Vinnie Sperrazza: A Family Affair

Vinnie Sperrazza: A Family Affair

by Troy Collins

Brooklyn-based jazz drummer Vinnie Sperrazza was born in Utica, New York, where he inherited a familial passion for music and drumming. His father plays and taught drums, while his mother sang at church and did live sound for his father’s bands. Sperrazza completed his Bachelor of Arts degree at William Paterson University, mentored by legendary jazz pianist James Williams, which continued until Williams’ passing in 2004. Courtesy of Williams, Sperrazza performed in many memorable club engagements, concerts, and recordings with such individuals as Clark Terry, Bill Mobley, Steve Wilson, Javon Jackson, Richard Davis, and Mulgrew Miller.

Since moving to Brooklyn in 2002, Sperrazza has emerged as a multifaceted musician, balancing teaching with performances. From 2004 until 2013, he focused on teaching, privately and at local music schools. Meanwhile, he continued his musical studies in harmony, counterpoint, and composition with Paul Caputo. Simultaneously making a name for himself as a leader and an in-demand sideman, performances with groups Sperrazza organized at New York venues IBEAM, Cornelia Street Cafe, and Korzo, eventually coalesced into bands.

His first albums as a bandleader were Peak Inn (Fresh Sound, 2006), featuring Jacob Sacks and Dave Ambrosio, and Apocryphal (Loyal Label, 2014), the self-titled debut of a band featuring Loren Stillman, Brandon Seabrook, and Eivind Opsvik. By the time Apocryphal (his first album of all original compositions) was released, Sperrazza’s focus had shifted away from teaching to focus on performing. In 2017, he released two more albums of original compositions: Juxtaposition (Posi-Tone) and Hide Ye Idols (Loyal Label), the sophomore follow-up to Apocryphal. For Juxtaposition, Sperrazza recruited Chris Speed, Bruce Barth, and Peter Brendler, solidifying Sperrazza’s reputation as a capable composer, arranger, and bandleader.

Sperrazza currently tours and records with the groups Landline (with Sacks, Chet Doxas, and Zack Lober), Hearing Things (with Matt Bauder and JP Schlegelmilch), The Choir Invisible (with Charlotte Greve and Chris Tordini), Ember (with Caleb Curtis and Noah Garabedian), Trio Trio (featuring Dave Scott and Rich Perry), Caleb Curtis/Noah Garabedian/Vinnie Sperrazza, and Vinnie Sperrazza-Jacob Sacks-Masa Kamaguchi PLAY. Sperrazza is also a member of the Hank Roberts Sextet and Hank Roberts Trio, works with Mike McGinnis and Michael Formanek, and continues to lead his own bands Apocryphal and Small Cities (with Noa Fort).

Throughout his career, Sperrazza has showcased his talents in a variety of projects. Besides performing with jazz legends in concerts, clubs, and festivals throughout the US, Canada, Japan, and Europe, he toured with Stew and Heidi Rodewald in Stew and The Negro Problem from 2012 to 2014, and again in 2018. In 2017, he premiered the Mark Morris Dance Group’s Pepperland in Liverpool, England, with a score composed by pianist Ethan Iverson, and has continued to tour with the company. In addition, Sperrazza's ongoing contributions to jazz education are noteworthy, serving as a coordinator for multiple jazz programs in New York while maintaining a private practice at his home in Brooklyn.

I interviewed Sperrazza during the spring of 2024, after the release of Sunday, the third Loyal Label recording by his quartet Apocryphal.

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Troy Collins: Some early biographical information might be of interest to readers unfamiliar with your background. How did you get your start playing music?

Vinnie Sperrazza: I love being asked this question.

Music for me is a family thing – my father plays drums, my mother loves music, my grandparents loved music, especially Broadway musicals. My uncle sang, both my brothers played drums – my youngest brother still plays, I was at his place showing him some things with the traditional grip just a few days ago.

Playing music in my house was no big deal – it’s what everyone did. The family connection is the reason I’m so in it now; it’s what keeps me going. If I’m honest, every musical experience was good, even the ones that were bad at the time.

I was born in the last few days of 1979 in Utica, NY, and my earliest memories are all musical, all have music somewhere in them. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t near a drum set, trying to play; I mean, there were drums everywhere in our house.

