Trumpeter and percussionist Richard Nant grew up in the mountainous province of Cordoba, studied at Berklee with Guillermo Klein and Juan Cruz de Urquiza, and leads one of Buenos Aires's best and longest-running jazz groups, Argentos.
Eric Benson: When did this jazz movement start?
Richard Nant: It's hard to find the point of departure. There was a point of departure for me. Guillermo had another. But at some point our paths met. That was in Boston at Berklee.
EB: You didn't know each other before?
RN: No. Guillermo had heard me once before. We always laugh about that because I played terribly. Well, maybe not terribly, but it was a jam session. I always feel like a fish out of water at jam sessions.
After that, we met at Berklee, and there was a click, like two things that come together, and one has what the other needs to grow. I remember playing songs that Guillermo wrote, and I would think, “this music is like something I would have written." The same thing happened to Guillermo. From 1991 onward, we knew that we'd be playing this music together when we were old and gray.
EB: Did your connection with Guillermo also have to do with your shared roots in Argentine?
RN: Yes. There are sounds that reached us in the same way, harmonies that reached us in the same way, rhythms that reached us in the same way. We'd heard Cuchi Leguizamón. We'd both listened to Piazzolla. I'm six years older than Guillermo, so I heard people like “El Flaco" Spinetta and Charly Garcia when I was a teenager. Guillermo heard them from another perspective. When I first listened to Guillermo's music, I heard all of that.
Luis Alberto Spinetta—Por
EB: And how did jazz come into that mixture of influences?
RN: To me, jazz is like speaking with a sage. Jazz isn't a stylistic influence; it's a philosophical influence. When I'm searching for something musically, I can find whatever answers I'm seeking if I look through the lens of jazz. I can see a lot more beauty when I put other kinds of music under the lens of jazz.
EB: So when you look through the lens of jazz at the music of Spinetta and Leguizamón and Piazzolla, you see it differently?
RN: I see the possibilities of expression. Like I want to say this, but I could have also done that.
EB: So you see paths that Spinetta didn't take?
RN: No, no. I understand that Spinetta was also saying this and this and this. It taught me to listen to Spinetta's music better.
EB: You play trumpet and percussion. Did you always play both?
RN: No. The place where I first studied music, the place where I grew up musically, was a very small town in Córdoba. My first instrument was a drum, but when I was six, I grabbed a trumpet. I never played that drum again.
And then the bombo appeared. One time when I was playing with Guillermo at Berklee, and I thought, wow, we could do this song with a bombo. And Guillermo said to me, “yeah, let's try it out." In Boston, someone loaned me a bombo. It was a big moment. Since then, I've never stopped playing bombo with Guillermo.
EB: And after Berklee you went to New York?
RN: Yeah, for close to five years. I played with Guillermo, but I also played with a French composer named Magali Souriau. She was very important for me and very important for Guillermo as well.
EB: What did you learn from her?
RN: Her vision of music. More than learning, it was the feeling of living together through music.
Another really key person for me and Guillermo was Jeff Ballard. We had this very close knit triangle. We'd spend a lot of time hanging, and every so often, we'd start to play together with our palms. We'd just tap out rhythms on the table, and those moment were like seeds, like small embryos. There'd be a couple bars of a clave, a harmony would appear, and then it would turn into a song. A lot of the things we've done started in those moments when we were playing in the kitchen.
EB: Do a lot of your compositions start with a rhythm?
RN: Some of my compositions come from a harmonic place, but the majority start as rhythms. With rhythms, I figure out everything much more fluidly. With harmony, I need a lot more time for reflection. Rhythm is fluid, it's like how you move your body. You don't reflect on it. It would be like asking “how do you walk?" Sure, I could improve the way I walk and be a little more upright, but I don't want to. I walk how I walk.
Argentos—Los hijos de la danza (Nant)
EB: And with harmony, you're analyzing in a different way...
