a certain amount of work you've got to do. You've go to work hard, and want hard to make it.
Herbie Hancock and Quincy Jones come to my mind as you say that. They have always gone outside to comfort zone, beyond a specific genre, yet they've kept it real and humble.
I always felt like Herbie an go and play with all those kinds of people, styles, cultures, textures, but at the root of what he does, undoubtedly, is what makes him a great jazz pianist. He kept expending, but stayed true to his roots, which is jazz. Some go so far out that they do not find their way back home. Herbie always comes back home. And that's his genius. Today, there aren't many musicians who still have that hunger [that they had] when they were in their 20s.
How did you keep that fire burning inside you?
All day, all night, I listened to music. I studied every record, read every book, worked on all chord changes over and over again. Another important thing I learned as a young musician is, “Know when to shut the hell up." When you get in a room with musicians like Benny Golson, Elvin Jones, Johnny Griffin, don't say nothing. Just shut up and listen to what they have to say, and I guarantee you'll learn so much. I used to be at jam sessions with them and I'd hear them talking or playing, and I used to whisper to myself, “Okay, remember that. Okay, remember that."
You spend a good amount of time on the road. Are there days when you don't touch your bass?
I am human; there are days when I don't even want to see my bass. I mean, I come back from a tour after having played 15 shows in a row, and when I get home, all I want to say is, “Okay bass, I'll see you later!" But what happens is that if I let too many days go by, the bass says, “are you ready to have your ass kicked? You think you can just leave me in a corner like that?" [laughs] With experience, you learn what your limits are; three days is the absolute maximum I can not touch my bass. If I go longer, my hands and fingers will get soft.
When you write music, when do you know when a song is complete?
Wayne Shorter once said, and I'm paraphrasing, that if composing is improvisation slowed down, and you're always trying to find new ways to improvise, and the theory of improvising always changes every time you play, then why can't your song grow like that as well? Why is it that when you write a tune, it stays like that for the rest of its life? I guess maybe a song isn't ever finished. You could write it and a year later add eight more bars here, or take away a part. Ilike to think that a song has a life span of its own. It doesn't have to be set in stone.
Do you listen to your old recordings?
Only by accident. My iPod is on shuffle, so I stumble on a tune sometimes. There are certain things I like and others I cannot stand. I cannot get myself to listen to my first album, which, ironically, is my most popular. I think I play a lot of different today; that was 15 years ago, and I've grown since. All I hear is hard, boring, sloppy. it isn't as sleek and balanced as it would be if I recorded it today. Balance comes from experience. Once you've played with a lot of different people and have been trust in distinct situations as a sideman or leader, you begin to know what you need and not. What could work or fail.
What is your take on the ongoing debate about whether jazz is dissolving or evolving. Are you worried about its future?
If I ever really had worries, I'd just go on the offensive and take it upon myself to musically do what I felt was missing. I think that's kind of what I did with my band, Inside Straight, to a certain level. I realized how, less and less, I've been in bands that were truly swinging, where you just played good melodies, music that just felt good without any intellectualization. There are some great musicians out there today who have that fire. It's going to be all right. People have been saying that jazz is dying for the last 40 years. If it has not died by now, it's not going anywhere. We've got to find a way to get the music heard by the people; it's not that they don't like to go out and hear jazz or download and listen to it at home, it's just that they don't know what's out there. We've got to figure out a way to get the people who are behind the music out of the way, so that musicians can be able to get their musical message directly to the public, without having to pass through middle man. That has been an ongoing struggle.
What do you say when you leave the stage?
It depends. I like feeling tired, beat up, like I was at the gym. As a listener and as a player, I love to be in the company of music that makes me sweat; something that has soul, music that comes from deep within, where musicians play hard, with passion.
What do you hope people say as they leave a concert of yours?
“Bou, that felt good!"
Christian McBride performs at the following venues:
Dizzy's Club Coca-Cola at Jazz at Lincoln Center
February 23-28th
Blue Note Jazz Club NYC
March 18th
Yoshi's San Francisco
March 24-28th
For more information contact All About Jazz.