At school, there was music class and choir and band, which I loved, and drum lessons from my dad and then from Rick Compton, a local expert with whom I’m still close.

And there were hundreds of records and CDs at home, of all genres, and I loved them all, or at least, paid attention to it all. There were videotapes of concerts, and Modern Drummer magazine every month, and during the summer, the Newport Jazz Festival at Saratoga Performing Arts Center (as it was then called) – saw Elvin Jones, Chick Corea, John McLaughlin, Joe Lovano, Joe Henderson with Al Foster and Dave Holland, and on and on and on. I was swimming in it, courtesy of my family.

All of this coalesced into some summer jazz camps where I got my first taste of actually playing jazz in a small group with people my age. I’m still in touch with a few people from those years.

Eventually, I met some great local professionals and other serious young musicians in the Utica area, so I kept practicing and playing local gigs, and then had the good fortune of attending William Paterson University in Wayne, NJ, where I graduated with a bachelor’s degree in music in 2002. Music school was, frankly, a joy, despite all the ups and downs you go through in those years.

From there I moved to NYC and have been trying to do it ever since. I am one lucky cat.

TC: It sounds like your family’s longstanding interest in music provided a strong, supportive foundation to learn from. Since it is a family affair, did you ever even consider not playing music?

VS: That’s a great question. I’ve been thinking it over, and the best answer is no, I never considered a life that didn’t have music at the center, never seriously thought through a life that where I wasn’t playing music.

The longer answer is yes.

How does one put together a life as a musician? I still don’t know, but when I was in my twenties, the particulars of how to put together a life where I was pursuing music in a way that felt both meaningful and sustainable was confusing, bewildering, flummoxing, and just beyond my grasp.

What am I doing? I have a few gigs, are these good gigs? I’m paying rent, does that mean I’m a musician? I don’t seem to be on any of the gigs I want to be on. Why is that? Is that normal? What’s the path here?

That was my mental state more or less for a few years in those tricky twenties. But my family was, simply, supportive – whatever I was doing, as long as I wasn’t on the street, they thought I was a success.

Around the time I turned 30, though, I knew things weren’t coming together, exactly, but neither was I out of the game, and I started wanting a change.

A strange sort of turning point came when I was 33-34. I’d taken on a number of teaching jobs 8 or 10 years prior, just stitching together an income – teaching at this community music school, teaching at that one, going to this high school twice a week, seeing these kids after-school once a week, that kind of thing. All good work, great students, and colleagues. It was steady, reliable, practical, and rewarding work, and I could have, with a little cleverness, turned that into a career, but I didn’t want to do it anymore. I was a little embarrassed by that, but I didn’t fight it.

The singer-songwriter/playwright Stew had gotten me into a production of a new musical of his – I was, technically, an actor, portraying a drummer, with lines, costumes, a mic, the works – for the spring and summer of 2014 in Ashland, OR. Naturally, that meant I put all my steady teaching work on hold, with a vague idea that I’d return to it in the fall when I was back in NYC.

While I was out there, watching the other actors, the production team, the whole operation needed to get a play off the ground, plus with time on my hands for the first time – the schedule was very much not an NYC schedule – I started writing about music and thinking about my future. I was toying with grad school, with the idea of earning a degree to get a job in higher ed – the usual move.

But I would go on these long bike rides around Ashland, and I would think “I’ve just been kind of going along, I’ve never just gone for it, and tried to really play, be a jazz drummer, creative musician, do the whole thing. What if I just went for it, and saw what happened?”

And when I got back to NYC – this is the end of 2014 – I gradually let the teaching go, and just focused on playing. This is the moment – age 34 – when I finally decided to go into music, after being involved with it my whole life. It took that long!

My family was all for it – they totally understood. And what I feel now is that I’m basically trying to take the gift they gave me as far as I can.

So that’s the long answer.

TC: Then if becoming a musician was kind of a foregone conclusion for you, did you have any other teachers or mentors in your early days, besides Rick Compton?

VS: I love this question because these are the people I’m thinking about whenever I go to play.

