Well, the color, for one. I’ve always been a big fan of the audience focusing their attention on the performer, not the instrument. And Nord’s trademark red paint with red wooden cheekblocks may be good advertising for them, but it does not at all recall the look of our beloved keyboards of yesteryear.

So once the keyboard was mine, it was time for a facelift. I took it apart, which was not particularly difficult - the whole unit unscrews, and a few ribbon connectors connect the electronic components to each other. I carefully wrote down the positions of each element, put the screws and cards in ziploc bags, and then stowed them were they couldnt be disturbed. At that point, I masked off the silkscreening on the front panel with masking tape, so the information there stayed safe. I hung the top and bottom panels up from the ceiling, and turned red to black with a can of spray paint. The red cheekblocks sanded down to bare wood quite readily. I then stained them with a mahogany colored stain, sealed them with spar varnish, and voila! An instrument that blends perfectly.

The Nick Peck Organ Trio with our black Nord Electro 3

So, I used to be completely insane. I carried the following with me to gigs for years:

• Hammond B3 chop
• Leslie 122 speaker
• Rhodes or Wurlitzer electric piano
• Hohner Clavinet E7
• Pedal board
• Fender Twin Reverb amp

There was indeed a method to my madness. I wanted all those sounds, and I had enough friends and van space to make this happen. But it was still totally crazy.

Nord recently sent me their newest vintage performance keyboard, the Nord Electro 3 to review for Electronic Musician magazine. And while I will save most of my comments for the article, I can say that it sounds great, is quite easy to use, and is incredibly portable. I was able to dial up very personalized Hammond, Wurly, Rhodes, and Clav sounds quite quickly, and tweaked them on the fly at the gig with no trouble at all.

Lest I betray my analog bias, I will certainly say that it is not identical with the real thing - it is a bit bright, a bit harsh, and a bit…digital. But certainly not enough to make any difference on the stage. For studio work, I will continue to use my real instruments - the sound and the interactivity are different enough to make it worth my while. And for jazz organ gigs, I will still continue to cart around my chop and Leslie, or my digital Hammond XK-3 and Leslie. But for more general purpose gigs, where straight up organ is not the primary focus, the Electro is absolutely the way to go.

Here is a video from a recent gig with the Electro:

Though the paper is certainly written in a formal academic style,
I think there is interesting information here for any fan of Yes
and Rick, musical training or not.

Contents

• Introduction
• Personal History
• Wakeman’s Session Work
• The Strawbs
• Yes and the Progressive Rock Phenomena
• The Beginnings of Wakeman’s Solo Career
• Wakeman’s Departure From Yes
• The Return to Yes
• Wakeman’s Solo Career in the Eighties
• The Third Installation in the Wakeman/Yes Saga
• A Look at Wakeman’s Diverse Use of Keyboard Sound
  • Piano
  • Harpsichord
  • Hammond Organ
  • Pipe Organ
  • Mellotron
  • Orchestra and Choir
  • Analog Synthesizers
  • Digital Synthesizers
• Conclusion
• End Notes
• Bibliography

Introduction

Keyboardist/composer Rick Wakeman is best known for his virtuosity,
flashy stage personality, and grandiose, often mythical subject
matter. His recorded output, spanning the last quarter century,
has been an incredibly diverse collection of songs, rock suites,
and album length concept works. Wakeman’s pollination of the rock
idiom with the lavish complexities of Western art music has introduced
a generation of rock listeners to the classical world, and served
as a beacon for younger composers. The accolades he has received
from within the classical community have helped to call attention
to and elevate the status of art rock in general.

Though his achievements are impressive, I will examine here a
somewhat overlooked aspect of Rick Wakeman’s contribution to the
progressive rock movement, and music in general: his diverse use
of tone color. Wakeman’s timbral choices complement and work in
conjunction with his compositional technique, sophisticated command
of the keyboard idiom, and personal stylistic gestures, to make
his music distinctive. Wakeman finds the right instrument for
the part, and then performs upon it idiomatically, all the while
maintaining his unique, instantly recognizable personal style.

In addition to being a pioneering synthesist, Wakeman has used
piano, Hammond organ, pipe organ, harpsichord, Mellotron, and
full orchestra for his musical palette. Scarcely an electronic
or electric keyboard has been released in the last twenty five
years that has escaped Wakeman’s scrutiny; the good ones inevitably
appear on his albums. His knack for careful, subtle orchestration
has helped his music to withstand the test of time. In today’s
music industry, synthesized timbres are overused, worn out, and
quickly replaced by the “next big sound.” Though most popular
music sounds dated and stale within a decade, Wakeman’s best works,
such as “Roundabout,” “And You, and I,” and “Awaken” still sound
fresh and aurally stimulating, some twenty years after they were
recorded. In this paper, I will examine a number of these seminal
pieces, looking at the techniques, sounds, and performances he
used to make them interesting both then and now.

Personal History

Richard Wakeman was born on May 18th, 1949, to a middle class
couple living in a suburb of London. His father Cyril was a part-time
pianist, who started Rick with classical piano lessons at the
age of seven. Though a rebellious student, who preferred rearranging
his classical pieces to practicing scales, Rick won piano competitions
throughout his childhood. At 16, he decided to become a concert
pianist. Shortly thereafter, he passed his O and A levels in music,
and was accepted into the Royal College of Music in London. He
soon decided to forego the career of a concert pianist, citing
the slim chances for success, low income, and intense competition.
Wakeman changed his major to music education, but soon found that
he “made a very bad teacher. If I was teaching a class where only
two [students] were interested I couldn’t bear it. Music in schools
is often treated as the joke period of the week.(1)”

Wakeman’s Session Work

During this same period, Wakeman began playing rock recording
sessions. As his reputation grew, he became busier. The freedom
and improvisational aspects of rock music began to win out over
the traditionalism of an academic system that Rick felt ever more
removed from. Sessions soon came at an average of more than one
per day. What little spare time Wakeman had left was spent in
the pub rather than class. To the horror of his parents, he finally
dropped out of the Royal College to concentrate on sessions and
dance band gigs full time. Though Wakeman’s rigorous classical
training may have seemed fruitless at the time, it would soon
become a crucial part of his overall sound. The deep familiarity
with classical techniques, colors, and repertoire would be applied
to Wakeman’s electronic and acoustic rock music, allowing him
to fuse the styles authentically.

Among the thousands of songs Wakeman contributed keyboards to
as a faceless, often uncredited studio musician, were a few gems
that would become huge hits. One of these was the song “Space
Oddity,” by a then-unknown musician named David Bowie. Wakeman
was hired to play Mellotron on the session, and arrived late.
He scanned the song chart, listened to one run-through, and began
to play. According to producer Gus Dudgeon, his performance was
“exactly what I wanted. It was incredible! We did one more take
and it was a master.”(2)

A fine example of Wakeman’s emerging piano style can be found
on the 1971 Cat Stevens song “Morning Has Broken.” By this time,
Wakeman was being given creative latitude on some sessions. On
“Morning Has Broken,” Wakeman worked directly with Cat Stevens
and producer Paul Samwell-Smith in shaping the song:

We brought it up from nothing and worked out different ways of
doing it, working from a little old hymn book. . . they were sessions
where I was allowed a bit of freedom to contribute what I wanted,
not what either the musical director or the producer wanted me
to play.(3)

The sessions came fast and furious. Wakeman played for such diverse
artists as Elton John, Black Sabbath, Brotherhood of Man, and
T. Rex. He was introduced to Dave Cousins, leader of a folk group
named The Strawbs, and played some piano sessions for their album
Dragonfly. The band was in a transition from pure folk music to pop, and
they eventually asked Wakeman to join. Wakeman, wanting to gain
public exposure and feeling constrained by constant sessions,
agreed: “I had become disillusioned with session work. I was getting
good bread, but I wasn’t getting a chance to be part of the music:
You’re in there for three hours and then you’re out again.”(4)

The Strawbs

Joining the Strawbs was the right move for Wakeman’s career. The
group proved to be the perfect vehicle to showcase his virtuosity,
as his keyboards served as the solo instrument in place of the
standard electric guitar. His extended neo-classical piano solos
brought the attention of the music press, as well as the appreciation
of a growing number of fans. The Strawbs began to receive a great
deal of publicity, mostly focusing on Wakeman. For example, Melody Maker referred to him as the “Pop Find of 1970.”(5) Wakeman recorded two albums as a full-fledged member of the Strawbs:
Just a Collection of Antiques and Curios, and From the Witchwood. Antiques and Curios was a live album, recorded at the Queen Elizabeth Hall, while
Witchwood was a studio record. Though both of these albums were successful,
tensions began to drive Wakeman apart from the rest of the group.
Though the members of the group had a strong social bond, Wakeman
began to feel limited by the technique and musical direction of
his bandmates. Cousins knew the end was near, stating later that
“I knew we could keep Rick for as long as we were able to keep
him musically interested–after a year we knew we weren’t progressing
at the same rate he was.”(6) Wakeman felt that “things had gone as far as they could. There
would have to be a complete change-around or it would have rotted
away.”(7)

Yes and the Progressive Rock Phenomena

One night Wakeman received a 3 a.m. phone call from Chris Squire,
the bassist for Yes. They were dissatisfied with the limitations
of their current keyboardist, Tony Kaye, and were looking for
a replacement with strong technique and an interest in synthesizers.
Exhausted, Wakeman yelled at Squire and slammed the phone down.
The next morning, “I raked through my record collection and pulled
out . . . Time and a Word. I played it and thought. . . Maybe I shouldn’t have said no.
. . after all.”(8) Wakeman reconsidered Yes’ offer, and shortly thereafter entered
into the most musically significant time of his career.

In one of the few scholarly articles available on progressive
rock, Nors S. Josephson views the genre as “another manifestation
of the twentieth-century’s tendency to synthesize the avant-garde.
. . with popular traditions, much as. . . Bartok, Janacek, and
Stravinsky amalgamated their own folk heritages with twentieth-century
art music.”(9) Progressive rock itself is derived as strongly from Bach and
Bartok as from the Beatles. In the late sixties, this art form
was being defined in Britain, by groups with such names as Pink
Floyd, The Nice, The Moody Blues, and Procol Harum. The next generation
of bands, such as King Crimson, Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Genesis,
and Yes, focused the style in a more virtuosic and classically-oriented
direction. All of these groups, but the second generation in particular,
were concerned with stretching the rock form beyond the blues,
beyond slick pop and experimental psychedelia, into a more substantial
and sophisticated style. “Songwriting” was replaced with “composing”;
“players” had to become “musicians”. Instrumentalists of the caliber
of Robert Fripp, Carl Palmer, Keith Emerson, and Chris Squire
were showing the world that rock musicians could and would be
taken seriously. The three-minute pop song had already been extended,
expanded, and run through the psychedelic wringer by such artists
as The Doors, Cream, Jimi Hendrix, and, most importantly, The
Beatles. Progressive rock took the psychedelicized pop song and
turned it into a multi-movement, multi-style extravaganza running
from six minutes to over an hour.

Genesis approached progressive rock from a theatrical perspective,
with front man Peter Gabriel donning costumes and role-playing.
His narrations of stream-of-consciousness stories floated above
the rigidly composed, highly structured, diatonic music of Tony
Banks, Mike Rutherford, Steve Hackett, and Phil Collins. Fripp’s
King Crimson was darker and more sinister. Successfully fusing
improvisation with highly complex composed material, King Crimson
explored the nether regions of dissonance more than their counterparts.
Emerson, Lake, and Palmer made the strongest connection between
rock and traditional classical music, playing arrangements of
works by such composers as Copland, Ginastera, Holst, and Tchaikovsky.
Yes were the angels of progressive rock, with bright, major harmonies,
uplifting, spiritually-tinged (soaked?) lyrics, and contrapuntal,
choirboy vocal exchanges between Squire and lead singer Jon Anderson.

Wakeman’s addition brought the keyboard sounds and technique needed
to allow Yes to fully realize and explore their established direction.
Before Wakeman, Yes had released three albums. Their self-titled
debut album, and Time and a Word were studies in a band searching for direction. The Yes Album was work by a band who had found their niche and were starting
to explore it; “Yours is No Disgrace,” “Starship Trooper,” and
“I’ve Seen All Good People” are Yes classics. But Yes truly hit
their stride when Wakeman joined. They had finally found a keyboard
player whose virtuosity and individuality matched the skills of
the other members.

The release of Fragile in January, 1972 proved that Yes had found something that worked.
Producer Eddy Offord helped Yes find a larger band sound, creating
long works peppered with bits of musique concrète and separated
by short, esoteric solo interludes. The result was a highly varied
and experimental album, with long moments of brilliance broken
up by short, perhaps less successful passages. “Long Distance
Runaround” is a catchy pop song, with contrapuntal bass and guitar
lines dancing around the vocal melody. “Heart of the Sunrise”
extends the epic explorations of such works as “Yours is No Disgrace,”
standing as one of the pinnacles of Yes’ work and pointing the
way toward the larger song forms of the next few albums. But it
was “Roundabout,” an 8 1/2-minute rocker with a multitude of textures
and scorching Hammond B3 work by Wakeman, that brought Yes to
the radios of America, and stardom.

Wakeman’s second album with Yes, Close to the Edge, was released in September, 1972, a mere eight months after Fragile. The complexity, innovation, and brilliance of the work seems
all the more astonishing in light of the hectic touring schedule
and change in lifestyle undergone by the band in the previous
months. Yet Yes had equaled the achievement of Fragile, expanding their exploration of epic, multi-movement song forms.
Close to the Edge consists of three long pieces. The title track,
clocking in at nearly nineteen minutes and taking all of side
one, was their most ambitious work to date, integrating a large
number of themes and colors into a consistent whole. “Siberian
Khatru” is an up-tempo, joyous rocker. “And You and I” rounds
out the album, with Wakeman’s analog synthesizer sounds creating
a rich contrast with Steve Howe’s delicate acoustic guitar work
and Jon Anderson’s innocent, sing-song vocal lines.