RN: When I have a harmony in my head, I just pour it onto the page. Later, I analyze it, I reflect on it, and from there I can change it.
EB: But in the beginning it just flows?
RN: Yes. Then there's this whole process of reflection, but I always have the original idea in mind. I don't want to leave that point of departure. There are times when the embryo just turns into an empty vehicle for showing off your chops, but I think it needs to be the other way around—chops need to help nourish that embryo. It's all about not straying from the original idea.
EB: One thing that's really struck me about jazz down here is that individual solos feel much more integrated with the other instruments. Is that something you feel too?
RN: That's related to what I said before about not feeling comfortable at jam sessions. You have to have serious chops to keep that up, to take solo after solo on song after song. I'm just not a guy who's going to play ten songs in a night and take ten solos. I feel much better understanding others. When we played the other night, I think I only played one full solo. It's a sound that's much more group oriented, like a conversation between friends. The six of us could be sitting there talking, and we'd be talking exactly like we play.
EB: It seems like the value of the group sound is something you share with Pipi and Escalandrúm. Guillermo has it too.
RN: The group concept is deeply rooted in us; it's an Argentine idiosyncrasy. It's a form of friendship that's very common here. We get together a lot even when we're not playing.
EB: When you returned from Buenos Aires in 1999, what was the jazz scene like?
RN: It was different, but it was also very different from what it was like when I left in 1991. Before I left, it was really rare to have a group. Bands were never around long enough to develop.
EB: Had that changed by the time you came back in 1999?
RN: I look at the jazz scene in 1999 as halfway between what it was like when I left in 1991 and what it's like now in 2008. Now, there are just more opportunities. In the 80s, no one even considered living off jazz.
EB: You had to play music from a lot of other genres?
RN: A lot of other genres and a lot of other contexts. You could count on one hand the number of musicians who had the kind of opportunities we have now. Fats Fernandez was one. Fats was one of the very few guys in those years who could say, I'm going to do what I like and nothing more. Jorge Navarro was another. But it wasn't a scene; it was a few individuals.
EB: So what changed?
RN: I think there was one man who changed the Argentine music scene completely: Astor Piazzolla. Piazzolla was a guy who impacted all of us. His career, his music, and his art are like a book of teachings. He trascended tango. He made classical musicians listen to him. He made jazz musicians listen to him. He made folkloric musicians listen to him.
EB: But Piazzolla was playing in the 80s...
RN: Yes, but he wasn't then what he is now. His influence is stronger now. He's stopped being a controversial musician. That's passed. Now he's a huge influence on every generation.
EB: What was his influence exactly?
RN: “I want to do what I want to do." “I have something to share." “I'm someone musically." I think Piazzolla is a hinge, a before and after. Some people say he's the before and after of tango. I think he's the before and after of all Argentine music.
EB: When did you really discover Piazzolla's music?
RN: What happens sometime is that, as they say, you can't see the forest for the trees. You need to distance yourself to see what's really there. When I was a teenager, I didn't really listen to Piazzolla. When I was studying abroad at Berklee, jazz said to me, “look inside yourself." And that quest made me listen to a lot more music. One effect of that was that it made me listen more to Miles and Duke. Another effect was that I started listening to Argentine artists like Piazzolla and Cuchi Leguizamón and “El Flaco" Spinetta and Charly Garcia.
EB: And that's something you share with a lot of Argentine jazz musicians that are here now?
RN: Before I left, jazz musicians here spoke about the jazz that was happening in the US. Now, a jazz musician here will also talk about Piazzolla and Cuchi and the people who are playing on the scene.
I was talking with Juan Cruz the other day, and we were saying that it was big surprise, a really satisfying surprise, that there were now young trumpeters transcribing our solos. We used to transcribe Freddie Hubbard's solos, and now there are young guys transcribing what we play. It's like without realizing it, we've done something important. It also makes me feel responsible. I need to continue on this path.