I’m happy to say that I’m in touch with everyone on this list, assuming they’re still around. That’s one of the few things I can actually recommend without hesitation to younger musicians – don’t lose touch with your teachers, mentors, and friends in the music. It’s not worth it. I met all these folks before I was 21, so I’ve sat with their lessons and influence for a long time.

The first influence, of course, is my father, Vince Sperrazza, still playing today. You can read this Substack post about him here.

After a few years with Rick Compton, who showed me the traditional grip (he was so old-school, he insisted on all his students playing the traditional grip!) and was tremendously helpful with rudiments and reading, I was ready for some things. First up were great experiences at summer jazz camps, including lessons and hangs with Ed Shaughnessy, a wonderful player – check him out on Oliver Nelson’s Afro-American Sketches on Riverside, or Hollywood Basie’s Way on Command. He told stories about Charles Mingus and Dannie Richmond, Sid Catlett, and Dave Tough, and was so generous and sweet with us; he really loved teaching and being around young players. I think of him often.

Later there was a chance to work with Justin DiCioccio and some of his MSM students, including Jeremy Manasia, Ian Hendrickson-Smith, and a drummer named John Wilson from North Carolina, a beautiful player who loved Kenny Clarke. Around that time I met Andrya Ambro (from Talk Normal and Gold Dime); she was way ahead in terms of listening and understanding jazz as an art form. She’s a huge influence, showed me a ton of great records and how the music was connected to film and literature. She opened my mind in a big way.

Mr. DiCioccio and the gang gave me the confidence to seek out the best players in my hometown (Utica, NY) area, a must for any developing musician. So, when I was 16, I reached out to a local drummer with a serious reputation, Rick Montalbano Jr., well-known today for his playing with his wife, Jane Monheit. Rick, only 3 or 4 years my senior, was the greatest. He became a sort of a big brother in the music for me, letting me tag along to his gigs (often with Nick Brignola), handing me records and videos, showing me everything I needed to know, socially and musically, to get through some jazz gigs and get some experience. I still play some of his licks.

His father, Rick Montalbano, Sr. is a pianist and one-man jazz scene; he was another huge influence. Between Rick Sr., Rick Jr., and drummer/vibraphonist Jimmy Johns of Syracuse, NY, I had everything I needed; I can hear those three in my mind as I type this sentence. I love these guys.

When I got to William Paterson, my first drum teacher was Horacee Arnold, who was serious and generous, showing me a brush pattern I use every day. Later I studied with John Riley, a major mentor, with high standards and expectations, encouraging me to push myself. Bill Goodwin is the truth of the music, with real-life playing and living advice.

I think every day about pianist James Williams, who brought me right into the music. He is, now, a main influence in how I try to be, day-to-day. He exemplified a life of service and gratitude.

At college though, in addition to the great teachers (special thanks to Rufus Reid and Harold Mabern) I was studying with the other drummers in my program, sort of like I did with Andrya: Johnathan Blake, Jim Oblon, Mark Guiliana, Tyshawn Sorey, Jamieo Brown, and Josh Dion. These are some of the greatest drummers we have playing today, and I stole anything I could from them.

And finally, there’s Dan Weiss and Jacob Sacks, who I met with Mark Guiliana around this time. Those guys showed the way – they still show me the way. They were up-and-coming phenoms then, and it seemed like all of NYC was getting wise to them. They have it all.

I must also mention a bassist and teacher named Bob Bowen, who died in 2010; it was through Bob that I heard about Dan and Jacob. His name isn’t heard much these days, but he was a unique player and an important teacher for me.

Finally, away from the drums, in the realm of harmony and melody and later in life, Paul Caputo was a huge influence, almost like a family member. Here’s my Substack about him.

This is my pantheon. This list of names is why I play. Everyone I’ve named showed me something beautiful that I keep with me at all times. I listen to their records and go their shows. I could never say how much I learned from these folks, since I’m still learning from them.

Thank you all!

TC: That’s quite a list. Plenty of names for curious readers to investigate. Your own approach to drumming extends well beyond what I would consider to be mere time-keeping. How do you approach this more fluid approach, whether working as a sideman, collaborator, or bandleader?

VS: Hmmm ... well there are drum-centric concerns about stepping out from time-keeping, and, frankly, Vinnie-centric concerns too. Time-keeping is (I know this is corny but) a sacred duty to me – nothing could be more expressive than marking time, the stage upon which all events are played; without time, no human experience could ever mean anything. Drummers deal with, fundamentally, the flow of time; it’s our great privilege.