1972 brought yet another project: this was Wakeman’s first solo
album, The Six Wives of Henry VIII. Written and recorded during the brief gaps in Yes’ touring schedule,
Six Wives is an instrumental, programmatic concept album. The Eurocentric,
quasi-historical program material was a departure from the Eastern
philosophies of the seventies-era Yes, though the grandeur and
preoccupation with large-scale ideas are similar. Wakeman would
use history, royalty, and mythical material for many of his solo
concept albums, including Journey to the Centre of the Earth, The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round
Table, Rick Wakeman’s Criminal Record, and A Suite of Gods.

The Beginnings of Wakeman’s Solo Career

The Six Wives of Henry VIII was released in January, 1973; reaction to the album was positive,
with Wakeman described as having a “brilliant feel for tasteful
impressionistic composition.”(10)

Six Wives has much of the character of a Yes album of the period; this
comes as no surprise, as Yesmen Chris Squire, Steve Howe, Bill
Bruford, and Alan White appear on the record. There are distinct
differences, however. Six Wives is an instrumental keyboard album, with a strong baroque flavor.
The lively rock numbers have a humor that is missing from Yes
music. Wakeman’s extensive use of acoustic and electric keyboards
as a replacement for traditional orchestral instruments is manifestly
clear.

Yes’ level of musical success could not be sustained. 1973’s Tales From Topographic Oceans created musical rifts that would cause Wakeman to leave the group.
Written by Anderson and Howe, and based on a footnote from Paramhansa
Yoganada’s Autobiography of a Yogi, Tales would prove to be Yes’ longest and most experimental work. Composed
of four album-side long movements, the 81-minute piece was the
logical culmination of Yes’ epic-length explorations. The quest
for longer, larger statements created a work that had wonderful
moments, but lacked cohesiveness. Wakeman was unhappy with the
album’s rambling, through-composed quality, feeling unable to
contribute: “When we started doing Topographic Oceans, I found that I couldn’t find anything to put in. I knew the
right bits to play, but I couldn’t put anything in that I felt
added something. . . when we did it on stage, I found it pretty
boring.”(11) Jon Anderson had a different perspective on the piece: “we went
to a kind of extreme with Topographic, and maybe we weren’t all ready for it. . . It was a bit heavyweight, maybe overweight. But you just do what comes.”(12)

Wakeman’s Departure From Yes, and the Continuation of his Solo
Career

What came to Yes was not what Wakeman wanted. The Tales tour began,
with the unfamiliar work falling on the ears of a perplexed audience.
Wakeman insisted that the third movement be cut from the set.
The band agreed. Midway through, Wakeman informed Yes that he
was leaving at the end of the tour. He later summarized this era
rather succinctly: “I had some great times and some lousy times.
It was a band that was bonded together by music–there was little
love lost. . . I didn’t enjoy Tales. . . so I finished out the. . . tour we were doing and left.”(13)

Wakeman wrote and recorded his second solo album, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, in between the recording and touring of Tales From Topographic Oceans. Released in early 1974, and based on the story by Jules Verne,
Journey was Wakeman’s clearest attempt to fuse the worlds of classical
music and rock. A piece of program music in four movements, Journey was written and orchestrated for full symphony orchestra, choir,
narrator, and six-piece rock group. Wakeman was finally able to
utilize the traditional timbres that he had been emulating on
synthesizer. He wrote the music by recording keyboard demos, then
worked with a pair of professional arrangers to score for full
orchestra and choir.

Journey to the Centre of the Earth was an enormous undertaking. The logistics of balancing and organizing
the rock band, orchestra, choir, lead singers, narrator, and synthesizers
became a daunting challenge. David Measham was recruited to conduct
the London Symphony Orchestra and the English Chamber Choir. English
actor David Hemmings served as narrator, summarizing the story
during breaks in the music. Finally, the album was recorded live
in front of an audience on January 18, 1974, at the Royal Festival
Hall in London. To everyone’s surprise, Journey reached number one in the British album charts. The reviews were
positive as well: one reviewer described it as “symphonic pop
embellished by tasteful interludes, superb narration, nice obbligatos,
clever solos from Wakeman and a decent respect for the norms of
symphonic construction.” He went on to say “there can be little
doubt that it’s in directions like these that Wakeman’s future
now lies. . . he has a disciplined musical head and it shows.”(14) All that was separating Wakeman from this future was the above-mentioned
final Tales tour with Yes.

With Yes behind him for the time being, Wakeman embarked on the
solo career begun by The Six Wives of Henry VIII and Journey to the Centre of the Earth. Unfortunately, this new career began with a heart attack brought
on by his exhausting schedule combined with substantial consumption
of alcohol and cigarettes. Following a brief recovery and a grueling
tour of the United States, Wakeman began his newest epic: The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round
Table. The record’s seven tracks describe characters and stories from
the Arthurian legend. The musical orchestration is similar to
Journey to the Centre of the Earth; rock band, lead singers, orchestra, choir, and a narrator are
used.

In an attempt to reach new heights of entertainment, Wakeman staged
King Arthur on ice. The reviews of the music and performance were mixed;
Wakeman was accused of creating superficial music. One critic
felt that “The show. . . proved [Wakeman's] skill at packaging
a pleasant evening’s entertainment. But he’s done so at the expense
of attention to his music. That four knights on skates could command
one’s senses while scores of musicians made an ignored din just
ten yards away said little for the appeal of the music itself.”(15)

A series of less than stellar works followed. Wakeman scored two
films: Ken Russell’s Lisztomania (1975), and a skiing film named White Rock (1976). He also released No Earthly Connection (1976), an album made with his band “The English Rock Ensemble.”
While all of these albums are filled with Wakeman’s fine playing,
the pieces themselves lack inspiration and focus. It was becoming
clear that his best work occurred within a collaborative environment.

The Return to Yes

Such a collaborative environment appeared in 1977. Patrick Moraz,
Wakeman’s replacement in Yes, had left the band, and Wakeman offered
to play on the new album as a session musician. He received demos
of new songs that were shorter, tighter, and catchier than the
works that had caused him to quit the first time. “What I heard
was not the Yes that I had left. . . this is how I’ve always seen
the band.”(16)

Yes asked Wakeman to rejoin as an official member. He eagerly
accepted, and work began on the first new Yes studio album in
three years: Going For the One. The result was perhaps the most uniform Yes album ever recorded.
Going For the One did not break as much new ground as Fragile or Close to the Edge, but every song was a diverse, mature, well-rounded work. There
were no experiments gone awry, no awkward ideas. Wakeman’s return
combined with Yes’ time away from the studio brought refreshed
energy to the album.

The title song, “Going For the One,” is an uncharacteristically
hard-rocking number, with blues licks played in odd time signatures
by piano and guitar. “Turn of the Century” is a lush, delicate,
neo-classical piece based on the story from La Boheme. It features a through-composed, unmetered feel, as Howe’s nylon
string guitar follows Anderson’s blank verse. Wakeman builds the
piece, adding cascading piano arpeggios and synthesized string
accompaniment. “Wondrous Stories” is a short, joyous song in the
style of “And You, And I,” with Wakeman’s analog synthesizer lines
creating contrast with Anderson’s innocent vocal melodies and
Howe’s straight-ahead steel-string guitar strums. All of these
pieces show mature and effective composition and performance;
the band had seamlessly picked up where it left off with Wakeman’s
1974 departure. The crowning piece of Going For the One, however, is the majestic “Awaken,” a 15-minute epic that re-establishes
the power of such works as “Close to the Edge” and “Heart of the
Sunrise.” Beginning with a neo-romantic piano introduction, moving
characteristically through a number of moods and textures, and
ending with a bombastic climax featuring pipe organ, “Awaken”
is Yes at its best.

A revitalized Wakeman released a fresh and interesting solo concept
album in 1977. Rick Wakeman’s Criminal Record consists of pieces based on famous criminals, and ideas relating
to justice. The pipe organ used on Going For the One is used here as well, and Wakeman’s keyboards are bolstered on
several cuts by Yes’ rhythm section of Squire and White. A complete
choir is used on the piece “Judas Iscariot,” hearkening back to
the bombastic days of Journey to the Centre of the Earth. One reviewer wrote that “Wakeman plays and arranges here with
the confidence, vitality and clearness of vision that has been
missing in his last few outings.”(17)

1978 brought forth another Yes album. Entitled Tormato, this collection of short (by Yes’ standards, in any case) songs
lacks the consistency and flow of Going For the One, though some shining work is present. “Don’t Kill the Whale,”
the quirky single for the album, has strong melodies and a reedy,
bubbly keyboard solo. “On the Silent Wings of Freedom” is an extended,
high energy work with complex time signatures and interesting
instrumental interchanges. The best song on the album, however,
is the neo-baroque Anderson/Wakeman piece “Madrigal.” This song
combines Wakeman’s delicate harpsichord arpeggios with Howe’s
nylon string guitar stylings to create a contrapuntal base that
supports Anderson’s rhythmically free flowing lyrics. The elegance
and beauty of “Madrigal” is comparable to the previous album’s
“Turn of the Century.”

Wakeman’s Solo Career in the Eighties

Things began to splinter once again. In 1979, Wakeman left Yes
for the second time. Anderson left with him; Yes carried on by
releasing the Drama LP. The band then went into hibernation, and would re-emerge
a few years later with a more accessible, stripped-down pop sound.
Meanwhile, Wakeman released Rhapsodies in 1979, a double album featuring a disco remake of George Gershwin’s
“Rhapsody in Blue.” Rhapsodies would be Wakeman’s last for A? Records, which distributed his
work in the U.S. After that, and through most of the eighties,
Wakeman practically vanished from the American music scene. Though
he was more successful in Europe, his string of solo albums did
not realize the commercial success achieved by his work from the
seventies. Wakeman recalls that “during that time. . . the New
Wave revolution happened, which meant that if you had anything
to do with the Seventies. . . you couldn’t get arrested! . . .
No one wanted to know, especially in America.”(18)

Throughout most of the eighties, many of Wakeman’s solo albums
were released on a number of medium-size record labels, including
Virgin and Relativity. He also released six albums on President,
his own label. All told, Wakeman released fourteen solo albums
in the eighties, mostly in small numbers, and now mostly out of
print. A good deal of fine music was thus released to a small
but appreciative audience, most notably A Suite of Gods (1987) and Country Airs (1985). Both of these albums marked a transition from classical
rock into a gentler, more subtle music, perhaps best described
as “classical new age.” A Suite of Gods combined Wakeman with tenor Ramon Remedios to create a concept
album based on stories from Greek mythology. Though the subject
matter is reminiscent of his mid-seventies solo albums, A Suite of Gods paints a more pastoral picture; Remedios’ operatic tenor lies
awash in reverb, and is supported by gentle, synthesized strings
and chordal pads (long, sustained background sounds that are generally
used to define harmonies).

Country Airs was a significant departure for Wakeman. The album is a collection
of short, solo new age piano pieces, with a nod to the style of
George Winston. On first listening, one would not know that this
was Wakeman. The pieces are simple and highly diatonic, with limited
dynamics and rubato. Simple verse/chorus/bridge structures, slow
to medium tempi, and straightforward duple and tuple meters abound.
Right hand melodies are brought very much to the foreground over
motoric left hand bass notes and arpeggios. The unaccompanied,
unadorned sound of a grand piano is uncharacteristic as well.
Upon closer inspection, however, certain familiar tendencies emerge.
Most noticeable are Wakeman’s characteristic baroque turns, used
during scalar passages and arpeggios.

Though Country Airs is not Wakeman’s finest album, it has charm, and delivers new
insight into the performer. It is refreshing to hear live, naked
piano recordings, complete with occasional split notes and rhythmic
irregularities. Country Airs highlights the sensitive, intimate playing that Wakeman is capable
of, but which is usually obscured by complexity, thick textures,
and large-scale production.

During this time, Wakeman followed the transition in technology
from analog instruments to digital synthesizers, samplers, and
recorders. The new computer-based technology made the process
of creating and recording electronic music much easier; legions
of amateurs and dilettantes began to create albums. This glut
of superficial music began to monopolize the music scene. In Wakeman’s
hands, however, the additional timbres allowed him to expand his
sound, though he still made use of his analog instruments where
appropriate. On A Suite of Gods, for example, he used “digital keyboards to make it as orchestrally
authentic as possible. But we found that adding tinges of analog
stuff all over the place gave it a flavor that was really unusual.”(19)

The Third Installation in the Wakeman/Yes Saga

The end of the eighties brought a new collaboration that would
bring Wakeman and his music back into the public eye, creating
a wider forum for his new digital orchestrations. 1989’s Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe represented a return to the Yes sounds and philosophies of the
seventies. The band, consisting of four-fifths of the Fragile/Close to the Edge Yes lineup (along with Peter Gabriel/King Crimson bassist Tony
Levin), created an effective, complex collection of short songs
and multi-movement large scale works. The virtuosic playing, cosmic
lyrics, expansive sounds, and cover art by Roger Dean combined
to create an updated version of vintage seventies progressive
rock. While the album met with mixed reviews (and downright hostility
from trendy critics who consider progressive rock to be outdated
“dinosaur music”), old Yes fans were ecstatic. “Birthright,” a
song about the Aborigines, features Wakeman utilizing samples
of Pacific rim instruments. “Brother of Mine,” a ten-minute epic,
uses string, brass, piano, harp, and harpsichord-type sounds to
augment the sectional changes with changes in texture. “Themes”
uses quirky chordal piano stabs, and a classic Wakeman harpsichord/brass
solo played in tandem with Bill Bruford’s percolating electric
drum soundscapes to propel the piece forward.

In 1990, Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman and Howe were nearing completion
of their 2nd album. The remaining members of Yes–Chris Squire,
Trevor Rabin, Alan White, and Tony Kaye–were recording as well.
The two groups decided to merge into a new Yes, combining their
recordings into a single album. 1991’s Union was the result. While there are some good works on this album,
it is far less consistent than Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe. The biggest problem is the use of keyboards. Wakeman was unavailable
during parts of the recording process due to prior commitments,
and was left out of the mixing process. Producer Jonathan Elias,
who Wakeman “wouldn’t trust with a food mixer,”(20) used session keyboardists and changed Wakeman’s parts and sounds
without consulting him. This caused an uproar among Wakeman’s
fans. Fortunately, the next Yes album (currently scheduled for
release in July, 1993) will not make use of Elias’ intrusive and
destructive touch.

