Each time I go to teach improvisation (like at my workshop last month), I am struck by the challenge of explaining how to improvise.

I mean … What does it mean for an improv to be “good” or to be “good” at improvising?

How do you get good at something where the goal is invention, newness and spontaneity?

And, who decides if it’s good? The audience? The artist? (Me?)

And (again), since each of us has our own brain, preferences and collection of musical and life experiences, how do any of us even recognize “good” in the first place?

Furthermore, part of what makes improvisation “good” is its changeability and instant invention. So how do we examine something that has never existed before and (unless documented) will never exist again and decide whether or not it’s good?

In short, how do we know when we’ve “got it?”

(At this point, I usually consider cancelling my workshop and taking everyone out for pizza. *smile*)

…

How do we know?

The same way we know a painting is beautiful or a poem is good. (Or a blog post is finished. *grin*)

We know.

For me, there’s a click. The sensation of things falling into place.

With exposure and/or practice, we come to recognize “good” more easily. We learn to hear the click.

(It happens all of the time with these blog posts. I shuffle words, ideas and paragraphs around until … click.)

The click is something about ease and connection. And recognition. It’s about getting out of our own heads (or is that way? *smile*) and outside of our selves.

It’s also about letting go of what we planned to have happen so we can see and appreciate what’s actually happening. In other words, seeing — and telling — a truth.

…

Vibes player Gary Burton says:

There’s a grammar to music, a vocabulary and a grammar and it’s all stored in the brain. And that language ability functions for us as improvisers as well. Our melodic phrases are like sentences, they form in the unconscious, get put in the right order – the right notes to fit the chords and everything and, as they come into our conscious mind, we play them on our instrument. [O]ur goal as improvisers is to become fluent at this process.

I felt a click when I heard the quote above.

Of course, improvising is about communicating fluently! Click.

Yes, yes, there’s a musical grammar that we know and notice (regardless of our musical training!). Clickety-click.

The idea that improvising and communicating are alike makes a wonderful and logical sense to me.

…

The more I study, perform and teach, the more I am learning that, for me, singing and improvising are about communicating. An important part of singing, perhaps the most important part for me, is the telling of stories — in direct and indirect ways.

For me, singing is, has been and will always be about sharing. About having someone who is listening see what I see or feel what I feel in that moment of inventing, whether it’s an image, an emotion or a story.

It’s about singing — and sharing — the click.

When a woman of the Ubuntu African tribe knows she is pregnant, she goes to the jungle with other women, and together they pray and meditate until you get to “The song of the child. “When a child is born, the community gets together and they sing the child’s song. When the child begins his education, people get together and he sings his song. When they become an adult, they get together again and sing it. When it comes to your wedding, the person hears his song. Finally, when their soul is going from this world, family and friends are approaching and, like his birth, sing their song to accompany it in the “journey”.

In the Ubuntu tribe, there is another occasion when men sing the song. If at some point the person commits a crime or aberrant social act, they take him to the center of town and the people of the community form a circle around her. Then they sing “your song.” The tribe recognizes that the correction for antisocial behavior is not punishment, but is the love and memory of his true identity. When we recognize our own song, we have no desire or need to hurt anyone.

Your friends know “your song.” And sing when you forget it. Those who love you can not be fooled by mistakes you have committed, or dark images you show to others. They remember your beauty as you feel ugly, your total when you’re broke, your innocence when you feel guilty and your purpose when you’re confused.” – Tolba Phanem, African poet

…

I received the story above through facebook.

I was captivated. The message is compelling, the ideas powerful. In my heart of hearts, I believe this is how songs came to be and have been used for eons.

Despite how compelling I found it, I debated sending it to you as a blog post.

I mean, I should do some research, right?

Who is/was this poet? Is s/he real or fictional?

Does the Ubuntu tribe currently use this practice? (Did they ever?)

Who took the photo? What book or text is the excerpt from?

And then I remembered.

…

I’m an artist. A spontaneous, story-singing artist.

I work in the abstract and unproven, the ethereal and profound.

I make up stories and songs all of the time.

And they’re true.

They are invented and (sometimes) nonsensical, and maybe they never happened, but at the heart and at the center, they are true.

Because when we hear them (or tell them), we can imagine and believe that they really happened.

Or wish that they had.

This is a true story.

I remember when I started practicing improvising how I would “hear” something I wanted to add to the music in my head. The flicker of some perfect melody. I would open my mouth to sing it and … I couldn’t.

I lost the thread or the idea. Lack of confidence closed my ears and stifled my voice. The moment of inspiration flitted away like a butterfly and there I sat glued to the ground with my empty net (or, in this case, my open mouth). It was a frustrating experience.

…

As we sang at Songtaneous this past Saturday, I realized that this fighting to find my melodies happens less and less. More and more often, I can sing what I hear. I don’t think too hard about it. I have learned to open my mouth and trust my voice.

Perhaps because I am approaching a new decade, I have noticed that, more and more often, I can SAY what I mean, too.

No, not every time. *smile* But more and more often. I get clearer faster.

Through trusting my voice, I am learning to trust myself. By singing spontaneously, I am learning how to be more authentic, more courageous and to say, as well as sing, what I mean.

…

It seems like finding the skills and commitment to sing what I find in the music (and sometimes what I find is sad or mad or just plain weird *smile*) has strengthened some “authenticity muscle.”

This is the “muscle” that helps me traverse the terrain of changing careers and find collaborators and projects that fit me. It also helps be more direct and more honest with myself and with others.

Most important, my music muscles are teaching me how to transition. Repeatedly, consistently, awkwardly or seamlessly, melodically or with disconnected dissonance, over and over again, the music shows me how to move from point A to B. And, I see again and again that even the imperfect transitions can be beautiful.