Ok enough of that.

Anyway, my instinct is to keep time, and play time. I love basic, conventional beats that ground the music and feel good to play. Ding ding a ding is a complete universe.

But I’m not really there. It just doesn’t sound right when I imitate Kenny Clarke or whoever (which I don’t really have the skill or experience to do, of course) and just play time, even though that’s my dream. You can tell I’m forcing it. I know because I’ve forced it so many times, and been bummed out later when I hear it back or think about the gig.

So, then it’s a question of developing a personal vocabulary of “things to play that aren’t time-keeping patterns,” which is an ongoing thing for me. Most of what I play is typical stuff, things everybody plays. I don’t have a private arsenal of personal licks the way Art Blakey or Tain or Bill Stewart (or hundreds of other great players) do, but I’m getting better, I’m getting there. I’m on the right path – I’m hearing more personal stuff every year. It’ll happen. I can’t force this one – gotta let it develop slowly, naturally, the hard, frustrating way.

Then it’s a question of when to use your stuff – when to play what. If I ever figure out what to play all the time and I’m correct, I’ll let you know. There’s no good musicological answer to the question of “How do you know what to play?” You don’t – or at least, I don’t. I’m just ... trying.

That relates to being a side person or leader etc. only glancingly. As a side person, helping someone have a great gig or recording, maybe the musician who hired you needs something more specific, or someone might want you to come up with your own thing, or something in between.

But ultimately, everybody just wants you to sound good and swing the band. So, my experience of playing music doesn’t ever really change – I’m either looking for the flow and the lift with brushes (for example) cause so-and-so asked for brushes on this tune, or I’m looking for it on a tune I presented to a band where we’re all presenting tunes, or I’m leading the gig and hoping I’m inspiring the cats.

So, being a side person vs. collaborator vs. leader is pretty minuscule adjustments, drumming-wise. It’s more of an adjustment of perspective: if it’s your gig, your responsibility is to communicate what you want the music to be as clearly and efficiently as possible; if you’re collaborating, you need to be supportive of your collaborator(s), while using maximum personal/musical agency; if you’re a side person, your job is to be supportive, maximum personal agency while meeting your professional commitments, and, oddly, to project an authentically positive vibe. There’s no reason not to enjoy playing music – as professionals, we cultivate a close and loving relationship with music. That’s how you sound good.

Link up all three things – personal stuff to play, artful use of your personal stuff in real time, grounded in an authentic feeling for music and humanity – and that’s pretty much a mature musician.

TC: Since we’re talking about drumming, I wanted to express my admiration for your essay, Five Awkward Conversations With Paul Motian. I know others have told you how much they’ve enjoyed this piece, commiserating with similar stories. I’ve had my fair share as well. What I’m curious about now, however, is how you approach that same dynamic from the other side, so to speak. You’re an established drummer who leads groups and recording sessions, and you teach drumming as well, so how do you deal with young musicians that are eager to learn? Beyond giving lessons, is “sitting in” still a viable option for less experienced musicians to learn from? It seems like fewer older musicians are still around to take younger musicians on tour in their bands, to mentor them, like Blakey and Miles used to do. Jazz seems to have gradually become more peer-based, with less multi-generational bands in the mix. Do you have any thoughts on this phenomenon and/or how you see the future of the music developing?

VS: I really loved Paul Motian – not as a personal friend of course, but as a musician and elder statesmen. I can hear him quite vividly in my mind. He taught us so much about how to live, in his gigs and records, and for me, those few interactions that I wrote about.

Of course, I didn’t get it at the time, which is where the comedy of the piece comes from. Paul was just being himself – that’s a special thing, to be around someone so completely their own self. Five Awkward Conversations is a tribute to Paul and a way for us all to laugh at ourselves – glad you enjoyed it.

Yeah, how do I go forward these days? I’ve certainly noticed that jazz is very much now just parallel social/musical circles that don’t intersect, pretty much ever, unless someone makes an effort. And the breakdown of communication between the generations is disturbing – people my age and older are mistrustful of people in their teens and twenties, and vice versa. But that’s a societal problem – it’s not particular to jazz.