A Look at Wakeman’s Diverse Use of Keyboard Sound

What follows is a more analytical look at Wakeman’s use of texture
and color. While a focus will be placed on particular instruments
or genres of instruments and their use in conveying a song’s message,
it is within the complimentary and contrasting uses of tone color
that Wakeman truly shines. As a result, comments about the use
of particular instruments in songs will take into account the
musical context and surrounding instrumentation.

Piano

As mentioned, the piano was Wakeman’s first instrument. Studying
classical piano gave him the technique and sensitivity that would
become the foundation of his rock style. The classical elements
of his playing remain unique and characteristic throughout his
career, and across varied musical contexts. Wakeman’s 1971 piano
session for the Cat Stevens song “Morning Has Broken” illustrates
his individual pianistic tendencies. After Steven’s vocal line,
Wakeman’s piano is the primary melody instrument. The arrangement
is fairly simple, consisting of voice, piano, acoustic guitar,
bass, and backing vocals. The acoustic guitar recording emphasizes
the high end, leaving the mid-range open for piano and voice.
Solo piano opens and closes the piece; a short solo piano melody
occurs between verses as well. During the verses, cascading arpeggio
figures act as a counter-melody, contrasting with the simple but
highly effective vocal lines. The arpeggios are unmistakably Wakeman,
with quick turns that break up the continual descent. The motoric
eighth- and sixteenth-notes, strong emphasis on plain triads and
dominant seventh chords, and delicate dynamics are also characteristic
of Wakeman’s piano playing.

It is interesting to compare “Morning Has Broken” with “Stepping
Stones,” a new age solo piano piece from 1985’s Country Airs. While the texture and function of the piano within these pieces
are totally different, and fourteen years separate the recordings,
there are similarities that make Wakeman’s piano style and ear
for orchestration evident. In “Stepping Stones,” the melody is
clearly articulated in the right hand, as the left hand supports
with a muted, constant stream of motoric sixteenth-note arpeggios.
Bass notes define the harmony once per bar or so. Scalar descending
melodies with the characteristic Wakeman turn contrast the vocally-oriented
main theme. “Stepping Stones” has a clear song-like verse structure,
with a dynamic range that does not stray much beyond pp to mf. The mood is gentle, even, and contemplative. The lyrical melody
line, motoric arpeggios, bass line, and descending counter-melody
of “Stepping Stones” perform the same functions as the vocal melody,
rhythm guitar, bass, and piano counter-melodies of “Morning Has
Broken.”

Harpsichord

While studying piano at the Royal College of Music, Wakeman took
every opportunity to sneak off and practice harpsichord. This
practice paid off, as Wakeman would later feature the instrument
in numerous recordings. Some of his finest harpsichord playing
occurs on Tormato’s “Madrigal.” This song begins with a short harpsichord introduction
in pure baroque style. As Anderson’s rhythmically-free blank verse
begins, the harpsichord switches to a relatively sparse broken
chord accompaniment in eighth- and sixteenth-notes. As the song
builds, the density of notes increases. Howe joins in on nylon
string guitar, playing similarly authentic contrapuntal classical
guitar lines. Wakeman and Howe play short duet sections to break
up the vocal sections. Vocal ‘ahhs’ and a simple synthesized string
line enter halfway through to fill out the texture. In the final
verse, Wakeman pushes the song to its climax by building the accompaniment
to blinding flurries of sixteenth-note triplets and thirty-second-notes.
The combination of virtuosic, authentically-styled playing, lush
textures, and heroic yet quirky vocal melodies is what made Yes’
style so distinctive, whether playing a hard rock song, or a modern-day
neo-baroque piece such as “Madrigal.”

Intent on driving the point home (and perhaps a bit too far),
Yes produced a short film version of “Madrigal,” in which Wakeman,
dressed in Seventeenth-century garb, performs the piece in a palatial
music room, for onlooking royalty. The other musicians appear
within the harpsichord and standing on the keys, as Wakeman’s
fingers fly by.

Hammond Organ

Since the sixties, the Hammond organ has been the quintessential
rock keyboard. From Gregg Allman to Keith Emerson, Jon Lord to
Brent Mydland, Lee Michaels to Matthew Fisher, the Hammond organ
has allowed keyboardists the power and sound to compete with electric
guitar. The drawbars allow the keyboardist to shape the timbre
by mixing overtones in the desired proportions. The percussion
switch determines whether an audible click will be heard at the
beginning of each note. Leslie rotating speakers add motion to
the sound, by creating an adjustable tremolo/doppler effect. Finally,
keyboardists can personalize the sound further by running it through
such devices as guitar amplifiers, distortion units, and phasers.
All in all, the Hammond is capable of a wide variety of colors.

Rick Wakeman used the Hammond as a primary component of his early
sound. He played the instrument idiomatically, making use of the
various colors, and adding interest by changing the drawbar values
during the course of a piece: “I never keep the same setting from
the beginning of a piece to the end. . . I think you have to keep
playing with the drawbars constantly or it gets stale. It’s like
playing a Polymoog and just using one preset all night. It’d get
boring and unimaginative.”(21)

“Roundabout,” from Fragile, exemplifies Wakeman’s Hammond style. He uses a regal, full setting
on the choruses, outlining the chords with sixteenth-note arpeggios.
During brief instrumental breaks between verses, he contrasts
the organ sound with a reed-like synthesizer. Halfway through
the song, the momentum is dissipated and a quiet, non-percussive
section begins. Wakeman chooses sounds that will directly contrast
with the Hammond: first a watery, mellow synthesizer playing gentle
arpeggios, then a Mellotron flute patch playing chord pads. This
is all a setup for the frenetic keyboard solo that follows, incorporating
blues licks and played with a thin, edgy, distorted Hammond sound
run through a quickly-rotating Leslie speaker. The contrast and
setup has its intended effect, creating a cathartic moment that
propels the song through a energetic guitar-keyboard duet, a final
verse, and a coda that recapitulates the nylon-string guitar intro,
ending on a tonic borrowed from the parallel major key.

Pipe Organ

Though the Hammond organ has often been used to simulate the sound
of a pipe organ, the electro-mechanical tone wheels cannot capture
the depth and majesty of the real thing; electrically-blended
sine waves can not create the same complex structure of harmonics
as air being blown through multiple pipes, mixing together within
an acoustically resonant space. On “Awaken,” the epic from Going For the One, Wakeman played the pipe organ at St. Martin’s Church in Vevey,
Switzerland. The organ brought enormous power to the final, climactic
section of the work. The idea of using a church organ fit very
well with the spiritual content of the lyrics, which concern themselves
with the enlightenment of humankind.

On “Awaken,” Wakeman actually recorded the church organ over a
telephone line. The rest of the band was back in the studio, listening
and recording their parts simultaneously. According to Wakeman,
“We did it that way because that’s the way things are done in
Switzerland. . . Their telephone lines are the highest quality
you can imagine. . . It was great. The pipe organ was recorded
direct to the studio.”(22)

“Awaken” begins with a solo piano introduction, played in a fast,
neo-romantic style. The first verse begins, consisting of a longing,
reverberant vocal melody over an ethereal wash of synthesizers
and guitar. The full band enters, creating a churning, pulsing
bed for Anderson and Squire’s ascending harmonies. Unison synthesizer
and guitar lines appear between vocal sections, and a contrapuntal
synthesizer solo steers the piece into a large choral section.
The pipe organ makes its entrance, bringing the piece to its first
large climax. A long, quiet fantasy ensues, with a chiming, drone-like
ostinato played by crotales. The pipe organ plays a series of
descending scalar lines, in contrast to the ascending scalar motives
sung by Anderson and Squire earlier. Occasional harp plucks and
Mellotron choirs enter the scene to add color. Wakeman begins
a long, slow build by changing organ stops from an intimate setting
to a louder, timbrally richer tone. He gradually adds harmony
notes to his scalar lines, until full chords emerge. A guitar
melody ushers in the whole band again, closing the fantasy and
entering a climactic vocal section. Choirs and frenetic guitar
accompany the organ, now playing large chords and pedals with
all stops out. The band drops away for a moment as Wakeman plays
an ascending thirty-second-note run, bringing the piece to a final,
bombastic climax. One last ethereal verse functions as a coda,
ramping the piece slowly back down to nothingness.

“Awaken” was the last, and perhaps the finest, of Yes’ great epic
works. Aside from creating a dramatic and full sound, Wakeman’s
church organ playing underlines the spiritual content of the lyrics,
and loosely connects the piece to long-standing traditions of
church music.

Mellotron

The Mellotron is a unique instrument. Invented in the late sixties,
it works by having an internal rack filled with strips of 1/4-inch
recording tape. Upon each strip of tape is a recording of a particular
instrument at a particular pitch. Pressing a key causes the corresponding
tape to be moved past a playback head. One can thus change the
sounds by changing the tape racks. In effect, this makes the Mellotron
the world’s only analog sample playback device.

Embraced by keyboard players looking to add orchestral sounds
to their arsenal, the Mellotron was an instant hit among the psychedelic
and progressive rock communities. The default tape rack that came
with the instrument contained choir, string section, and flute
sounds. The flute introduction to The Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields
Forever” (1967) is one of the earliest recorded examples of the
Mellotron. The Mellotron was used extensively by such groups as
The Moody Blues, Genesis, and King Crimson. As Yes was phasing
out Tony Kaye, they were looking for a keyboard player who would
bring orchestral sounds to their music. Wakeman, with his Mellotron
and synthesizer experience, was a natural.

The Mellotron is primarily a “filler” instrument. The mechanical
configuration makes it difficult to play quick runs reliably,
and most of the sounds, such as the choir and string settings,
are recordings of large ensembles playing or singing single notes.
Wakeman capitalized on the strengths of the instrument, using
it primarily to add strategically-placed color. His first well-known
Mellotron work is on the David Bowie hit “2001: A Space Oddity”
(1970). Waiting until the second verse to heighten the drama,
Wakeman’s Mellotron string pads add a sense of pathos and longing
to the acoustic guitar-dominated arrangement. Open chord voicings,
reverberation, and proper mixing heighten Wakeman’s illusion of
a string ensemble.

In Yes’ music, Wakeman would often use the Mellotron for slower,
regal passages, representing feelings of resolution and arrival.
In “And You And I” from Fragile, a single Mellotron string note emerges from a static vocal harmony
at the end of the “Cord of Life” section. This note acts as a
bridge to the slow, stately “Eclipse” section, where it blossoms
into full chords. The main theme is stated in the Mellotron string,
then gets passed off to and blended with other instruments. Wakeman
will often bring out themes by adding organ or synthesizer to
a Mellotron line, augmenting the Mellotron melody while leaving
the harmonies alone. At other times, he will use the Mellotron
to add subtle changes of texture to an existing part. An example
is on “Awaken,” where Wakeman extends the final, climactic pipe
organ chord by doubling with a Mellotron flute which comes up
briefly just as the organ chord dies away. This small touch enhances
the effect of the decrescendo by smoothly moving from a bright
timbre to a darker one as the sound fades.

Orchestra and Choir

Though Wakeman has made a career out of emulating classical instruments
with his keyboards, he has always taken advantage of the real
thing when the situation permits. His large-scale orchestral solo
works have earned him critical acclaim, and a certain level of
respect in classical circles. Journey to the Centre of the Earth was even performed some ten years after its release by a 300-piece
orchestra and choir of music students in Edinburgh, Scotland.(23)

In Journey to the Centre of the Earth, Wakeman uses the juxtaposition of rock band and orchestra to
manipulate color both horizontally and vertically. He creates
contrasting textures across time by arranging sections for different
groupings of instruments. Orchestral fanfares lead into sparse
pop tunes followed by funky rock band grooves. He also creates
new textures within sections by mixing blends of orchestral and
popular instruments. In general, Journey uses splashy, colorful orchestrations, grandiose instrumentation,
and continuously shifting textures. Wakeman (with the help of
his orchestrators), favors heroic brass fanfares for his primary
melodies. The strings and choir are used mostly for accompaniment,
creating chordal washes beneath the main action. Woodwinds are
often used to create counter-melodies, answering themes stated
in voice or brass. Percussion appears from time to time; chimes
and timpani are used for color and climax. At one point, a xylophone
plays a theme in tandem with the strings and flutes, adding a
crisp attack to the lush melody. Wakeman uses the orchestral instruments
in exactly the same way as he uses their keyboard analogs: brassy
and reedy synthesizers for melodies, and Mellotron strings and
choirs as chordal fill. Above the orchestra, often doubling the
melody with the brass, lies Wakeman’s solo synthesizer. His trademark
Minimoog portamentoed patch is the one cohesive element that ties
the multiple sections of Journey together. To make it work within the context of the orchestral
instruments, Wakeman makes it thinner and buzzier than he otherwise
might. Though this sound carries above the trumpets, it tends
to become fatiguing to the ear. The narrow range of partials present
in the sound give it less timbral interest than most of his other
analog synthesizer sounds, particularly when heard against the
richness of the brass instruments.

Journey opens with a brash, orchestral introduction, focusing on brass
and strings. Wakeman’s synthesizer doubles the opening heroic
theme with the brass. This is followed by a sparse band arrangement
of a pop song, with a light woodwind accompaniment. He builds
the song as he would a piece with Yes: strings and choir enter
halfway through to add drama. The song fades into a narrative
passage, designed to directly illustrate the programmatic content
of the work. Sectional contrasts continue as the rock band jams
on an instrumental reminiscent of The Six Wives of Henry VIII. This is followed by a gentle, transitional section built from
strings, horns, and harp.