This interview has been translated from the original Spanish. It was conducted on July 2, 2008 in a café in the Congreso neighborhood of Buenos Aires.
Eric Benson: When did this jazz movement start?
Richard Nant: It's hard to find the point of departure. There was a point of departure for me. Guillermo had another. But at some point our paths met. That was in Boston at Berklee.
EB: You didn't know each other before?
RN: No. Guillermo had heard me once before. We always laugh about that because I played terribly. Well, maybe not terribly, but it was a jam session. I always feel like a fish out of water at jam sessions.
After that, we met at Berklee, and there was a click, like two things that come together, and one has what the other needs to grow. I remember playing songs that Guillermo wrote, and I would think, “this music is like something I would have written." The same thing happened to Guillermo. From 1991 onward, we knew that we'd be playing this music together when we were old and gray.
EB: Did your connection with Guillermo also have to do with your shared roots in Argentine?
RN: Yes. There are sounds that reached us in the same way, harmonies that reached us in the same way, rhythms that reached us in the same way. We'd heard Cuchi Leguizamón. We'd both listened to Piazzolla. I'm six years older than Guillermo, so I heard people like “El Flaco" Spinetta and Charly Garcia when I was a teenager. Guillermo heard them from another perspective. When I first listened to Guillermo's music, I heard all of that.
Luis Alberto Spinetta—Por
EB: And how did jazz come into that mixture of influences?
RN: To me, jazz is like speaking with a sage. Jazz isn't a stylistic influence; it's a philosophical influence. When I'm searching for something musically, I can find whatever answers I'm seeking if I look through the lens of jazz. I can see a lot more beauty when I put other kinds of music under the lens of jazz.
EB: So when you look through the lens of jazz at the music of Spinetta and Leguizamón and Piazzolla, you see it differently?
RN: I see the possibilities of expression. Like I want to say this, but I could have also done that.
EB: So you see paths that Spinetta didn't take?
RN: No, no. I understand that Spinetta was also saying this and this and this. It taught me to listen to Spinetta's music better.
EB: You play trumpet and percussion. Did you always play both?
RN: No. The place where I first studied music, the place where I grew up musically, was a very small town in Córdoba. My first instrument was a drum, but when I was six, I grabbed a trumpet. I never played that drum again.
And then the bombo appeared. One time when I was playing with Guillermo at Berklee, and I thought, wow, we could do this song with a bombo. And Guillermo said to me, “yeah, let's try it out." In Boston, someone loaned me a bombo. It was a big moment. Since then, I've never stopped playing bombo with Guillermo.
EB: And after Berklee you went to New York?
RN: Yeah, for close to five years. I played with Guillermo, but I also played with a French composer named Magali Souriau. She was very important for me and very important for Guillermo as well.
EB: What did you learn from her?
RN: Her vision of music. More than learning, it was the feeling of living together through music.
Another really key person for me and Guillermo was Jeff Ballard. We had this very close knit triangle. We'd spend a lot of time hanging, and every so often, we'd start to play together with our palms. We'd just tap out rhythms on the table, and those moment were like seeds, like small embryos. There'd be a couple bars of a clave, a harmony would appear, and then it would turn into a song. A lot of the things we've done started in those moments when we were playing in the kitchen.
EB: Do a lot of your compositions start with a rhythm?
RN: Some of my compositions come from a harmonic place, but the majority start as rhythms. With rhythms, I figure out everything much more fluidly. With harmony, I need a lot more time for reflection. Rhythm is fluid, it's like how you move your body. You don't reflect on it. It would be like asking “how do you walk?" Sure, I could improve the way I walk and be a little more upright, but I don't want to. I walk how I walk.
Argentos—Los hijos de la danza (Nant)
EB: And with harmony, you're analyzing in a different way...
RN: When I have a harmony in my head, I just pour it onto the page. Later, I analyze it, I reflect on it, and from there I can change it.
