I was sitting outside a Barnes & Noble in Roanoke, VA today. It was 91F, with some mad humidity. Then it started to rain. Just enough so that I didn’t even notice it on my skin, but instead I could smell the hot asphalt being struck by the drops.

That smell — the musty, hot, electric smell — it just does something for me. I love that smell so much! It always takes me back to vacations with my father. When I was younger we’d fly to North Carolina during the summer to visit my grandparents. I remember being utterly fascinated with rain that wasn’t extremely cold, and would spend hours outside as it rained, just walking through the lawn bare foot.

So this entry doesn’t have some deep meaning other than the links between memories and smells, but in that regard, I am hardly an expert, nor a pioneer!

Still, the rain totally made my day today. I thought that was worth sharing :)

I recently flew a Delta airlines flight where I was both pleasantly surprised and horribly annoyed.

The surprise was the safety video. I know, it’s hardly exciting, but when 90% of the videos look like they were created back in the early 80s, it’s extremely refreshing. With all the effort that airlines put into marketing and identity, it’s never made sense to me why things are so disjointed and broken. From the interior of the plane to things like the safety video, they’re all little pieces that I see as “tacked on” because of the inconsistency.  At any rate, the video was very well done: modern, well produced, and acted more skillfully than an 8th grade drama-club production (for once). Happy Aaron!

The terrible annoyance took place shortly after take off, as I was trying to sleep. Crackle goes the intercom, and through the speakers comes the shrill voice of an all-too-bubbly flight attendant. She is sharing her obvious excitement for the Delta SkyMiles credit card. For ten minutes. Repeating the same thing time and time again. I felt like I was inside an infomercial. By the end of her preaching I was freaking disgusted. I am spending far too much money as it is to fly economy flights, and instead of being allowed to sleep - or at least relax - I am forced to listen to an advertisement for a credit card I neither want or need.

The tactful way to handle it would have been to quickly announce that brochures for the Delta SkyMiles credit card were available, and to press your call button if you were interested in further information. Flight attendants could have then distributed said brochures without disturbing others.

The worst part? I know I have another Delta flight at the end of the week. Save meeee!

When separated from my means of creating music, I grow desperate and full of excitement for what could be. Over the course of days it builds and builds, and eventually peaks. It is then that I feel as though I haven’t a single obstacle between my imagination, sequencer and keyboard.

And therein lies the power of deprivation. I forget that things are not so easy to translate from a formless medium like my imagination to a cold, hard, digital existence within Logic, Live, or FL Studio. But there is something wrong with that.

Does my “block” lie in my process? The way I coax the melody from my head? I feel as though I shouldn’t need to coax at all! It should be easy and flowing. Like it used to be. Of course, it is not always easy, and I recognize that. However, should it be this hard?

So the power of deprivation becomes a wild card. Is it my block dissolving when not concerned with MIDI quantization, compression thresholds, and latency compensation? Or is it just me ignorantly forgetting the reality and gravity of my situation? My status as a tortured artist? I hate that term, but there it is. It suits me, and that in and of itself is pretty terrible for me, personally.

As The Animals so eloquently put it, “We’ve got to get out of this place, if it’s the last thing we do.”

As a listener, I find the vast majority of improvisational jazz music to be extremely roundabout and boring. The same instrumentation, the same styles, and the same scales. There are exceptions, such as Miles Davis, but I can say that my attraction to Miles is due to some specific detail that catches me. Specifically, the trumpeting.

However, when given the chance to play in a jazz setup of any sort, I find myself brimming with enthusiasm. If there is something to be said about the improvisational aspects of cool jazz, it’s that a romantic sense of danger is always looming. Your next chord could be dissonant or your momentum could easily result in a fumble. Of course I cannot speak for everyone, as I am sure seasoned jazz musicians fear little aside from a broken guitar string or drum head.

To tangent off, another extremely interesting phenomenon that is born from improvisation is the simultaneous self-reliance and dependency on fellow musicians. If I had to choose one showcase of non-verbal communication, I would be hard pressed to find something more appropriate than a trio of improvisational jazz musicians.

I think it’s this deep communication that makes the experience of playing improvisational jazz so different than listening to it. To a passerby, little more is heard than the somewhat predictable sound of instruments. To a performer, hundreds of words are silently exchanged, a story begins and ends, and through the lack of spoken word, true communication is achieved.