What makes Journey to the Centre of the Earth particularly interesting is the continual juxtaposition of instruments
that normally inhabit the separate worlds of rock and classical
music. This successful marriage of two diverse genres is the outward
manifestation of an artist who stands straddling both.

Analog Synthesizers

The emergence of portable synthesizers in the early seventies
created a revolution in rock. An entirely new genre of instrument
was introduced. These instruments had an unprecedented ability
to create and control customized electronic sounds quickly and
easily. Though the early portable synthesizers were expensive
and had problems with tuning stability and reliability, they quickly
found their way into the rigs of most rock keyboard players. Wakeman
was at the forefront of synthesizer exploration, creating distinctive
timbres from the new instruments: “When I got my first synths,
there was no such thing as presets. You made your own sounds.
You had to. Though we didn’t know it at the time, that’s what
made you identifiable.”(24)

The early synthesizers were all monophonic. In addition, the inherent
nature of the synthesizer design made them good for roughly emulating
brass and woodwind sounds. As a result, Wakeman tended to use
analog synthesizers as soloing, melody, and special effect instruments,
with polyphonic instruments such as piano, organ, or Mellotron
filling in chords. He would also multi-track layers of monophonic
synthesizers with different timbres, mimicking the sound of a
chamber ensemble.

Wakeman, Emerson, and Banks evolved solo synthesizer sounds that
had commonalties which made the type of sound synonymous with
progressive rock. Though their sounds had different types of overtone
structures, and thus distinct timbres, they all used portamento.
In electronic music terminology, portamento refers to a smooth,
timed pitch glide between notes, rather than distinct pitch changes.
This type of sound is very pleasing, creating a bouncy, rubbery
connection between notes. Emerson’s use of portamento can be heard
on the solo to “Lucky Man,” from Emerson, Lake and Palmer (1971), while Banks uses this effect in the solo to “In The Cage,”
from Genesis’ The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (1974).

Wakeman’s use of a reedy or brass-like portamento-based solo sound
can be heard on most of his recordings during the seventies. In
“And You, And I,” Wakeman uses this sound over tranquil acoustic
guitar for the opening melodies to the first and third movements;
he also uses it for the keyboard solo in the third movement. In
the second section of “Catherine of Howard” from The Six Wives of Henry VIII, Wakeman places this sound against an uptempo rock rhythm section,
creating gliding melodies over a hard, percussive groove. Wakeman
uses it again in yet a different context in Journey to the Centre of the Earth, as the above-described buzzy, ubiquitous accompaniment to the
orchestra.

Wakeman used analog synthesizers for other types of effects as
well. Most of his sounds have been pitch-based and instrumental
in character, leaving the white noise winds and random-pitched
bloops and bleeps for other explorers of the electronic realm.
On the “Starlight Movement” section of “The Revealing Science
of God” from Tales From Topographic Oceans, Wakeman creates a high, bright, percussive, pitched clicking
sound. This sound comes in on the fourth beat of each bar, working
within the percussive framework to create an interesting accent.
The sound is pitched to G-sharp, the key of that section, and
thus creates a high pedal. Toward the end of “Jane Seymour,” from
Six Wives, Wakeman creates a synthesized low pedal tone that emerges from
the bass notes played on pipe organ. Starting as a drone in the
tonic of the piece, the pitch begins to wobble and destabilize,
before rocketing upward in pitch until it passes the threshold
of human hearing. This strange sound brings the baroque organ
piece into the present, adding a unique flavor and reminding us
of Wakeman’s penchant for merging the old with the new.

Digital Synthesizers

The emergence of digital technology during the mid-eighties brought
a profound change to Wakeman’s sound. Digital samplers and sample-playback
synthesizers (synthesizers that used samples of instruments instead
of analog oscillators for their basic waveforms) allowed Wakeman
to create new and subtle timbres that were previously impossible.
He felt that “when digital came, it was indeed like manna from
Heaven.”(25)

Wakeman capitalized on the new technology by layering instruments
together, taking the best elements of different sounds to create
a new one. On the intro to “Themes,” from Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe, Wakeman plays piano motives against a synthesized ostinato.
The ostinato is made up of a breathy, flute-like percussion sound,
mixed with a bit of marimba and a high-pitched metallic plinking.
The ostinato repeats patterns of sixteenth-notes, as the timbre
subtly shifts from one instrumental emphasis to another. The flute
component’s decay changes, moving from a longer sound to a more
percussive one and back again. Wakeman’s solo in “Themes” uses
a percussive, harpsichord-like attack grafted to the body of a
brass sound. This allows his solo to be very distinct and audible
over a dense and fast-moving background.

Digital sampling has allowed Wakeman to explore ethnic flavors
from time to time. On Anderson Bruford Wakeman Howe’s “Birthright,”
a song about Pacific island Aborigines, Wakeman combines a sample
of a digeridoo with a bowed cello to create a menacing drone that
appears through most of the piece. Ethnic percussion mixes with
electronic drums, and nylon-string guitar contrasts with Anderson’s
Aboriginal chanting to create a synthesis of cultures. This type
of cultural mixing is also heard on A Suite of Gods, Wakeman’s concept album about Greek and Roman mythology. He
blends pan pipes and lyre-type sounds with his synthesized orchestral
timbres. This touch of flavor becomes especially important in
light of the straight, operatic delivery style of tenor Ramon
Remedios.

In Summary

Over a career that has spanned 25 years, Rick Wakeman has used
every keyboard instrument at his disposal to advance the exploration
of color within rock and classical contexts. His mixtures of old
and new instruments and styles have consistently created highly
distinctive and unique works. Both within Yes and on his own,
Wakeman has set standards of achievement that few other rock keyboardists
could possibly match. Through fleet-fingered, idiomatic playing,
careful listening, subtle, sophisticated use of tone color, and
sheer drive, Wakeman has created a large catalog of high-quality
music. May he continue to bring us his gifts far into the future.

End Notes

1) Michael Wale, “Pop-classical,” Melody Maker 22 August 1970.

2) Dan Wooding, Rick Wakeman: The Caped Crusader, London: Robert Hale Limited, 1978. 34.

3) Wooding, Rick Wakeman, 36.

4) Dominic Milano, “Rick Wakeman - The Great Orchestrator,” Rock Keyboard, Ed. Bob Doerschuk. New York: Quill, 1985. 68.

5) Mark Plummer, “Rick - pop find of 1970,” Melody Maker 25 July 1970: 29.

6) Andy Childs, “Ten Years of The Strawbs–Part Two 1970-1975,”
Zigzag June 1975: 31.

7) Milano, “The Great Orchestrator,” 68.

Wooding, Rick Wakeman, 67.

9) Nors S. Josephson, “Bach Meets Liszt: Traditional Formal Structures
and Performance Practices in Progressive Rock,” The Musical Quarterly Spring 1992: 91.

10) Steve Apple, Rev. of The Six Wives of Henry VIII, by Rick
Wakeman, Rolling Stone 21 June 1973: 69.

11) Ira Robbins, “Wakeman Tells Yesstories,” Trouser Press June/July 1977:4.

12) Billy Altman, “Rick Wakeman Brings the Brew Back to Yes,”
Rolling Stone 6 October 1977: 21-25.

13) Milano, “The Great Orchestrator,” 68.

14) Tony Tyler, Rev. of Journey to the Centre of the Earth, by Rick Wakeman, New Musical Express 13 July 1974: 14.

15) Paul Gambaccini, “Wakeman’s Mythic Ice Capades,” Rolling Stone
17 July 1975: 78.

16) Altman, “Brew,” 25.

17) Alan Niestar, Rev. of Rick Wakeman’s Criminal Record, by Rick
Wakeman, Rolling Stone 26 January 1978: 54.

18) “Roundabout,” Keyboard World July 1988:23.

19) “Roundabout,” 23.

20) Robert L. Doershuk, “Rick Wakeman and Tony Kaye Face Off,”
Keyboard August 1991: 92.

21) Milano, “The Great Orchestrator,” 72.

22) Milano, “The Great Orchestrator,” 72.

23) Alexander Scott, “Wakeman in the Usher Hall,” Music Teacher
July 1984: 12.

24) Doershuk, “Face Off,” 96-97.

25) Robert L. Doershuk, “Rick Wakeman,” Keyboard September 1989: 72.

Bibliography

Altman, Billy. “Rick Wakeman Brings the Brew Back to Yes.” Rolling Stone 6 October 1977: 21-25.

Apple, Steve. Rev. of The Six Wives of Henry VIII, by Rick Wakeman. Rolling Stone 21 June 1973: 69.

Bangs, Lester. “Rick Wakeman Drowns in Suds!” Creem July 1975: 63.

Childs, Andy. “Ten Years of The Strawbs–Part Two 1970-1975.”
Zigzag June 1975: 30-33, 42.

Clarke, Steve. “Yes Lookin’ Back.” New Musical Express 13 July 1974: 18, 21.

Cohen, Scott. “Rick Wakeman Orates on Orchestras, Autos and Heroes
of Yesteryear.” Circus January 1975: 48-51.

Connor, Robert, Andy Furnell, and Brian Wurzell. Revs. of Union, by Yes. Yes Music Circle May 1991: 22-25.

Crowe, Cameron. “Journey to the Center of the Stage.” Rolling Stone 30 January 1975: 32-37.

Dawson, Michael P. “Yes - Accentuate the Positive.” Goldmine 9 August 1991: 8-13, 60, 140.

Doershuk, Robert L. “Rick Wakeman and Tony Kaye Face Off.” Keyboard August 1991: 84-102.

Doershuk, Robert L. “Rick Wakeman.” Keyboard September 1989: 66-82.

Fletcher, Gordon. “Working for Peanuts: Rick Wakeman’s Final Days
with Yes.” Creem September 1974: 37-39.

Gambaccini, Paul. “Wakeman’s Mythic Ice Capades.” Rolling Stone 17 July 1975: 78.

Guterman, Jimmy. Rev. of Anderson, Bruford, Wakeman, Howe, by Jon Anderson, Bill Bruford, Rick Wakeman, and Steve Howe.
Rolling Stone 10 August 1989: 91-92.

Hay, Tiz, Tom Yeserski, and John Hill. “Wakeman’s Sea Airs.” Wondrous Stories Summer 1990: 10-11.

Josephson, Nors S. “Bach Meets Liszt: Traditional Formal Structures
and Performance Practices in Progressive Rock.” The Musical Quarterly Spring 1992: 67-92.

Milano, Dominic. “Rick Wakeman - The Great Orchestrator.” Rock Keyboard. Ed. Bob Doerschuk. New York: Quill, 1985. 66-73.

Mr. Bonzai. “Eddie Offord - Yes Man.” Mix May 1991: 120-127.

Niestar, Alan. Rev. of Rick Wakeman’s Criminal Record, by Rick
Wakeman. Rolling Stone 26 January 1978: 54.

Nolan, Herb. “Yes Indeed.” Downbeat 23 May 1974: 16-18.

Patterson, Rob. “Long Distance Runaround.” Creem November 1978: 20.

Robbins, Ira. “Wakeman Tells Yesstories.” Trouser Press June/July 1977: 4-5.

“Roundabout.” Keyboard World July 1988: 21-24, 107-113.

Salewicz, Chris. “The Rick Wakeman Consumer’s Guide to Beers of
the World.” New Musical Express 21 December, 1974: 11.

Scott, Alexander. “Wakeman in the Usher Hall.” Music Teacher July 1984: 12.

Tyler, Tony. Rev. of Journey to the Centre of the Earth, by Rick
Wakeman. New Musical Express 13 July 1974: 14.

Uhelskzki, Jaan. “Lisztomania: Kiss Me where the Sun Shines.”
Creem January 1976: 40-41, 76-78.

“Wakeman Sets Solo Concert.” Rolling Stone 17 January 1974: 16.

Wakeman, Rick. “Orchestration of ‘Simple Things’”, by Aaron Copland.
Keyboard November 1980: 21.

Ward, Ed. Rev. of The Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round
Table, by Rick Wakeman. Rolling Stone 19 June 1975: 80.

Wooding, Dan. Rick Wakeman: The Caped Crusader. London: Robert Hale Limited, 1978.

I started playing a wild, roaring solo over the rock chestnut ‘Sweet Home Alabama’. the Leslie was in high gear, the notes were flying, and glisses were spiraling up and down the keyboard with manic glee. Just as I hit the crescendo, the G above middle C snapped right in the middle. Hammond organ keys are not like cheap synthesizer keys - they are very thick, well built pieces of plastic. But the frenzied playing proved too much, and the key snapped in half. Of course, this took place just as I was executing and upward smear with my left hand.

The broken plastic shard neatly sliced my left index finger open along its entire length, and caught the top of my third finger as well. I kept playing for a moment, then stared dumbfounded at the ruin of the organ keyboard, as blood began spraying all over the instrument and floor.

Fortunately, my high school graduating class produced a couple of doctors, and three large butterfly bandages later, I was back onstage. I cleaned off the bottom manual, and played the rest of the night on that keyboard. A visit to Bob Schleicher, the Hammond guru, took care of the broken key. Now the organ is back to tip top shape, the bloodstains are gone, and my finger is healed. Onward!

If you are into DIY and have some facility with a soldering iron, building one or two clones of the famed Teletronix LA2A tube compressors can be a fabulous way to burn up six months of free time. I really love all this stuff, and am endlessly searching for ways to improve my recording studio, so I decided to take the LA2A challenge. And indeed, six months later, I succeeded in my quest.

Resources

A recording engineer named Dave Jahnsen wrote an e-book detailing a point-to-point approach to building the LA2A. This was how I built mine. Unfortunately, Dave is no longer with us, although I would assume that copies of his book might be available somewhere on the web. There are also DIY circuit boards that are now made, to speed up the assembly process. The best place for all this information is one of my favorite hangouts on the web, Groupdiy.

