Most players think they need more technique.
What they actually need is the right technique.
I’m rebooting my Meta ad campaign this week with a set of new ads built around that exact idea.
Some of the ads begin with interview snippets from Charles McPherson, Jamey Aebersold, Randy Brecker, and Dave Liebman—each pointing to a different angle of what it really means to play jazz well.
And one of them begins with a clip from a conversation I had with Richie Beirach in 2023.
Over the past six years, I’ve had the privilege of capturing many hours of Richie’s thinking on music and beyond. This particular moment came from a conversation we had about the frustration so many players feel when they’re trying to learn improvisation.
This ad with Richie gets right to the heart of it.
The point Richie makes
In this clip, Richie describes a kind of “ladder” we can climb toward our musical self.
He makes a point that might surprise you: he points to Thelonious Monk. Not as a technical powerhouse in the conventional sense, but as someone who had exactly the technique he needed to express his musical voice.
That’s the lens for everything that follows.
As you watch this, try to resist the temptation to think in excuses like, “Easy for Richie—he played on hundreds of albums and had world-class technique.” Or, “He reached the point where he didn’t need to impress anyone to get a gig.”
This is not about technique for its own sake.
Technique serves a purpose. It exists so you can express your view of the world through music. If your true musical voice requires the facility of Keith Jarrett, Jaco Pastorius, Michael or Randy Brecker, or Bill Watrous, then yes—get to work on that.
But make sure you are hearing what is actually inside you, rather than the noise of others telling you what you should sound like in order to be “authentic” or impressive.
Can you sense the difference?
So what does this look like in practice?
Try this
The next time you rehearse with your band or practice over a play-along track, imagine your musical voice without the mental or emotional baggage of chasing after how you “should” sound.
Yes, that can make you feel vulnerable. But that vulnerability is one of the great aspects of improvisation. It’s what makes it real instead of imitation.
That’s some of the raw material for great playing.
Practice the technique you need—not to become someone else—but to become more you.
This is harder than it sounds. The pull toward familiar patterns and imitation is strong, especially when you want to sound convincing.
So instead of just describing the idea, here’s one example of what that approach can sound like in practice.
This is not meant for you to imitate—that would contradict everything in this post.
It’s simply an example of me trying to stay connected to what I actually hear, rather than reaching for stock patterns or borrowed language.
That, to me, is what technique is for. Not display. Not approval. Not sounding “right.”
Technique matters because it gives you the ability to express your own musical point of view. Richie’s point connects to something I’ve believed for a long time:
Improvisation isn’t the imitation of someone else’s vocabulary—no matter how impressive it is. It’s the expression of the individual. Of you.
He uses Thelonious Monk as an example.
Monk didn’t have the blazing speed of Oscar Peterson or the intricate harmonic facility of Bill Evans. But he had exactly what he needed in order to express his own musical language.
When I once reminded Sheila Jordan how unique her voice was, she said, “Why would I want to steal someone else’s life?”
She didn’t try to sound like Ella or Sarah Vaughan. She was clear about being herself and how she could express that.
This doesn’t remove the need to improve your technique. It directs it. You work on what you need in order to express what you hear.
Otherwise, you end up chasing something you’ll never reach—trying to measure yourself against someone else’s voice and someone else’s standard.
My guess is Monk didn’t spend hours drilling Czerny “School of Velocity” to become something he wasn’t. He developed the capacity to play—in the true sense of the word—the authentic flavor of his harmony, rhythm, and lines.
- Cecil Taylor didn’t try to sound like Chick Corea
- Albert Mangelsdorff didn’t try to sound like Bill Watrous
- Miles didn’t try to sound like Maynard Ferguson
- Paul Desmond didn’t try to sound like Bird
- Art Blakey didn’t try to sound like Buddy Rich
This idea shows up again and again throughout Music Savvy—across lessons, exercises, and everything I teach.
Too many players are chasing something that keeps them stuck.
But it doesn’t have to end that way for you.
You’ve learned the jazz language.
But your playing doesn’t quite sound like you.
Join the Jazz Circle to build the habits, skills, and confidence to discover your musical voice.
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