I notice that breakdown and am troubled by it, and want to help. I have no formula, but when traveling and playing, if someone wants to talk drums, I try to be completely available; if I sense that we can trust each other, we exchange numbers and meet up sooner or later. Everyone gave me everything, so I try to do the same.

If I’m doing a gig where sitting in is possible, like at Bar Bayeux in Brooklyn, I’m for it; assuming I know and trust the person, I’ll definitely make room for a drummer to sit in.

I’m also, with the Substack I write, trying to put myself out there as a resource, maybe even effecting the conversation in some small way. I have no idea where the music is headed, and have no idea if this highly stratified and cut-up jazz community will come together in the future, but I know that I can make more of an effort – to be available, to reach out, to connect. That’s what the writing is really about.

Friends and colleagues play amazing gigs and make great records. I can’t keep up with everyone, but what I catch, I savor, I celebrate, and I don’t hold back. I’d rather look foolish celebrating a gig or record than look cool by being unimpressed.

Somehow all these ideas – the memories of Motian being himself, giving back and paying forward, being available, the writing, and celebrating my peers, colleagues, and friends – are a response to the troubling divide between us. Be the change you seek, I guess.

TC: Speaking of playing with one’s peers, you’ve recorded quite a few “traditional,” standards-based albums with pianist Jacob Sacks and bassist Masa Kamaguchi, and more recently, originals with Ethan Iverson and Michael Formanek. But your group Apocryphal features some very different instrumentation, with bassist Eivind Opsvik, guitarist Brandon Seabrook, and alto saxophonist Loren Stillman. Seabrook often seems like the ringer to me, pitching the music headlong into the future, whereas your most recent piano trio recording, Saturday (Fresh Sound), is far more meditative and introspective than Sunday (Loyal Label), the third album by Apocryphal. I hear a difference in your drumming on these two albums, but do you feel like you play differently in these two contexts, or is it all part of the same continuum to you?

VS: Regarding the trio with Jacob and Masa:

Jacob and Masa have known each other and played together long before I was in NYC, often at Detour on Sundays – let that memory take all the NYC people back to 1998. Jordi Pujol, who runs Fresh Sound records, is the one who suggested this trio, way back in 2008. Basically, I handled the arrangements with Jordi, and Jacob and Masa handle the arrangements of the tunes. I’m proud of those records – they’re all made in one day, there’s no overdubs, edits, or punches, it’s 100% real performances in the studio. I do feel I could have played better on a few of them ...

I’m really sitting in with Jacob and Masa in that group; they’re having their own conversation, and I’ve grown so much playing with them. They are uncompromising individualists. The music of course is standards – Broadway, Hollywood, jazz composers – but those guys are so un-standard; that’s the key to that group. We are planning a new album in the fall, and Jordi’s even talking about a boxset of all the albums, which we’d obviously love to do. That trio is a baseline of my musical life – I hope we play together forever.

Yeah, Saturday vs. Sunday – trio with Michael and Ethan vs. Loren, Brandon, Eivind. Thanks for hearing a difference in my playing, I’d like to think I sound the way I do because of the folks I’m playing with, the situation I’m in. I’d hope I sound a little different all the time.

I guess the only difference on the drums between the groups is volume – no amp with the piano and bass, whereas the guitar is amped. And then I had an extra floor tom and cymbal with Brandon. There’s no one like Brandon Seabrook, without a doubt; the sound of the group is how we relate to Brandon. But there’s a real natural chemistry between the four of us, and Brandon is simply responding to music as himself.

But just slight adjustments to blend with the groups, and then you play the tunes. That’s drumming.

On Saturday and Sunday, they’re all tunes I wrote, so I feel confident in my interpretation, and the guys are so encouraging, so supportive. Ethan and Michael were practically co-producers on Saturday; that’s very much script by Vinnie, directed and produced by Vinnie, Ethan, Michael, whereas Sunday is written, directed, produced by Vinnie, but inconceivable without Loren, Brandon, Eivind. The pictures from the session tell the story. We were laughing so hard the whole day.