My LA2A’s

I decided to build two, rather than a single unit. Though this was more work and double the expense, it made sense for a number of reasons. First, I wanted to use a pair in stereo to process drum kit mixes and other stereo recordings. Second, a large portion of the time spent on a project of this type is rounding up the necessary components. Once you have found them, it is just as easy to order two as one. Another big timesink is figuring out where to actually lay out components. Once this is done, working on another unit right next to it is far quicker. I would say that building the second one took half again as much time as building the first (although I built them, component for component, simultaneously). Finally, I was lucky enough to find a very cool double 3U rack unit for a few bucks at the local electronic surplus store, so that clinched it. As an added bonus, the front faceplates are hinged and open up just like the originals.

A few things I learned

If you do build using the Jahnsen book, be sure to get Chris Jenrick’s addendum, available from the groupdiy site above. You might also consider a turret board type of arrangement, rather than the point to point scheme that is used in the original. Point to point is quite messy and time consuming. 

Wire everything you can into the tube sockets before attaching them to the backplate. There are many things that can more easily be attached when the sockets are free: connections between pins on the sockets, tube heater wires, and resistors and capacitors that are directly attached to socket pins. Same thing with ground wires on the T4b, etc. Do yourself a favor and do all this before you attach them - you’ll thank yourself later.

If using a Hammond power supply without a center tap for the 6.2V heater wires, you must run a pair of 100-ohm resistors between the heater wires and ground. This will clear up some nasty buzz in the system.

The Jahnsen book has you connect the shields from the gain and gain reduction pots (R1 and R2) to ground posts on the chassis, rather than the star ground that all other audio components are grounded to. I followed this instruction, and had ground hum. As soon as I moved those connections to the star ground, the hum disappeared. In fact, once I did so, I thought I had made a mistake and disconnected the output, because the unit became so quiet. I was shocked when I passed audio through it and was blown out of my seat from the volume!

I don’t have the gain reduction circuitry working correctly with my meter yet. Everything else is working, but I can’t trim the gain reduction to zero - it stays at about -10db. More R&D will be necessary to solve this problem.

The T4B opto electronic part is available through the JBL parts department, or through Universal Audio. There is also a groundswell of action on the Tech Talk BBS about building your own T4B’s, led by DIY guru Chris Jenrick. Chris sent me 1 T4B, which I’ve used to test my compressors. It seems to work well, and it is great that he is building these things for the DIY community. However, I need a pair, so I think I will order them from Universal Audio for $140 each and be done with it.

Per Chris’ suggestion, I used Jensen JT-11P-1 and JT-10K61-1M transformers for input and output. I couldn’t find the original LA2A trafos for a decent price, and the Jensens sound great. I used the original circuit’s resistor and capacitor values, but just plugged in the Jensens instead, to good effect.

So how do they sound?

In a word, glorious. The level of beef they add to a drum kit is stunning. The low end becomes wickedly tight, and the even harmonic distortion really “warms up” the digital recording, to coin a very tired phrase. Having said that, the distortion really does not sound good on sax and other high pitched instruments - perhaps there is a problem with my compressors, though - more R&D is definitely required. 

If you are really into the creative idea of buildng your recording studio with your own hands, I highly recommend this project. It will sound endlessly better than any digital plug-in you will find, and you will have the great satisfaction of knowing you did it yourself.

Originally published in Onstage Magazine, Dec, 2001 issue

Sooner or later, everything old becomes new again. During the past few years, more and more keyboard players have followed in the footsteps of their guitarist compatriots and replaced contemporary instruments with gear made in the ’60s and ’70s. The reemergence of electromechanical keyboards such as organs, electric pianos, and Clavinets resonates from the largest festival stages to the smallest dive bars. A new generation of players and listeners is getting hip to sounds that have been around for decades.

Now vintage keyboards can crop up virtually anywhere, from electronica and hip-hop to country, rock, and blues (the Hammond organ in particular cuts across stylistic lines). They’re most prevalent, however, in soul-jazz, funk, and jam bands. Successful modern groups featuring vintage keyboards include Phish; Medeski, Martin, and Wood; Soulive; and Galactic. In addition to the big-name groups - that, after all, have roadies to lug the inordinately heavy old keyboards - a plethora of jazzers and jammers use them on club and bar gigs, carting the ancient behemoths around in the backs of vans, pickups, cars, and SUVs.

YOU HAVE TO PAY TO PLAY

Playing a vintage keyboard can be a bit like driving an old British sports car or owning a boat: on the surface, the idea is cool, but a serious level of commitment is involved. The instruments are big, heavy, and fragile. They’re 20 years old or more, so replacement parts can be hard to find; often, components have to be cannibalized from junkers beyond repair.

Vintage instruments can be moderately expensive to purchase and difficult to find. Generally speaking, they’re much harder to transport and set up than modern instruments; for instance, a Hammond organ can only be moved by a minimum of two (usually four) able-bodied victims willing to sacrifice their backs to the cause.

WHY PLAY A VINTAGE AXE?

Considering the fact that innumerable dependable, affordable, newly manufactured digital instruments are able to create reasonable simulations of the old keyboards - in a single, small, lightweight box, mind you - why are so many twenty- and thirty-something keyboardists shucking their modern gear in favor of the old standbys? Three reasons: sound, feel, and vibe.

Truthfully, I have yet to hear a simulation of a vintage keyboard that sounds indistinguishable from the original. Huge advances have been made in digital-modeling technology, and the simulations are sounding closer to the real thing all the time. But there’s a depth, a subtlety, and a power to the originals that’s hard to replicate. I think anyone who has spent a serious amount of time listening to old Jimmy Smith or Herbie Hancock records can hear the difference.

The ergonomics of an instrument dictate important aspects of a musician’s performance. Whole vocabularies of riffs and performance gestures have emerged from a particular instrument’s design. The layout of the controls, the feel of the keyboard, and the limitations of an instrument can determine, in part, the notes and technique a musician uses. The thick, thuddy action of a Fender Rhodes piano begs to be dug into. A Clavinet’s ultralight, springy action lends itself to a percussive, dancing approach. The Wurlitzer electric piano’s action is somewhat akin to an acoustic piano’s. And the action of a Hammond organ has a certain amount of push and bounce; its slightly rounded keys feel nothing like those of a typical synthesizer. Each of those instruments has a precise individual personality. Playing digitally simulated versions from a generic MIDI keyboard will necessarily negatively affect their characteristic sounds and limit the authentic technical expression of the keyboardist.

Finally, there’s the vibe of the instrument. Many audience members don’t know the difference between a vintage instrument and a digital keyboard, and most couldn’t care less. But some do, and to them the analog giants can add an air of legitimacy to a group. A listener once told me that having vintage keyboards onstage gives the perception that the keyboardist is into it for keeps, and that, as a result, something special is happening in the music. The old-time instruments are coming back for a reason (actually, they never really left).

THE CLASSIC MODELS

The Hammond organ with Leslie speaker

The almighty Hammond organ is the most well-known vintage keyboard, probably because it’s such a powerhouse. A Hammond can produce a huge range of sounds - raunchy and distorted, muted and percussive, sweet and lush. It has fit the requirements of all sorts of musicians: in the ’60s and ’70s, jazz players such as Jimmy Smith and Larry Young bent it to their wills as did rock musicians such as Rick Wakeman and Greg Allman.

The instrument’s sound is generated by a series of small metal discs with teeth. The discs (or tonewheels) are spun by a small internal motor. Magnetic pickups placed beside the tonewheels translate the resulting electromagnetic fields into sine waves of varying frequencies. By moving a series of sliders called drawbars, you can change the timbre of the instrument on the fly by mixing together various frequency levels. Additional tone shaping is achieved through a unique-sounding chorus/vibrato and an optional percussive click that can be added to the notes of the upper manual, or keyboard. The signal then runs through a lovely sounding built-in tube preamplifier and straight into the Hammond’s counterpart, the Leslie rotating speaker. The speaker is actually a wooden cabinet that houses an amplifier (tube or solid-state, depending on the model), a speaker (or speakers), and horns. The amp feeds the speaker; the speaker is connected to the horns, which rotate, thus creating the distinctive “whooshy” Leslie sound.

Hammonds and Leslies are the largest and heaviest instruments in the vintage arsenal. A full Hammond B-3 weighs 425 pounds; a typical Leslie, 150 pounds. There are special carts and dollies made specifically for moving Hammonds, but many keyboardists prefer to chop, or cut down, their touring organ. By sacrificing the foot pedals and replacing the tube amp with a lighter solid-state one, a keyboardist can remove the organ from its huge wooden cabinet and place it in a smaller, more portable box (see Fig. 1). A full 215 pounds and several feet of size can be saved this way. Unfortunately, you can’t chop a Leslie, but you can add casters and recessed handles to make it easier to move.

Hammonds and Leslies come in several models. The most prized Hammond is the B-3, but it’s mechanically identical to the C3 and A-100 series organs. Chopping either a B-3 or a C-3 is considered blasphemous; the A-100, on the other hand, is the same organ packaged in a rather hideous cabinet designed for grandma’s parlor, so it’s grist for chopping (don’t do it yourself, though; leave it to an expert). The L-100, M-100, and M-3 series of organs are quite a bit smaller and can potentially be used as-is. Be warned, however: although they’re more portable, their tones are not quite as beefy as the B-3’s.

The most coveted Leslies are the 145, 147, and 122 models (see Fig. 2), which feature two speakers, two rotation speeds (chorale and tremolo), and a tube amplifier. Alternatives for the road are the 760 series and the 900 series, which have casters, handles, and tolex-covered cases; unfortunately, their solid-state amps and Styrofoam low rotors don’t sound quite as good as those of the older Leslie models. A host of other models exist, some of which are single-speed but convertible to two-speed.

The Wurlitzer and Rhodes electric pianos

The two most successful electric pianos of the ’60s and ’70s were the Wurlitzer and the Fender Rhodes. The two instruments function quite differently. Each has its own distinctive, instantly recognizable sound. The choice between them is really a matter of taste. (I have one of each; which one I use for which gig depends upon my mood.)

The Wurlitzer’s action is similar to that of a conventional piano. It has a series of metal reeds that are struck by hammers. Each of the reeds is surrounded by an oppositely charged reed plate. When you strike a key, the corresponding reed vibrates, creating a capacitive differential with the reed plate, which is then translated into a voltage oscillation in the amplifier. That signal is sent through a vibrato circuit and then out to an internal speaker as well as a speaker output. It sounds complicated, but the resulting sound is simply great - a shade muted and understated, with a tough, “honky” bite that punches through a mix as you dig into the keyboard. The Wurlie has a hip and funky vibe and is well suited for percussive keyboard styles, though it is also good for sustaining long, gentle chords.

Wurlitzers are rather fragile, so it’s important to baby them. A good road case is essential for safe transportation. The models you see most on the road are the 200 series, which are fine instruments. Some players prefer the 140B (see Fig. 3), however. It’s an older, more ruggedly constructed model with better shielding, which results in a better signal-to-noise ratio. Both instruments are fairly small and manageably light, even in a case.

The Fender Rhodes piano’s sound is brighter and more metallic than the Wurlie’s. Notes are produced by hammers striking metal tines; the innards of a Rhodes can perhaps best be thought of as a series of tunable tuning forks. The sound is somewhat bell- or chimelike. Ubiquitous throughout the ’70s in ballads as well as on jazz-fusion albums, the Rhodes can sound gorgeous and incredibly cool. Its action isn’t quite as fast or smooth as the Wurlie’s, but a Rhodes would nonetheless be my first choice for a jazz gig.

Over the years, many Rhodes models have been manufactured. The primary choice is between the stage and suitcase models. The stage models require an external amplifier, whereas the suitcase models come complete with an amp and speaker. Experts often prefer the suitcase models’ sound. The pianos come in 54-, 73-, and 88-key versions. The best-sounding Rhodes is generally considered to be the Mark 1 suitcase model; the best-playing Rhodes is thought to be the early Mark 2, which has wooden keys.

Rhodes pianos are brutally heavy, particularly the larger suitcase models. Except for the relatively light 54-key model, a Rhodes requires at least two people for transport. On the positive side, Rhodes are fairly compact, pretty easy to find, and generally reliable. Overly forceful playing can break hammers and tines, but those parts are now being remanufactured, so they’re easy to replace. What’s more, Rhodes pianos are built to travel; unless you’re flying, they don’t require an additional road case.

The Hohner Clavinet

As vintage keyboards go, the Hohner Clavinet is the closest to an electric guitar. The Clavinet (or Clav) is an electrified Clavichord - essentially a baroque-period instrument with electric guitar pickups. Billed as the funkiest keyboard ever made, the characteristic Clav sound defined such songs as Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” and Billy Preston’s “Outta Space.”

The Clav looks something like an Autoharp, with its series of strings laid lengthwise. Hammers with tiny rubber tips land and press down on the strings, similar to the way a bass player’s thumb might pop a string. A pair of pickups on the bridge allows for a variety of timbres, from rich, bassy chords to nasal, hollow funk. A Clav is rarely seen without a wah pedal; I use a current Dunlop Cry Baby. The standard-issue Clav is the model D6, which has a wooden case. I prefer the rarer E7 (see Fig. 4), which was designed for gigging and is clad in black tolex, with beefier shielding. Either way, the Clav is a fragile instrument and needs to be treated with kid gloves. A hard-shell case is an absolute necessity.

GETTING AMPED

Running a 30-year-old electric piano or a Clavinet through a modern solid-state keyboard amp can compromise the overall vintage vibe. Fortunately, guitar and bass amps work really well with these instruments. I’d recommend something with at least one 12-inch speaker, because the 10inch models are ill equipped to handle a keyboard’s low end. My amp of choice is a silverface Fender Twin Reverb, a 2×12 tube amp that’s loud enough to keep up with a guitarist. Several other ’60s and ’70s Fender amps sound great as well. Many people like the way a Roland Jazz Chorus (a solid-state amp) sounds with their Rhodes.

The final piece in the puzzle is your choice of effects. A host of new pedals based on ’70s designs are now being made. Fulltone makes a whole line of excellent-sounding distortions, overdrives, and choruses with true bypass that sound great on vintage keyboards. The MXR Phase 90 and Phase 100 are still being made. Electro-Harmonix manufactures the Memory Man, the Big Muff, the Small Stone, and the QTron, among others; HAZ Labs makes the Mu-Tron III+ envelope filter. Original vintage pedals can also sometimes be found in the classifieds.

