The Courage to Truly Improvise

For aspiring jazz players, the hardest part of improvisation is simply taking the solo.

The spotlight is on you. There are no written notes to fall back on. Everyone is listening. That's enough to keep many talented musicians from ever raising their hand when it's time to volunteer for a solo.

But if you keep playing, you eventually discover that taking the solo isn't the hardest part.

The harder challenge begins after you've started.

You've experienced that moment. You're in the middle of a solo and an idea pops into your head. It isn't a lick you've practiced. It isn't something you've memorized. It's simply an idea you hear.

Then doubt steps in.

"What if I can't play it?"

Instead of following that idea, you reach for something familiar. A scale you've practiced. A pattern that fits the chord. A lick you've played dozens of times.

Scales, patterns, licks are all important parts of learning to improvise. The problem comes when they become the place you run to for safety. Instead of listening to the music, you're trying to protect yourself from making a mistake.

That's the courage this article is about.

Not the courage to stand up and take a solo. The courage to trust yourself enough to stop relying on what feels safe so you can begin following what you actually hear inside.

Joe Lovano on the Courage to Play Jazz

I once asked saxophonist Joe Lovano whether finding one's own musical voice requires courage.

His answer wasn't about playing fast, taking harmonic risks, or trying to impress an audience. He described courage as being willing to leave routine behind so you can become more expressive. He talked about relaxing into the music, listening to the other musicians, and avoiding the mental traps that pull your attention away from what you're trying to say.

One story especially stayed with me. After a duet performance with pianist Gonzalo Rubalcaba, the legendary saxophonist Joe Henderson came up to Joe and simply said:

"That was brave."

Lovano said those three words taught him something important. Henderson wasn't complimenting his technique or his harmonic sophistication. He recognized the willingness to play without hiding behind routine and to be vulnerable and expressive.

Watch the interview, then we'll look at why this is so difficult.

What Courage Looks Like

Joe described courage as letting go of routine so you can become more expressive. That's easy to understand when you hear someone like Joe talk about it. It's much harder to recognize what that courage looks like while you're in the middle of your own solo.

I made the following video to illustrate what I think is happening in the minds of many improvisers. As I'm soloing, you'll hear the voice inside my head. Sometimes it's analyzing what I just played. Sometimes it's criticizing my ideas. Sometimes it's reminding me what cool note to start on or wondering whether the audience likes what I'm playing.

This is where courage becomes practical. Every time that inner voice convinces you to play it safe, you have a choice. You can keep listening to your own commentary, or you can turn your attention back to the music and trust that you can play what you hear.

Watch what happens as those two mindsets take turns driving the solo.

During a solo

Attention can only be in one place.

Attention on yourself

• Was that right?
• What scale comes next?
• Don't make a mistake.
• Play something impressive.
• What does the audience think?

Playing it safe

Or

Attention on the music

• Listen to the groove.
• Hear the next phrase.
• Respond to the rhythm.
• Express the idea.
• Stay in the conversation.

Expressive improvisation

Most improvisers know that voice because it's in their own heads. The goal isn't to eliminate it because that's probably impossible. Just stop giving it your attention while you're playing.

When your attention shifts from the music to your own performance, everything changes. Instead of listening to the rhythm section, you're evaluating yourself. Instead of hearing what the piano player is giving you, you're wondering what will keep you out of trouble. Instead of expressing something honest, you're trying to manage the solo.

My technical ability didn't change from one measure to the next in that video. The only thing that changed was where my attention was focused.

Practice Trust, Not Just Technique

Reading about courage won't make you a more courageous improviser. Like every other aspect of musicianship, it has to be practiced.

The good news is that practice is the safest place to do it.

When you're practicing, nothing is at stake. No audience is listening. No one is judging you. This is where you can begin developing the habit of keeping your attention on the music instead of on yourself.

Over time, you'll become quicker at recognizing when your attention has wandered and quicker at returning it to the music. You're developing the same kind of mental discipline that musicians need in any performance. You're learning to notice distractions without following them.

This is one of the central ideas in my book Do More of What Matters Most. Focus isn't about forcing your mind to stay in one place. It's about recognizing when your attention has wandered and then intentionally bringing it back to what matters. Same with improvisation. Every time you notice yourself thinking instead of listening, you have an opportunity to return your attention back to the music.

As your musicianship grows, so will your ability to trust it. Those two things develop together. The goal isn't to reach some future point where courage is no longer necessary. The goal is to practice courage every time you improvise, allowing your confidence to grow alongside your skills.

The Music Is Waiting

One of the biggest misconceptions about improvisation is that you have to become fearless before you can play this way.

You don't.

Courage isn't something that suddenly appears one day when you've mastered enough scales, memorized enough vocabulary, or accumulated enough experience. It grows a little every time you choose to trust your ears instead of retreating to something safe.

Some days you'll do that well. Other days you'll catch yourself thinking your way through an entire solo. That's part of learning. Don't measure your progress by how few mistakes you make. Measure it by how often you catch yourself leaving the music, and how quickly you can fully return to it.

Over time you'll discover something surprising. The ideas were never the problem. The music was there all along. What changed was your willingness to hear it and your courage to trust it.

In the end, that's what improvisation has always been about. Not proving how much you know. Not demonstrating how many scales you've mastered or how many licks you've collected. It's about listening deeply enough that your own musical voice has a chance to be heard.