I’m so into this idea of not altering what I bring to the music, not changing my mindset, just trying to show up and play as well as I can – that’s the aspiration. That’s why I have only one set of cymbals, and I use them for everything, including loud gigs like (pre-pandemic) subbing in on Rev. Vince Anderson’s gig, delicate situations like Pepperland and The Look of Love with Mark Morris and Ethan Iverson, with the 3-guitar band of Jacob Garchik’s, with Hearing Things – one set of cymbals for everything. I only use one kind of sticks, I play traditional grip 100% of the time, I have one drum set, etc. etc.

I always bring one thing to the music – me – and then I make little alterations, but I don’t really “change hats,” you know? I just play ... what I think the music needs. And I don’t alter gear or technique; I adjust them based on what the music needs.

That’s the truth – I’m just picking out the right clothes for the party. I don’t worry about what I’m gonna say when I get there – I just want to be appropriately dressed.

TC: That reminds me, Hearing Things – how did that group come about? I love the concept and execution. Reminds me of some of John Zorn’s more focused projects or a few things Nick Millevoi has done that are very genre-specific. It seems like such an obvious approach to me, yet rarely do I hear groups that incorporate freewheeling improvisation into conventional, popular music forms that do not always easily lend themselves to such extrapolations.

VS: Yeah! Hearing Things ...

Matt Bauder had wanted a band like Hearing Things for a long time – he came to a gig I was playing and made a mental note to have me play some of the things he was writing. Then he heard JP Schlegelmilch playing piano and asked him if he played any organ.

And there we were – Matt, JP, and Vin. At first we were reading charts, playing some out of the way places; it was cool but didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

Then Matt did an Arcade Fire tour, and I came back from a season with Stew and Heidi Rodewald in Oregon, so neither of us had much happening. And we went for it – memorized the tunes, got some matching suits, made a record, and were pretty busy through 2015 and 2016. We did some support tours and lots of shows in and around NYC.

The idea was to take that early ‘60s instrumental rock and roll sound and build from it, just be ourselves playing Matt’s tunes in that mold. After a couple of years, it finally happened; no longer were we playing “Hearing Things,” we were just playing these songs, together, as ourselves, and the music was soaring.

A fun fact – we had no idea how that music was played when we started. My feel was wonky, Matt would overplay and run out of air, JP was the only one who knew how all the songs went.

I distinctly remember playing the Hideout in Chicago – our second road gig – and starting off a tune by myself, just playing the beat. And I got so nervous and uncomfortable playing this beat, in front of a good-sized crowd at a hip venue, that I felt my own tempo just pitch and wobble. I was so embarrassed – but all three of us were struggling. I’d never played two or three shuffles in a set for folks who came to check you out, and usually we were the only instrumental band on the bill. I didn’t know how to make those beats dance, even though I wanted to dance to those beats when I heard the records.

Much growth and nothing but fun in Hearing Things. We don’t work like we used to but there is talk of a second album this summer; we’ve even been sending dates around ...

TC: You’re in so many bands I keep forgetting to ask you about specific ones! For example, we haven’t talked about The Choir Invisible or Ember, the latter of which was a great surprise to me last year. Anything you’d like to mention about either of those groups and how they came about?

VS: Ember and Choir Invisible are very related experiences:

Both Ember and Choir Invisible are sax/bass/drum trios, both are Brooklyn based, and came together at similar times (Choir Invisible first did a gig in 2016, then didn’t do one again until 2018, by which time Ember was thinking of itself as a band). Both groups come from the same community of Brooklyn musicians – we play at the same places, and see each other at the same shows. Both groups are committed to rehearsing, committing all songs to memory, and using no charts on stage. I’m the oldest member of both groups. Both bands feel like family, and they are labors of pure love for me.

The Choir Invisible is me, Charlotte Greve on alto sax and voice, and Chris Tordini on bass. Charlotte Greve is a completely developed and singular musician; she is a capital “C” composer, a vocalist, and her music ranges from electronica-influenced jazz/pop, to full-scale choral and orchestral composition, to all-acoustic free improvisation. She is a free musical spirit and a master musician. Chris Tordini is one of the most accomplished bassists playing today; he can play the most fiendishly difficult-to-execute music with grace and breath, as if he’s singing. He is supportive and generous; he’s there for you. When he teaches us his songs, he sings our parts to us. I guess Choir Invisible, is fittingly, quite vocal-oriented. We recently completed a run of shows in Europe – our first tour – and we’re thinking about our next album already. We are a unit; we are family.