REPAIR AND MAINTENANCE TIPS

If you’re going to invest in a vintage instrument, you want to make sure that you’re getting your money’s worth. After all, the warranties for most of the instruments ran out about the time the Beatles broke up. Matt Cunitz of Vintage Keyboard Repair in Berkeley, California, knows a thing or two about buying and maintaining a vintage rig. According to Cunitz, the first thing you should do is play the instrument from top to bottom. “Make sure you get sound out of every note,” says Cunitz. “Check every switch and knob to make sure they all work. Pay attention to problems with crackle or static as you move a switch; these can often be resolved with contact cleaner.”

Try to ensure that you’re getting all the parts that came as original equipment: legs, covers, sustain pedals, and so forth. Pay attention to the cosmetic aspect. “If the outside of the instrument is beat, you know it’s been played hard and dragged to many a gig,” says Cunitz.

With a Hammond organ, pull each drawbar out one at a time and check every note. “Test both manuals with both sets of drawbars,” Cunitz says. “Make sure that the percussion and chorus/vibrato work. And if you are buying a Leslie, test both speeds.”

With Rhodes and Wurlitzers, open the lid and take a close look inside. Look for corrosion on the metal parts and other signs of wear. “All vibrating parts are subject to eventual metal fatigue,” says Cunitz. “When a tine or reed is ready to go, you’ll notice that it drops in pitch. In both instruments, you should also check the condition of the hammer tips. If they’re broken or cracked, they’ll need to be replaced.” Listen for strange sounds, too. For instance, zapping, popping, or whistling coming from a Wurlitzer indicates that there is debris on a reed or reedplate; fortunately, that can be fixed easily.

The Rhodes is relatively simple for the owner to work on. An inconsistency in timbre or volume can be adjusted easily. Unfortunately, except for the newly manufactured hammers and tines, replacement parts are expensive and difficult to come by. Nevertheless, according to Cunitz, the Rhodes is tougher than the Wurlitzer. “On the road, a Rhodes will stand up to more abuse than a Wurlie.”

When buying a Clavinet, make sure that the A/B and C/D switches (the pickup selector/phase switches) work in all positions. If they don’t, the pickups could have a problem, and that could cost a lot of money to fix. “Many Clavs have cracked pickups,” says Cunitz, “and they usually can’t be repaired, only replaced.”

Virtually any Clav that hasn’t been reconditioned will need to have its hammer tips replaced. “Open the lid and check them out,” says Cunitz. “If they’re orange, they’re probably original. Play every note carefully. If any notes retrigger while letting off the key, the tips need to be replaced because they’re sticking to the strings. Look for corrosion on the strings and at the condition of the yarn that mutes the strings behind the striking point.”

GIG-SURVIVAL TIPS

Keeping the beasts alive and well isn’t as simple as just crossing your fingers and hoping for the best. A bit of TLC and careful planning can help avert catastrophe on the road. Cunitz advises that you take along some of the most common spare parts as well as some basic tools. “I’d bring a socket set, Phillips and straight-end screwdrivers, wire cutters, superglue, a decent voltmeter, a low-wattage soldering iron, a file, and a tuner,” says Cunitz. “Your guitarist’s chromatic tuner will do in a pinch, but a piano tuner is optimal for getting all the frequencies.”

For Rhodes pianos, “bring some replacement hammers and tines, if possible,” he says. For a Wurlitzer, “bring replacement reeds for the middle section of the instrument, where most of the playing happens.” If you have to replace a reed, treat the screws gingerly, as they tend to break. If your Wurlie hasn’t been serviced for a while, have its amp checked out before you hit the road, just to be on the safe side.

With a Hammond and Leslie, “it’s a good idea to bring extra tubes along in case one breaks,” says Cunitz. “Unless the tone generator assembly has been shockmounted for the road, it must be locked down before any movement, or it will bang around.” Clavinet strings occasionally break. “Eighty percent of them can be replaced with nickel guitar strings that have had the ball ends clipped off, or with mandolin strings,” says Cunitz. Be aware, however, that the bass strings are longer than guitar strings.

JUST IN CASE

Once you’ve found, bought, cleaned, tuned, and otherwise fixed up your vintage keyboard, you’ll probably want to take it on an actual gig. Again, take care; don’t just toss it into the back of your van, or you might end up playing air piano that night.

The first thing to do is invest in a hard-shell case. Of the instruments covered, only the Rhodes can be transported to local gigs without a case. Fortunately, most of the cases can be made of fairly lightweight ¼-inch wood - except for the Hammond, which requires thicker, heavier materials. For local gigs, Leslie speakers can get by with a soft cover.

DON’T BREAK YOUR BACK

Hammonds and Leslies need special transportation considerations; most of the remaining instruments will fit into a standard hatchback. When I bought my chop, I reluctantly joined the SUV crowd and purchased a Toyota RAV4 to carry it. The seats come out of the back, leaving just enough room to carry the chop and a Leslie. I’d recommend against open pickup trucks, lest a surprise rainfall ruin your day (and your instrument). Search the classifieds for older cargo vans - a Ford Econoline or a Dodge 250 would be a perfect gear-hauling vehicle.

Dollies are the unsung saviors of the gigging musician’s back. With vintage keyboards, they’re a necessity. Magliner makes a portable folding dolly that’s lightweight, strong, and capable of carrying quite a load. For a chopped Hammond, I recommend using an appliance dolly meant for lugging refrigerators. They feature a safety belt that wraps around the instrument and harnesses it to the dolly. If you’re going to carry around an unchopped Hammond, you should invest in a set of Roll-or-Kari dollies, which are specifically designed for the instrument and which can be left attached.

YOU GOTTA HAVE FRIENDS

The most important asset you can have when dealing with vintage keyboards is a pool of sympathetic friends and bandmates. You will definitely need their help to move, set up, and tear down your gear. Like drums, vintage keyboards tend to take up more room onstage and thus need to be blocked out and set up before the other instruments.

When I made the switch over to vintage gear, I asked my bandmates if they were willing to deal with the additional inconvenience. They agreed, and everyone is delighted with the results.

Postscript: 8 years later

In the 8 years since I wrote this article, things have changed a bit. While I am still a huge vintage keyboard enthusiast, there have been several digital clones that have come along to make things a bit easier for the gigging keyboardist. In particular, I’ve embraced the Hammond XK-3 series for organ gigs, and the Nord Electro for more general purpose gigs. The Electro is phenomenally light and has a very good wide complement of vintage keyboard sounds. The keyboard action is terrific, and it is particularly good with careful use of the onboard speaker simulations. However, the red color is a bit garish for me, and takes away from what the audience should be focusing on: the performer. The Hammond XK-3 series is laid out just like a real organ, breaks down into two portable sections, and features an 11-pin Leslie output. When played through a real Leslie speaker, the results are also excellent. My problem with this organ is the action - it doesn’t feel exactly like the real thing, and the keytops feel too slippery to me. However, I roughed up my keytops with a bit of steel wool, which helped quite a bit.

In the studio, I still record exclusively with the real thing - there is no substitute. And on bigger organ-only gigs, I still take my real chop and Leslie around. But on smaller club gigs, particularly where there are several bands playing, it is really hard to beat the convenience of the digital units.

1973-1978: Teaching Little Fingers to Play

My parents thought it would be a great idea to learn how to tickle the ivories. My grandfather had been a professional trumpet player (but Stalin and World War II both interfered to cure him of that nasty habit). Otherwise, there was not a wisp of musical talent in the family. So my dad and I both started at the same time with one Gloria North, a belle of the ball that always wore plunging blouses and oceans of perfume. I was 8 years old, and went through the rigors of “Teaching Little Fingers to Play” through the Bach Inventions for about 5 years. Evidently, I showed a lot of promise, but my heart wasn’t in the music. Mozart and Haydn were OK, but at night, I kept spinning my parents copy of “Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” until the grooves wore out. This led to:

1978-1983: Maybe I’m Amazed at the Way I Need You

There is an incredible freedom that is experienced when kids that are studying music find their way. Once I moved from Brahms to the Beatles, music shifted from being a chore to being a passion. Any expression of the soul must be internally motivated - art can never be forced upon someone, or it will never stay with them. I wore out fake books of John, Paul and the lads, Billy Joel, and Elton John as the beginnings of my personal piano style began to take hold. I sang and sang, played the daylights out of our cheap Baldwin upright and spent the rest of my time geeking out with these new-fangled toys known as personal computers. By 1982, at 17, I was starting to write down my own little melodies and tunes. They were simple, naiive, and derivative at first, of course. But little by little, the stage was being set.

1983-1984: Who Can it be, Now?

They say that we are most deeply affected by the music we hear in high school. During my teen years, the airwaves were saturated with the simplistic, synthesized new wave music of the Cars, Men at Work, Thomas Dolby, Gary Numan, and a host of other artists long-gone. There was something refreshing about the easy, direct simplicity of the material, as well as the new-fangled sounds of synthesizers. So I saved up my cash from working at the toy store, and bought a Realistic analog synthesizer (designed by Moog Music - I still have it), then a Roland JX-3P and a Roland Cube keyboard amp. One terribly cheap electric guitar, a few Boss pedals, a Yamaha drum machine, and a Tascam 4-track cassette Portastudio later, and I was off to the races (This was the beginning of a lifelong habit of gear lust). Pretty soon, I was writing songs, recording ultra-cheesy music videos, performing in little talent shows, and just having a bang-up time with my high school and freshman-year dorm buddies. But pretty soon, I was hitting my head against the ceiling of just fooling around, and yearned to begin playing for people.

1984-1985: Uh-oh, It’s Magic: The Top-40 Corporate Rock Gigfest

And thus, in my sophomore year of college, I answered a newspaper ad looking for a keyboardist. Some very nice folks were putting together a top-40 band named “Common Interest” to go play bars. I use the term top-40 loosely, because what it really was was a smattering of early 80’s, middle American cover songs with an emhasis on female vocals (we had the hot female bass player with the killer pipes). There was Tina Turner, Huey Lewis, the Cars (my choice), Berlin, ZZ Top, Bob Seger, some country folk - all sorts of fare perfect for a fledgling gigging keyboardist to cut his teeth on. I had groovy red and black tiger striped shirts with no sleeves, a cool bandana, black nylon pants, and purple Hi-tops. I lugged around a 73-key Fender Rhodes with the JX-3P on top. Later, I sold the Rhodes and bought a Yamaha DX7 instead - a lighter choice, but in retrospect, infinitely cheesier in the sound department.

1985-1987: The Prog Era Begins: Freefall and the Shores of Infinity

Common Interest broke up (as all bands do) when a couple of members moved to L.A. It had been a great learning experience and quite fun, but I was interested in working on my own compositions instead. In addition, the harmonies and rhythms of straight-ahead rock music were not floating my boat. I had discovered the music of Genesis, ELP, Yes, Frank Zappa and King Crimson - bands that had brought the complexities of classical music and jazz into the rock format. They had captured my imagination, and I wanted to pursue this line of music. I answered an ad placed by some other UC Berkeley students who were interested in the same type of music, and Freefall was born. We hit it off instantly, and the music flowed like a river. We composed, recorded, and gigged through the rest of our time at Cal before everyone went their separate ways. In retrospect, Freefall was the most talented and musically capable group of musicians I have ever worked with. At age 20, we were still musically naiive and young, but the level of musicianship and potential were unparallelled in my experience. For better or for worse, everyone except me pursued careers in other fields, but all still play as a hobby. We are still great friends, though we are scattered across the world now, but come together every Christmas like clockwork.

1987-1992: Edge of the Sky: A New Episode

While in Freefall, I had heard of a Marin County-based progressive rock band named Episode. Once Freefall fell, I contacted them and found out that, lo and behold, they were looking for a keyboard player. We met, and though they were about 10 years older than me, we hit it off musically and personally right away. The result was a long and dedicated journey into really trying to make an art rock band work. We rehearsed three times each week recorded a great deal, and wrote quite a bit of complex, symphonic rock. Lots of odd time signatures, synthesized orchestral instruments, long, involved pieces with lots of timbral changes, and polyphonic vocal harmonies.

Though we were primarily a recording band, we tried our hand at gigging locally, playing a gig each month or so. The problem was that the music was artsy,

Our first recording project became an LP called “Into the Epicenter” that was picked up by a small distributor of the genre called Syn-Phonic Records. We then recorded a 15-minute piece called “Edge of the Sky” for a compilation album. Next, a cover of the Pink Floyd song “Echoes”, which we released with “Edge of the Sky” on a 30-minute cassette. Eventually, we began work on what was unquestionably our magnum opus, a CD called “Starlight Tales”. We released it in 1993, and then began to drift apart. Too much time together, combined with the ever-present musical differences caused our personal and musical relationships to fray. We decided to take some time off.

In 1994, the band reunited for a big progressive rock festival in L.A. called Progfest ‘94. We enlisted the help of an additional keyboardist, a cellist, and a guitarist/mandolin player to really fill the sound out. The resulting concert was a lot of fun, and a video and double CD live set were released of the whole festival. It was a nice postscript to the project. Two years later, Episode reunited somewhat with some additional players to record and perform my concept album “Under the Big Tree” (see below).

1989-1993: Get it Right the 2nd Time: Formal Training and Islands in the Stream

I had begun my college career at UC Berkeley by studying computer science. By the time I realized that music was my true calling, it was too late to begin the formal training there. I finished my degree in Psychology, but took as many music classes as possible. After a year in the real world, I knew that my path in music required training. So I switched to working part-time and went back to college, eventually receiving a second bachelor’s degree in electronic music. The experience was incredibly uplifting and powerful, and introduced me to whole new worlds of musical thought I had never dreamed existed. I discovered musique concrete and 20th century avant garde music, and delved deeply into modular analog synthesizers and computer music. Along the way, I released my first solo CD. Entitled “Islands in the Stream”, it was a concept album of experimental electronic music, with various pieces focused on water themes, tied together by electronic realizations of a stream at various points along its course.