EB: But in the beginning it just flows?
RN: Yes. Then there's this whole process of reflection, but I always have the original idea in mind. I don't want to leave that point of departure. There are times when the embryo just turns into an empty vehicle for showing off your chops, but I think it needs to be the other way around—chops need to help nourish that embryo. It's all about not straying from the original idea.
EB: One thing that's really struck me about jazz down here is that individual solos feel much more integrated with the other instruments. Is that something you feel too?
RN: That's related to what I said before about not feeling comfortable at jam sessions. You have to have serious chops to keep that up, to take solo after solo on song after song. I'm just not a guy who's going to play ten songs in a night and take ten solos. I feel much better understanding others. When we played the other night, I think I only played one full solo. It's a sound that's much more group oriented, like a conversation between friends. The six of us could be sitting there talking, and we'd be talking exactly like we play.
EB: It seems like the value of the group sound is something you share with Pipi and Escalandrúm. Guillermo has it too.
RN: The group concept is deeply rooted in us; it's an Argentine idiosyncrasy. It's a form of friendship that's very common here. We get together a lot even when we're not playing.
EB: When you returned from Buenos Aires in 1999, what was the jazz scene like?
RN: It was different, but it was also very different from what it was like when I left in 1991. Before I left, it was really rare to have a group. Bands were never around long enough to develop.
EB: Had that changed by the time you came back in 1999?
RN: I look at the jazz scene in 1999 as halfway between what it was like when I left in 1991 and what it's like now in 2008. Now, there are just more opportunities. In the 80s, no one even considered living off jazz.
EB: You had to play music from a lot of other genres?
RN: A lot of other genres and a lot of other contexts. You could count on one hand the number of musicians who had the kind of opportunities we have now. Fats Fernandez was one. Fats was one of the very few guys in those years who could say, I'm going to do what I like and nothing more. Jorge Navarro was another. But it wasn't a scene; it was a few individuals.
EB: So what changed?
RN: I think there was one man who changed the Argentine music scene completely: Astor Piazzolla. Piazzolla was a guy who impacted all of us. His career, his music, and his art are like a book of teachings. He trascended tango. He made classical musicians listen to him. He made jazz musicians listen to him. He made folkloric musicians listen to him.
EB: But Piazzolla was playing in the 80s...
RN: Yes, but he wasn't then what he is now. His influence is stronger now. He's stopped being a controversial musician. That's passed. Now he's a huge influence on every generation.
EB: What was his influence exactly?
RN: “I want to do what I want to do." “I have something to share." “I'm someone musically." I think Piazzolla is a hinge, a before and after. Some people say he's the before and after of tango. I think he's the before and after of all Argentine music.
EB: When did you really discover Piazzolla's music?
RN: What happens sometime is that, as they say, you can't see the forest for the trees. You need to distance yourself to see what's really there. When I was a teenager, I didn't really listen to Piazzolla. When I was studying abroad at Berklee, jazz said to me, “look inside yourself." And that quest made me listen to a lot more music. One effect of that was that it made me listen more to Miles and Duke. Another effect was that I started listening to Argentine artists like Piazzolla and Cuchi Leguizamón and “El Flaco" Spinetta and Charly Garcia.
EB: And that's something you share with a lot of Argentine jazz musicians that are here now?
RN: Before I left, jazz musicians here spoke about the jazz that was happening in the US. Now, a jazz musician here will also talk about Piazzolla and Cuchi and the people who are playing on the scene.
I was talking with Juan Cruz the other day, and we were saying that it was big surprise, a really satisfying surprise, that there were now young trumpeters transcribing our solos. We used to transcribe Freddie Hubbard's solos, and now there are young guys transcribing what we play. It's like without realizing it, we've done something important. It also makes me feel responsible. I need to continue on this path.
This interview has been translated from the original Spanish. It was conducted on July 2, 2008 in a café in the Congreso neighborhood of Buenos Aires.