Ember is me, Noah Garabedian on bass and synth, and Caleb Curtis on stritch, sopranino, and trumpet. Noah Garabedian is a diverse and wide-ranging musician who brings taste and elegance to the many projects in which he works – Ravi Coltrane, Caroline Davis, Kris Davis. Noah will only play what he hears, a deeply honest and humble spirit. Caleb Curtis is a virtuoso, a boundless talent who is as at home with Ember as he is with his own trio with Michael Sarin and Sean Conly, with Orrin Evans’ Captain Black, or on gigs with Dan Weiss. He can play with anyone and has so much charisma and magnetism that Noah and I don’t have to do anything when we play – Caleb lights up the room. There is a feeling of brotherhood and all-for-one in Ember; we’re celebrating each other as we play.

I’m glad to be asked about these bands – I really love both of these projects.

TC: Thinking of other groups you’ve played in and artists you’ve worked with, how did you end up being part of Hank Roberts’ sextet for his “come back” album, Science of Love?

TC: Hank put his sextet together in 2016, one member at a time. He was making some headway in NYC again, coming down from Ithaca and staying for a while, and Mike McGinnis had asked me to play a session at his place. That morning he texted to make sure it was happening, and he said it was “you, me, and Hank Roberts.” I had no idea Hank was around, and I thought Mike was joking! What’s Hank Roberts doing playing a session in Brooklyn on a Tuesday with me?

Anyway, there was Hank, and we played. A few months later, Hank had booked a weekend at Ibeam, and had written this long, multi-movement piece that he called “G,” and Hank sort of sensed that Dana Lyn, Mike, Brian Drye, and Jacob Sacks and I were all together, musically, so he selected us based on how much he liked our playing and how well we knew each other. The first gig was just experimental, let’s see how it goes kind of thing; and it was pretty special ... Hank had never attempted anything like that, compositionally, and we were so on-board; all five of us were so honored to be playing with Hank and that’s what the music conveyed that weekend at Ibeam.

The sextet played in Barbes and Ithaca last fall, and there were some out-of-town dates floating around; Hank’s written a bunch more music and we hope to get back in the studio and maybe even on the road, somehow. That band is a family for sure ...

Hank asked Jacob and I to make a trio record with him on Elan Mehler’s Newvelle Records, a vinyl-only project that’s pretty special. It’s a great record and I’m hoping that folks hear that one and Science of Love, I’m so proud of them. And I have plans to do more playing with Hank in the future!

TC: Speaking of recording, first off, how do you feel about studio recording compared to live performance and how does that affect your playing in each situation? And secondly, what are your thoughts on the state of the recording industry at large, especially regarding archival copies (CDs, vinyl) versus more ephemeral formats (downloads, streaming)?

VS: I love making studio recordings; it’s a joy to be sequestered and focused, to live in that controlled environment for a few hours where your only job is to get the music off the ground. I like the challenge of playing spontaneously and freely in a studio; it’s sort of the least natural place to improvise. That’s a good challenge.

I don’t have a different technique per se, in the studio, although I do feel that a great live performance can be so many things, while a great studio recording can only be a few things. I can play quiet and delicate for a set or two live, and that’s lovely; the band and the audience feel great, the sound is soft and soothing and we’re all just grooving on the tones.

But I find that delicate and reserved drumming in a studio just ends up sounding timid, and doesn’t make for great records. It’s so hard to make a recording stand out – for me, shedding some inhibitions about volume and density is a great way to get out of my head when recording. And some intense, active drumming might make the recording stand out. Of course, I don’t want to overdo it!

It bums me out, at the very least, the way recorded music is so undervalued. I think it’s a mistake; CDs and vinyl records are beautiful, and lovely to have in your living space. At least, that’s how I feel. Of course, the access and convenience of streaming is a dream. But I don’t notice a renaissance of music-appreciation brought on by unlimited access.

The only semi-meaningful thought I can share is that I haven’t given up on recorded music. I believe it’s worth my time and money; there are great records being made today. I buy what I can and enjoy it as much as I ever have.