Studying music formally was enormously important in moving me forward as a musician and composer. In my experience, there is no faster, more concentrated way to grow in your technique and your work. I recommend it for anyone who wishes to apply themselves seriously to the art.

1994-1996: Deep in the Ivory Tower/Positive Signal Flow

After joining the multimedia work force for a short while, I began to feel the urge for more musical training. I knew I had learned a lot, but didn’t feel that my formal musical education was complete. Fortunately for me, Mills College in Oakland, CA is a very important west coast center for both electronic music and avant garde/improvisational acoustic music. Many of the great luminairies of 20th century music had made pit stops there, including Pauline Oliveros, Alvin Curran, Terry Riley, and Darius Milhaud. I was in my late twenties, and the time felt right. So I applied to Mills, quit my job, and began my master’s work in electronic music and recording media.

The 2 1/2 years I spent at Mills was a terrific experience. I focused strongly on analog electronics (built a number of synthesizers, theremins, and various electronic circuits of my own design), real-time DSP processing for performance, and approaches to making electronic music sound expressive live. It was great to be in a nurturing environment, where making weird sounding bleeps and bloops was considered the norm. I think graduate school is the last time in most people’s lives that you can just focus on a purely abstract discipline, simply for the sake of doing it. The principle electronic music staff there, Chris Brown, Maggi Payne, and John Bischoff, are all top notch teachers as well as composer/musicians, and a rotating group of visiting composers teach for a semester at a time, truly enriching the scholastic experience.

I did a good deal of live, semi-improvisational electronic performing at Mills, the best of which ended up making my second avant garde electronic music CD, Positive Signal Flow. It was a good document of the time I spent on this musical emphasis. I’m pretty much done with avant garde electronic music for now (primarily because I am a sound designer for my day gig, which has very strong overlap), but the time will come when I sit down and put together another album in this vein.

I finished up my time at Mills with a master’s thesis concert in two parts: The first half was an hour-long solo electronic music performance entitled “Afrique”, which consisted of real-time sonic manipulation of field recordings I made on a trip to Africa. The piece was an interaction between myself and the audience, in the following way: I was onstage creating sonic tapestries from the sounds of birdcalls, groups of birds in flight, insects, hippos, the wind, and all sorts of other things using a real-time sound manipulation program I wrote. At the same time, I had placed a Theremin that I had built, in the middle of the audience. A Theremin is a musical device that has a pair of antennae that respond to the movement of the player’s hands. The
Theremin controlled the volume and position in the room of a recording I had made of African chanting and singing. The result was an abstract sonic canvas of natural and human sounds, that built slowly over the course of an hour, and was fun for the audience as well as being sonically beautiful. Dramatic lighting, lasers, fog machines, and traditional African garb topped it off.

The second half of the evening’s performance was the one and only live performance of Under the Big Tree (see below) in it’s entirety. It was a nice postscript to the Episode days, and I’m glad the entire piece got to be seen through once.

1994-1997: The End of the Prog Era: Under the Big Tree

In 1994, I was studying music and listening with composer Pauline Oliveros, on a remote mountain in New Mexico. After several days of music and meditation, I had a deep mystical experience that revealed a vision that would haunt me for the next three years. I scribbled the whole thing down, and spent a year interpreting meaning and sketching the music. I grabbed my colleagues from Episode and Now, another prog band we had played with quite a bit, and began recording the album. It took about three years on and off to complete, and was the largest and most complex recording project I have yet undertaken, with two drummers, guitar, bass, every keyboard I could think of, sitar, flute, and cello. But eventually it was completed and released into the world. Looking back five years later, I think we accomplished what we set out to do, and am very proud of the results.

I think I knew as I was wrapping up Under the Big Tree that it was the end of my interest in the prog rock genre. While the complexity and openness of the form continued to appeal to me, I began to feel constrained by the way that everything was so carefully written out. The element of immediacy felt lacking - and improvisation felt like the next place to explore as a result. Saying farewell to a genre I had deeply identified with for a decade felt a bit strange, but now I look back at that type of music with a fond nostalgia, as if it belonged to another lifetime.

1999-2000: If You Build it, They will Come

By 1998, I had built a half-dozen recording studios in various bedrooms and garages. The last one I had worked in for some 7 years, and had built a career in sound design in it. The time had come to design and build a proper post production studio, where I could record and mix music projects in addition to the sound effects and other audio post production services I was doing for films and games. I worked on the design and permit process for my studio for about a year, and finally had the blueprints, permissions, builder, and capital lined up. We broke ground in the Summer of 1999, and finished the 500 square foot facility in the Spring of 2000. Because the entire building was designed for audio from the ground up, we were able to make it dead quiet, with spacious, high ceilings, terrific sounding acoustics, wire runs through conduit in the floors, and all the noisy computer fans stowed away in a ventilated equipment closet. It has a vocal booth, a vestibule area where a guitar amp can be recorded, a foley pit for recording footsteps and props for films, and a nice assortment of microphones and recording equipment.

Though the design and building process took over a year, and my life savings, the results are superb. A tremendous amount of professional and artistic work has already been done there by me and my colleagues, and I look forward to continuing doing a great deal of work there.

1997-2002: The Largest Fowl in the World: Free Improvisational Soup

In December 1997, guitarist Gary Morrell, with whom I had worked extensively on Under the Big Tree, and I decided to get out of the prog rock world entirely and focus on free improvisation in a rock context, a la the Grateful Dead and Phish. The goal would be to play a lot of gigs, as well as make recordings. We brought along drummer Rich DiBenedetto and keyboardist Eric Kampman, alumni of Gary’s previous prog rock band Now, and Ten Ton Chicken was born.

The band began with material from all over the musical map, including prog rock material from Now, Episode, and Under the Big Tree, Dead covers, new songs, and whatever other stuff struck our fancy. Over time, material with more free improvisation became the mainstay of the repertoire. The band began to play gigs with greater and greater regularity, and pretty soon we entered a zone of excellent musical communication and cameraderie. In retrospect, this was the time that the band was the most fun. After 2 1/2 years, keyboard bassist Eric Kampman left, and the search for a bass player began. After working with a couple of different people, we settled on a fellow named Tom Fejes, and added saxophonist Jamison Smeltz at the same time. A new Ten Ton Chicken was born. The new band began to be more sharply focused into two camps: funk jazz and spacey improvisational dissonance. I began to write material that was jazzier and jazzier, with swing rhythms, extended harmonies, complex chord changes, and bop sensibilities. A heavy marketing push was underway, and shortly the band began playing all over the west coast, gigging virtually every weekend. We played 3 short tours together, getting as far as Missoula, Montana. We released two albums, “De Cocksdorp” from the original lineup, and “Just Like in the Old Country” from the new group. I engineered, produced, and in did the lion’s share of the work on both records. But the road and never-ending time commitments wore on me, particularly as I was planning to marry. The continuous work together without a break caused personality and lifestyle clashes, and the rather severe difference in musical perspective between the funk jazz and spacey improv camps created a musical schizophrenia that satisfied no one. I left the band I co-founded in May, 2002, after being mostly unhappy about the group for over a year.

2002-2005: We Call this Number “Jazz Odyssey Mark II”

I had always heard that jazz was America’s greatest musical contribution. When younger, I thought jazz meant cheesy renditions of “The Girl from Ipanema” or, worse yet, the light, syrupy, unlistenable pablum of Kenny G. Then, little by little, I began to take notice of what jazz was really about. It started with the keyboardists, of course: Bill Evans. Vince Guaraldi. Oscar Peterson. Joey DeFrancesco. Jimmy Smith. McCoy Tyner. Herbie Hancock. Then I began to listen to the people they had played with: Miles Davis. John Coltrane. Dizzy Gillespie. Charlie Parker. The next thing I knew, I realized it had been a year since I had listened to any music for pleasure BUT jazz. Why? Because jazz demands of a musician a great deal of technical skill, harmonic understanding, self-confidence, musical sensitivity, intellectual analytical ability, and contact with one’s deepest emotions. OK, simply put, the chords are 100 times more complicated than rock. And the improvisations are focused, paced, structured, and oriented towards making a complete artistic statement. The reason jamband music is limited is because it is very difficult to make a group improvisation have cohesion and economy. When anything goes, the musicians often blow in unstructured, rambling monologues that lose the audience (if, in fact, they were paying attention in the first place). In jazz, the art of improvisation goes far beyond what scale is cool to play over what chord. There is a dedicated focus on the life of a solo, on utilizing compositional structures such as motives and sequences to spin a yarn that is a cohesive, fluid, structured and complete statement of itself, that is true to the body and spirit of the piece being played, and finally, that expresses the creativity, purpose, mood, and personality of the soloist. And all of this often happens at breakneck speed, over a bevy of chord changes that would leave the average power chord banger not even knowing where to begin.

Now this is not to say that all jazz is reserved and tasteful, that all soloists focus every moment on compositional practice rather than displaying their chops with overflowing flurries of notes. But jazz musicians study how to improvise. They learn techniques, they consult with others, they listen and learn and hone their craft, whether formally or informally, with a great deal of diligence and dedication. Perhaps the fundamental difference between getting into jazz and getting into rock is the amount of musical knowledge and wisdom you need to have internalized before you can really get rolling. With rock, a dozen simple triads and maybe a dominant 7th chord or two, played in open voicings on the guitar, are enough to start playing with others (this is not to denigrate Eric Clapton or Mark Knopfler or any of the thousands of other truly great rock musicians - we are just talking about having enough musical language to start playing with others here). With jazz, I am finding that the barriers to entry include: having completely internalized all modes of the major and melodic minor scales, as well as the blues, whole tone, and whole half diminished scales in all twelve keys, having knowledge of a great number of chord voicings for all types of chords from a minor 7th to a susb9 chord under your fingers in all twelve keys, the ability to read music, the ability to generally play your instrument pretty well, and finally, the ability to swing. What a challenge! No wonder so many musicians happily strum away on G C and D (with an occasional Em for an exotic twist). But is the challenge worth it?

It was for me. To bring this back to my personal musical evolution, it was the only way I could go. I had hit the end of the road with rock music - I had made it as complex as I possibly could, first through the odd time signatures and symphonic structures of prog rock, then through the free improvisations of the jamband scene. Both musical interests (read: obsessions) were pointing clearly in a direction of a nimble and noble beauty, a road that had been traveled by legions of our world’s most talented musicians, a syntax and vocabulary and book of songs that can be shared among people that have never met, that come from completely different backgrounds, that may not even speak the same language. Jazz is where I am, and jazz is where I will be staying for some time to come. It is my musical present, my musical future.

I am approaching this challenge through practice and playing with others. As of this writing, I am taking theory and advanced jazz piano workshops at the wonderful Jazzschool in Berkeley, California (http://www.jazzschool.com). I play often with a number of other jazz musicians, sitting down with our instruments and the real book and enjoying great, lighthearted musical communication while spinning notes into the atmosphere. Most importantly, I started the Nick Peck Quartet in August 2002. This group of excellent musicians and marvelous people got together weekly for years and play together for the sheer love of music. The music energized me, puts a gigantic smile on my face, and made me run to the piano to squeeze 15 minutes of practice in before I had to rush off and make a buck. Once again, I have fallen in love with music, and can’t see any reason why this love affair can’t give me (and thus, by reflection, the people who hear the music) untold meaning and pleasure until my fingers just can’t push down on the keys any more.

2005-present: Hammond and the deep groove

Focusing on jazz pushed me back into focusing on rhythm more deeply. After a time of focusing on harmony, I wanted to settle into an examination of the groove. I’ve been there ever since, trying to get my foundation as solid as possible.

All music beyond a solo act demands cooperation and collaboration between the players. When money is involved, it is possible to have the same type of hierarchy that makes a theatrical or film production work: all the players are following the instructions of a leader, because they are making their living at it. It is a paid gig, so there is less ego involved. But what of the far more common example of a band that is together of their own free will, rehearsing, composing, and performing together with little or no financial renumeration? How do you make it work and keep it working? How do you know when it is not working, when it is headed for a change or the end of the road? How do you know when to leave the situation?

I’ve been in and out of bands continuously since I was 18 – for more than half of my life now. I have composed, rehearsed, recorded, gigged, lugged tons of heavy equipment, spent my last dime on gear, tape, and CD duplication. I’ve created band websites, designed band logos, and sacrificed unbelievable amounts of time and energy to the cause. I’ve screwed up love relationships, and endured (and inflicted) enormous pain from and among bandmates “for the good of the band”. I’ve sat in cars, burning up the miles from Moscow, Idaho to Missoula, Montana, only to get chewed out by the owner of the next club that we didn’t have a big enough draw. I’ve sat in crappy clubs with a bad case of bronchitis, forcing myself to play a three hour set while wishing I was dead. I’ve had countless vindictive and utterly useless email and phone discussions about this band member or that one’s personal or musical failings. I’ve cried, lost sleep, and been utterly furious. I’ve also enjoyed countless moments of ecstacy: Opening the box of CD’s coming hot off the press from the manufacturer, playing gigs to packed audiences at venues I had only dreamed of, having strangers come up and say how much they love our music.

To quote George Harrison, “With every mistake, we must surely be learning”. Here are some principles that might help you evaluate your band experience:

All Things Must Pass

“Don’t hang on – Nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky”

I hate to break it to you, but I absolutely, positively guarantee that your band will break up. As death is the inexorable conclusion of life, so too, your band’s end is built in to your band’s beginning (sometimes, you will leave and the band will change, but it will eventually end with or without you). The reasons are legion, but primarily have to do with changes in circumstance or perspective that mean that the bandmates are no longer in sync. Or sometimes you just get sick of being with each other in such a tight-knit situation. The best way to armor yourself against this inevitability is to bear it in mind from the beginning. Remember, all the great bands have broken up: The Beatles, The Who, REO Speedwagon. This is not to say that you should live fatalistically, but put it in the proper perspective, think of it as “a project” rather than your life, and be sure to make charts of songs that you want to keep for your next project, so that the new musicians you work with can learn them quickly. There are always more fish in the sea.

