From Dissonance to Harmony
Reconciling Jazz and Autism through the Scholastic Method
“I contain multitudes.”
Most autistics do. Most of us ‘auties’ are a bundle of contradictions. But I have many of those; just like in the human body, there are HDL & LDL, good bacteria & harmful bacteria, osteoclasts & osteoblasts, pro-inflammatory & anti-inflammatory agents, and insulin and glucagon; the same can be said about my inner being.
Some of my contradictions are pretty odd. I am a romantic whose heart will melt upon hearing a Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto, but also someone who isn’t a romantic human being in the slightest and doesn’t know how to be. I am fiercely competitive on the tennis court, but I dislike our dog-eat-dog society and wish it was based more on the principle of cooperation. I can hit acute, geometric angles like no one’s business when someone tries to rush into the net against me in tennis, but I failed geometry twice in high school. I like comics such as George Carlin but dislike constantly angry people — even though I have a bit of an angry streak. I am drawn to a figure like Fulton J. Sheen, but I am an agnostic. The list could go on and on.
A Fun Little Mental Exercise
One of my contradictions is that I like jazz as an autistic person. Well, maybe it is, and perhaps it isn’t a contradiction. But for the sake of argument at this juncture in the article, let’s assume it is a contradiction. I’ll give several reasons why I think it is a contradiction as if this article is worthy of working in the tradition of the Summa Thelogica (😂).
However, what I will do in this piece will be in a much more simplified form than anything Thomas Aquinas, who I incidentally think was probably on the Autism Spectrum, has written. But that’s for another article.
If you know your Aquinas, you know I will arrive at a different conclusion from where my initial objection starts. So be prepared!
(And let’s get real, a Jewish man such as I throwing around Aquinas? Contradiction, anyone?)
Objection
Autism and jazz are a contradiction.
First, jazz is a group sport that relies primarily on nonverbal communication among the members on the bandstand. When you go to a jazz concert, you’ll notice that eye contact among the group is critical — they can’t function without it (we autistic people love eye contact, don’t we?) They almost have to communicate their intent through their eyes telepathically. You’ll often see a head nod here and there to signal to the drummer that he should wind down because it's the group’s turn to reinstate the theme. It’s easy enough for most of us to know that when a rock musician signals to the sound engineer an “up” or “down” hand gesture at a concert, of course, that relates to volume. But it goes much deeper than that in jazz. As Wynton Marsalis says about “swing,” a form of jazz…
…through swing, we coordinate our communication with others…
And then he says…
The jazz band works best when participation is shaped by intelligent communication.
Golly gee, that sounds easy and fun for an autistic person! It’s easier for the jazz musicians who have been doing it for years than for the new listeners and watchers struggling to understand the vocabulary of jazz.
But watching these nonverbal gestures on stage is vicariously exhausting for my autistic self because I’m trying to figure out what the gestures mean and simultaneously trying to figure out how they relate to the group's improvisation in real time. It’s almost like I want to know how the band is so cohesive, what their magic is, and how this interplay exists because maybe if I can understand this, it might help me unlock the secret of social communication among humans. So far, no such luck.
And then there is the noise. It ain’t heavy metal, but it can sound chaotic, non-linear, and disorienting for a newcomer who hears it. It is four for five people getting together and having a musical dialogue where unpredictable dynamics reign supreme because improvisation is at the heart of jazz. And sometimes the improvisation is LOUD! Have you ever heard what a good drum solo in jazz sounds like? Brace yourself before you click on this one.
Rock and pop music, by contrast, is much more predictable. There are catchy melodies and simple structures, a strong backbeat, slightly less complicated harmonies, a verse-chorus structure with a possible bridge, and as they used to say on American Bandstand, “It’s got a good beat, and you can dance to it.”
Rock music is loud, yes, but unless you are going to hear a jam band in person, what you hear live is closer to what you heard in the studio when the band recorded the album. Unless you’re at a Grateful Dead, Phish, Dave Matthews, or a concert of that ilk, you have a decent idea of what you will be hearing in advance and what and how to prepare yourself for what you’re about to hear.
There’s no way to prepare yourself before a jazz concert because, often, the musicians haven’t rehearsed as a group until the very last minute. Sometimes, they might not rehearse at all together if they know the material they will perform and have agreed upon the set list. Once the show starts, they flesh out the details with that nonverbal communication we mentioned earlier. The truth is that they often don’t know what they will do until the moment they start to blow their horns. You’ll rarely see any sheet music on display unless you’re watching a big band.
Sed Contra
Autism and jazz are not a contradiction.