It’s hard to imagine streaming royalties and physical media sales for independent artists really improving, but I remain hopeful. You never know.

The writing I do on Substack is primarily motivated by how much meaning I’ve derived from music my whole life; records and concerts, listener and performer. There’s nothing like music. My great hope is that we’ll remember that eventually.

TC: Your writing on Substack reminds me that I wanted to ask you about your thoughts on being an independent musician in this day and age. The major label system is fraught at best, and the recent passing of Steve Albini (who famously railed against it) is a cogent reminder of it. Internet based sites like Substack and Bandcamp seem to be the best platforms for artists to get their work out, but then there’s the issue of “white noise” with all the competition that now exists because the gatekeepers have largely been banished. What are your thoughts on having to be not only a musician, but a self-promoter, and business person?

VS: Not being too informed about what remains of the record industry, and with Steve Albini, who I admired, though I’m not conversant in his total discography, on my mind, it’s unclear what the future holds. A banal platitude, but it’s the only thing I’m certain of.

If my understanding is correct, streaming music is both a.) here to stay and b.) economically and experientially disastrous for everyone – the tech companies have to be bolstered by venture capital and loans because they can’t make money on $10/month; the record labels, such as they are, have nothing to offer and less money than ever to spend; and listeners are overwhelmed with choices and noise, so they stream the same records they’ve listened to for the past 10 to 75 years.

But I’m out of my depth, at best, with this: I should only speak for myself.

My writing on Substack is dependent on streaming (for which I pay, on multiple platforms) for research – if I had to purchase physical media for every recording I referenced, I’d be in a badly cluttered living space and bereft of a bank account. But there’s no way to truly FEEL recorded music when it’s streamed, for free. If I want to get into a record, I have to slap down some cash for a download at least. If I have room on the shelf, I need the CD or LP. All music fans know this – you want to feel the music, you have to pay, and you have to own the object.

Streaming doesn’t do it for me, and I’m sure there are a few million people who feel the same. So something’s gotta give.

Substack and Bandcamp are wonderful, they must represent the wave of the future. At some point, I assume a system will come into place where those who truly excel on those platforms will come to function in some sort of gatekeeper role, the dimensions of which I can’t imagine. But it’s already kind of happening – so-and-so re-posts so-and-so’s post, etc. etc.

That’s the nub I’m sort of spinning around here – no matter the static, no matter the dire straits we’re in, quality work is the best promotion. Great music and smart writing do get noticed.

Whatever it is I’m doing – typing answers to your excellent questions, playing with Uri Gurvich and Mike McGinnis this week, working on a final article about Philly Joe and Archie Shepp, giving a drum lesson, writing a song – if I do it well, put everything I have in it, it will, eventually, be recognized.

That’s naive, perhaps, but I’m ok with it – I’d rather be naive about quality than confident and canny about self-promotion. Self-promotional strategies keep changing; there’s always some new gimmick. I can’t keep track! So I focus, as much as humanly possible, on quality work. No self-promo plan can beat excellence and human connection.

I stole this attitude from Ted Gioia; I can’t see how he’s wrong.

TC: Speaking of doing the work, what projects do you have planned for the immediate future?

VS: Upcoming project: I’m going to make an album called “Good Enough Dream,” and I’m going to build it up from drums and keyboards, played by me. I want to find out if I can do this.

There’s some other recording projects coming up, a thing for Positone focused on Freddie Hubbard’s music, and an album with vocalist Yoon Sun Choi, and it looks like Jacob, Masa, and I are going to re-invigorate the Play trio this fall, our first time playing together in almost 5 years.

In town, I’m playing with Apocryphal at Nublu in June, and a quartet with Ravi Coltrane, Jonathan Finlayson, and Vicente Archer in July. I’m pretty intrigued by that line-up, I don’t know if a recording is possible.

Touring-wise, I go back out with Mark Morris in a couple weeks, and I’ll be out with Ethan Iverson this fall, while Ember and the Choir Invisible are laying plans for more work in 2025.

Writing-wise, I need to make a trip to New Orleans and start imbibing the truth of that location, while continuing my pursuit of Kenny Clarke. There’s an infinite list of topics to write about – my hard drive is a rat’s nest of started notes and observations. It’s easy for me to lose hours and hours writing.

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