Are Your Lifestyles in Sync?

People come into bands from all walks of life, and all backgrounds. The hard truth of the matter is that lots of musicians have drinking or drug habits. Some of them have drinking and drug problems. In my experience, a clear warning sign is if they do it every day, or every rehearsal, or every gig, it is a habit or a problem. If the use of drugs or alcohol has a significant impact on the musician’s life, money, or other relationships, it is definitely a problem.

The band’s group lifestyle dynamic absolutely needs to be in sync. If two are straight and three are stoned, you will have conflict. If one is straight and four are stoned, you will have an insurmountable problem in which the straight guy feels isolated and the stoners feel that their lifestyle is threatened. Tough stuff to deal with, and a recipe for tension in the group dynamic.

Are Your Goals in Sync?

Bands are timesinks. There is no getting around it. The only question is how much of your time and energy you are willing to give. The amount will strongly determine the possible end goals of the band. At the beginning of the band, you should make sure that everyone has similar or identical goals for the group, and a realistic assessment of whether they have the necessary time, energy, and desire to attempt to reach those goals. As the band progresses, you need to continuously re-evaluate everyone’s goal desires and their ability to commit the time to achieve those goals.

The first step is to commit to the number of rehearsals per week, and the number of desired gigs per month. One rehearsal per week is a bare minimum to make anything happen, and anything more than three is a recipe for killing each other. Likewise, 1 gig per month is a good minimum number to shoot for, but if you are getting up towards 2 gigs per week, or contemplating touring, you need to make sure everyone is still on board. Bands have a nasty habit of taking you away from family and career, so be sure to check it as you go along to make sure that you have not given up more of your life than you feel comfortable.

If some people in a band are intent on “making it” while others just want to have a good time making music and having fun, you are dead in the water. The gung ho members will continuously resent the lack of commitment on the part of the casual guys, and the casuals will similarly resent the endless impinging on their lives for band duties. The best thing to do at this point is move on.

Are Your Musical Interests in Sync?

Eclecticism is a wonderful force in music. The fusion of different musical interests and styles can create all sorts of new flavors and energy. But when unfocused or unclear, it simply leads to musical car wrecks. When starting a band, having a musical focus is critical. It is the touchstone upon which you can rest to add players who are willing to play within that style.

Another force that keeps music vital is the inevitable change in tastes and direction over time. Over my musical career, I have been fascinated by (in chronological order): 60’s Brit Pop (The Beatles), New Wave (Howard Jones, the Human League), Middle of the Road American Rock (Springsteen et al), 70’s Progressive Rock (Genesis, ELP, Yes), ambient synth music (Tangerine Dream), 20^th C Avant Garde (Terry Riley, Pauline Oliveros, et al), Experimental Electronic music (Pierre Henry, Luc Ferrari, et al), group improvisational rock (Grateful Dead, Phish, et al), jazz rock (Bruce Hornsby), funk and soul jazz (Herbie Hancock, Jimmy Smith) and, finally, jazz (Miles, Bird, Coltrane, Bill Evans). It is perfectly natural to grow and change musically. But if you are moving into new terrain and other folks in the band are not coming with you, it is time to find new players better suited to what you are interested in.

Are Your Musical Abilities in Sync?

Realistic appraisal of where you are technically as a musician is a difficult thing to confront. The honest truth is that talent can get you a long way, but there is no substitute for musical training and good, hard woodshedding. Every great musician has been through a long period where they were not. But careful dedication to the craft got them where they are.

Groups seem to work best when everyone is of approximately equal musical ability. There is nothing more frustrating (on either side) than for one musician to present a chart with jazz chords changing at every measure, while another member of the group does not know how to play a Bb major scale on their instrument. It is just a big waste of time. In my opinion, absolutely everyone in a group should be able to read a chart presented by a composer – it makes the rehearsal and learning process much faster and more productive. Having to teach melodies and chord progressions by ear is slow and painful.

When confronting this question, try to put your defenses aside and appraise the musical abilities of each member of the group dispassionately. If you are a much more advanced than everyone else, leave. You will waste time trying to get them to your level. If you are less advanced than everyone else, either take the time to really apply yourself to individual practice and learning, or get out while the getting is good. If most people in the group are of the same level but one person is the weakest link, you have a tough situation that needs to be handled honestly but delicately.

Screening new players carefully is paramount in trying to balance everyone’s ability. In putting together future projects, I will make sure that potential players can read music, have at least some formal musical training and a minimum of 5 years band experience, before even bothering to audition them. It saves everyone time and headaches.

Are Your Demographics in Sync?

I think that the best bands come from people in roughly the same age ranges, and from roughly similar walks of life. I say this only because I think it makes it easier to have stuff in common to chat about during the incredibly long periods of time you spend together while not making music. To be sure, the language of music is universal and can be discussed across all boundaries. But a 40 year old spandex wearing rock guitarist will have problems making it with a 18-year old punk band. On the other hand, once you get to a certain age, you can play with cats until they drop. Over the last five years, I’ve really enjoyed playing with some jazz cats in their fifties or sixties - I have really learned from their years of experience.

If you are 35 and Still Trying to “Make It”, Check your Priorities

OK, time for more bad news. One band out of one thousand (or less) actually makes a living at playing original music. Now, of every band you can think of that is making it or has made it, how old were the musicians when the band became big? The Beatles? About 20. The Who? The Stones? Jimi Hendrix? Counting Crows? Primus? The Police? All between late teens and 25. I’m sorry to have to break it to you, but if the mean age of your band is mid-thirties, you will not make it as a rock, alternative, or pop band. You just won’t. First of all, you are writing and playing music for an audience that is 15 years younger than you. Second of all, you are out of touch with them on a cultural and musical level. Third of all, you are no longer a young, handsome, sexy bunch of cats.

Now for the good news. With age comes wisdom. And often, the means to move your life along and grow. If you’ve had a great run playing music through your teens and twenties, terrific. There is no reason you have to stop in your thirties, forties, or eighties. But get realistic about what the career cash potential is, and look in other directions for your daily bread. Also, the great thing about your thirties is that you are in the right place maturity-wise to partner down and enjoy the wonders that being a husband, father, or domestic partner can bring. You can still be a weekend warrior – it would be unfair for a partner to deny you your musical life. But to be out on the road all the time, and not at least sending home a fat paycheck is selfish, irresponsible, and the stuff divorce is made of.

The day I decided to marry was the day my priorities changed. My band was no longer number one on my hit parade. Not even number two. The clouds parted, and it was perfectly clear that my wife came first by a mile. Then my career. And then, running a distant third in the hobby department, came my band. These kinds of shifting priorities can spell big trouble for the group if other members are still gung ho to make it their vocation. If that is the case, you owe it to yourself, your partner, and them, to step aside and let them continue their pursuit.

Band Democracies Don’t Work

It was Winston Churchill who said that “democracies are the worst form of government except for all the others”. If he had been chomping his cigar in a local blues band, he might have rethought his perspective a bit.

On paper, it would seem that a completely democratic form of leadership would be the best way to run a band. After all, everyone gets an equal say, each person gets their thoughts heard, and all needs are met. Right? Wrong. Here is the problem: because we are talking about aesthetic decisions, different members are guaranteed to have wildly different opinions. Having votes about absolutely every decision to be made gums up the works considerably. An incredible amount of time gets spent discussing details, and the energy that could be put to use creating posters, writing material, or rehearsing gets piddled away in meetings. If it were just these meetings that took up time and energy, though, it would not be so bad. The problem is actually far more insidious and divisive than that: In any social group, there will be people that handle getting their way in different ways. In a situation where votes count, people who really want to get their way will bargain with, curry favor from, and otherwise exploit other band members behind the scenes to try to get decisions to come out in their favor. This type of back room politics and Machiavellian manipulation is perhaps the most damaging form of trust destruction I have ever witnessed in a band. It goes hand in hand with the sniping and backbiting discussed earlier, and is the most thorough way I know to turn trusted comrades and long time friends into people who are permanently done with each other in every respect.

Band Dictatorships Don’t Work

So if democracy does not work in a band situation, let’s take a look at the other tried and true method of band governance: dictatorship. In this form of band, one strong person takes the helm and guides the boat. They are the final arbiter of all decisions musical and not. They choose the material, schedule the rehearsals, book the gigs, handle the money, come up with the band name (usually “The Joe Smith Band”, “The Bob Jones Quartet”, et al), and do just about everything except play the other member’s instruments. If the band is playing casuals, or the band leader is, oh, Sting, Peter Gabriel or Donald Fagen, this type of situation works out just fine: everybody knows exactly where they stand, and the sidemen walk away from the gig with a nice paycheck, no harm, no foul. But what if we are talking about the much more common scenario of an original band playing lousy clubs and dive bars? How does the band leader motivate and hold the interest of the other musicians in the group? What is causing them to show up to rehearsal promptly and reliably? What makes them take time away from their loved ones if they don’t even get a much of a say in what goes on musically?

I don’t have an answer here, because I have never seen this type of situation last unless money was involved. My only advice is this: if you want to be a band leader of this type, get many copies of charts and tapes of your material ready, because you are going to have a high turnover of musicians. Have a thick skin, handle rejection well (hey, if you are in an original band, you already have lots of experience with rejection), and stay focused on your vision. You might just find the easy-going cats who are looking for a simple gig where they just have to show up for the rehearsals and gigs and do absolutely nothing else. But don’t expect them to then throw their backs into postering and otherwise pushing the band, because it just won’t happen.

So with both democratic and dictatorial forms of band leadership shown to have enormous problems in the long term, what is the most successful form of leadership for an original project? I would say either one that involved renumeration to the musicians, or one with a short time horizon, focused on fun rather than success.

R E S P E C T

I promise not to continue going on like a self-help infomercial. But if there is one element I find crucial to the band process, it is unconditional, mutual respect. I cannot stress this enough. Let the others in your band know that you respect them musically and personally. Expect and demand exactly the same treatment back from them. If you take shortcuts here, if you rely on friendship to smooth out any inherent lack of respect, your relationships will degrade and trust will suffer. Earlier in my band career, I thought that pushiness and aggressive musical behavior would get me the desired musical result. In retrospect, I see that this lack of respect engendered a similar lack of respect back, and the band eventually failed. Later on, I found that similar tactics were used against me, and it made me utterly furious. Respect your bandmates, make them respect you. Even if it means having a slightly more formal relationship with people you are close to.

One more word on respect: I have been in the situation where a bandmate has used our musical relationship to attack me personally: the way I dressed, the way I spoke, etc. If this ever comes up, brook absolutely none of that behavior. It is strongly outside of the boundaries of musical critique, and is disrespect of the highest order. Nip it in the bud, instantly and with firm resolve. If you would not put up with that type of treatment from your friends, never put up with it from your bandmates.

Do It For Yourself

Here is another mistake I have made that you don’t have to: Never, ever, ever stay in a band for the supposed benefit of other members. If you want to go, if there are too many things out of sync as mentioned above, if it is time to move on, by all means do so. I have wasted a good three musical years sticking around bogus situations after I wanted to leave, because I thought it would help the other members. This line of thinking is egocentric and doesn’t do anyone any good. It just prolongs your agony. Believe me, if they want to continue their group, they will find another musician, and you can move on to other pastures, guilt-free.

Glass Cathedrals and Howitzers

We’ve all heard the dictum “people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones”. I have had a toxic band experience where virtually everyone sniped incessantly behind the backs of others about each and every fault, real and perceived, both musical and personal. There was so much time spent going on endlessly about what bad people/musicians/whatever that the other musicians were that all positive energy in the band dissipated and blew away on the wind (and yes, you can bet that I contributed to this crap). Do yourself and your bandmates a favor. Follow the Buddhist principle of right speech (put simply, don’t say mean shit about others). The next time you are starting on a tirade about how your drummer can’t groove, put that energy toward analyzing where you can improve musically instead. I promise you that unless you are Dennis Chambers, Joey DeFrancesco, John Coltrane, Paul McCartney, or Jaco Pastorius, you have room for plenty of musical growth. The next time you start in on what an inflexible, arrogant prick someone you are working with is, think instead about the last time you said something mean or unwarranted instead. Unless you are Mahatma Gandhi, Mother Theresa, or Martin Luther King Jr, you have plenty of room for personal growth.

Going into Business with the Wrong People

In closing, I’d like to quote a dear friend and consumate musician who founded a successful gigging band, only to have it explode, destroying 20 year relationships along with it: Bands can’t work, because having a band is going into business with a bunch of people. And the people you have in a band you would never, ever go into business with.

All of these musings might sound pretty cynical, and the truth is that they are. But they come from hard fought experience. Bands can be extremely intense emotional experiences. They can challenge you to play your best, to do things you never thought of before, to rise to new musical heights and to bask in the glory of a cheering crowd. And they can also rake your psyche over the tortured coals of your bandmates’ personal hells. I hope that this treatise does not sound simply like sour grapes: I have learned, grown, and made great music with the bands I have led and been in over the years. But at times, the music has come at great personal cost. And to be perfectly clear, I have personally made every mistake in the book. I will not play the victim, pretending that all bandmates are evil while I was the perfect guy who just suffered. People are people. They are imperfect, and bring their imperfections to every social relationship. But, in thinking this all out, I have developed some new strategies to help make future projects smoother, maximizing the music and the fun, while minimizing the bullshit. I hope some of these principles help you out too.

Nick Peck

May 31, 2002

Kihei, Maui, Hawaii

Postscript: Five Years Later

Since writing this essay, I have worked hard on putting the words into practice. And while nothing is perfect, I am delighted to report that the last half decade of band work has been greatly enjoyable, far more pleasant, and utterly devoid of the types of problems outlined above. I think that the biggest change has been to recognize the ephemeral nature of band relationships, and by taking things far less seriously. Another huge help has been playing with jazz musicians: Having charts and common vocabulary that everyone understands minimizes rehearsal and maximizes gigging time. Fine music, good times, and great memories have been the result.