Reflections on being a string player in Jazz:
Identity vs. Credibility

From a string player's point of view, gaining acceptance within the jazz community is a little like showing up for the first day at a new school with a big stain on your shirt. If you've ever walked into a jam session with a violin slung over your shoulder, you'd know that obtaining an invitation to the stage isn't easy. But this is changing as more orchestral string players find their way into creative musical situations, and our struggle to gain both credibility and a sense of identity might offer insight to other instrumentalists in their own careers.

When I began 12 years ago to promote myself as a "jazz violinist", it quickly became clear that not many bandleaders would be looking to hire me to play jazz. I had to become a bandleader if I wanted to play, and so I did, albeit while suffering the (often well-deserved!) evil glances and inside jokes at my expense from the more veteran rhythm section players I hired, as I struggled to learn the language and conventions of the music.

On the other hand, it was also to my advantage (from a booking standpoint and in the eyes of audiences) that my instrument was so uncommon in jazz, because the violin distinguished me and helped me to be easily recognizable. In other words, it identified me. Nonetheless, for a long time I fought against this identity, in an effort to fit in with the seasoned players. I was a minority desiring more than anything to be in the club. Rather than working to develop "my sound", highlighting the violin as a distinct instrument, and perhaps drawing from my early exposure to classical and rock music, I focused exclusively on classic jazz language which was foreign to me in order to become fluent within these idioms, distance myself from the violin, and have a sound that "fits in".


This dilemma, i.e. whether to fit in or stand out, haunts many artists. We all have elements of ourselves that we perceive as "different" or "disadvantageous", whether our musical background, hometown, race, gender, personality type, etc... We ca easily become self-conscious, trying not to stand out. Yet we rationally understand from observing great artists that our uniqueness is an asset. After all, the ability to be an "identifiable brand" is desirable in any business.

After studying the classic elements of jazz, learning tunes, learning the lingo and the protocol of gigging for about 5 years, I moved to NYC and began to see that there were many more niches or scenes then I had known in Columbus, Ohio. In my hometown the players often play with a funk band one night, a straight ahead band the next, and a latin band or the symphony after that. In NYC it seemed that players tend to be classified in more type-cast ways, and they work more exclusively in this or that musical scene. Suddenly my broad-based skills caused people to question what my identity was- I had undone myself by fitting in so well to the lexicon, or the so-called canon of jazz, to the extent that people were really wondering what, if anything, i stood for. Some people questioned whether I wanted to be a "studio player" (with a negative connotation). I still don't get this (I like studio work and enjoy the variety of working across a broad spectrum), but I did begin to see that maybe trying to "fit in" wasn't all it was cracked up to be, since, after all, it's my uniqueness, not sameness, that ultimately makes me valuable as an artist.

In the 6 years since moving to NYC, I've tried to discover or reclaim my identity, returning to my musical roots, embracing my instrument, and even abandoning the attempt to act "like a New Yorker". I finally landed the legitimizing sideman gigs I'd always hoped for, playing with inspired leaders like D.D. Jackson, Les Paul, Dafnis Prieto and Bill Evans- all of whom really want me to do "my" thing, and welcome the "difference" that both my personality and my violin represents. They didn't necessarily hire me for my "fluency" in jazz, but I was better off for having it.

Through teaching in places like Berklee and my own annual Creative Strings Workshop, I've observed that string players need to overcome their own fears and go through a period of being "the new kid" in order to gain credibility in the jazz world. They need to humble themselves and study the jazz language. This can be psychologically risky, but risk is necessary for an artist (and a small business), and it's ultimately worth it. It's the same sort of courage/risk we all need to possess in order to overcome racial and other forms of self-segregation that permeate our society, and if we as artists can't step up to the plate to lead in this regard, we certainly can't expect others to do so. Assimilating into the world/culture of jazz requires stepping out of our enclaves into a vulnerable space, and it takes a long time to become fluent and gain credibility from the "cats".

Yet, at the same time, it behooves us to cherish what distinguishes/identifies us each, never losing sight of our personal/idiosyncratic musical vision, regardless of our level of advancement, and if this means we're identified by an uncommon instrument (or any other set of characteristics, such as being a long-haired midwestern hippy like me) than so be it. The balance of both is difficult to achieve but definitely worth it- You can take my word for it.

For more tools to help "play the chords", check out my string ensemble charts (each chart works interchangeably for duo, trio or quartet).

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