I know why I gravitate to jazz, and it’s not a contradiction. And I think the reason is perfectly autistic. The reason is that the musical idiom allows each musician to express their individuality within the context of a recording. No other genre does this with instrumental music. You can listen to a classical recording and know in two seconds it’s Tchaikovsky. Still, it will take you a little longer to figure out it’s Van Cliburn playing the piano for the concerto (though a good ear will figure it out relatively quickly). You may know Bruce Springsteen's voice in a heartbeat, but you won’t be able to recognize every member of his band strictly by hearing them play (you may know who they are from memorization). In jazz, a knowledgeable listener can instantly know who every band member of a small group combo is in five to ten seconds without looking at the liner notes.
As a jazz musician, one can be one's true, authentic self without masking. When it’s your turn to solo, your colors shine through. You aren’t playing any notes written hundreds of years ago; you’re being yourself in the moment! In this way, jazz is liberating — it’s like taking off the mask and saying, this is who I am!
Jazz appeals to a person’s attention to detail. In it, an autistic person might easily hear nuances that could escape the attention of a neurotypical. I can listen to a Dexter Gordon solo and instantly say, “he’s quoting ‘Pop goes the Weasel,’” before that will occur to anyone. I can hear an Oscar Peterson record and form a general ballpark estimate around what few years it might have been recorded in based on his technique at the time, even if I’ve never heard the recording before. I can easily discern musical influences before I know I’m right, and I often google the information and find I was correct in my assessment. Even though I can’t read sheet music and failed piano lessons as a child (swear to God!), I notice things I think would escape many others.
Small wonder, then, that with the attention to detail that many of us autistics possess, our wonderous curiosity, and our need to express our individuality without masking, there are a few fantastic autistic jazz musicians, including Matt Savage and Derek Paravinci.
Respondeo
To my initial argument that autistic people liking jazz is in any way a contradiction, I respond by saying, “Get a life!”
Being autistic and loving jazz is not a contradiction. It’s a way of life for kindred spirits who wear our individuality on our sleeves. Jazz can help us find our voice by teaching us who and what we identify with on a highly abstract level (the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer said music is a universal language, thought it could penetrate the depths of our being, and valued it more than any other form of art). We autistics can bring all that intensity down to earth with our heightened emotions and senses and let the music of jazz teach us about our true nature. We can use pattern recognition that some of us have to pick up on various phrasing, textures, qualities, tones, chords, and references and apply these musical ideas to the iconography of our own lives.
Conclusion
There’s a reason this publication is entitled Blues Notes To Myself. It has multiple meanings to me, actually. But the one relevant to this article is a blue note in jazz.
Blue notes did not begin with jazz music, of course. They are rooted in the blues. But jazz wouldn’t be what it is without the blue note. Blue notes bend the pitches to convey longing, melancholy, and soulfulness. In jazz, the blue note is often a bent, flattened, or slightly altered pitch that infuses the music with depth. It’s this unique quality that makes jazz resonate with authenticity and emotion.
Similarly, the sentiments of this publication, marked by the distinctive perspectives and experiences of autism, are full of these metaphorical blue notes. The moments of misunderstanding, the challenges of communication, the deep introspections, and the intense passions autistic people have are life’s blue notes for many of us, and they are meant to color this publication with depth and richness. Blue Notes to Myself aims to express ideas like a jazz musician employing the blue note. Just listen to the LONG blue note at the beginning of Rhapsody in Blue, which George Gershwin intended to bridge symphonic music and jazz elements. It’s only a few seconds long, but it will teach you what a blue note sounds like if you don’t already know.
When employed within the context of improvisation, the blue note can be incredibly emotionally stirring to the listener. And that emotional resonance is what I aim for the readers of my publication to feel. I am an improviser when I write; I only know what I will write about when I sit at the keyboard.
Incorporating the blue note into the title of this publication, I realize that it is not just a symbol of melancholy or longing. It represents resilience, individuality, and the ability to find beauty in the atypical. It celebrates the unique contributions of thinking and perceiving the world differently. This melody includes one’s contradictions, challenges, and small victories.
Blue Notes To Myself is not just a collection of personal musings. It is a testament to the power of embracing one’s true self, finding harmony in the unexpected, and creating a life that sings with authenticity and depth. In this way, the blue note becomes a beacon of hope and understanding, a reminder that there is a profound and resonant beauty in the dissonance of life.
Thelonious Monk even entitled one of his songs, Ugly Beauty. Monk, arguably neurodiverse, understood life!
P.S.- Some of the imagery in Monk’s Album Cover photo is offensive, but I’m sure he put it there for artistic reasons. They don’t represent my views and almost certaintly, don’t represent Monk’s views either.
