Phil Haynes: Chasing a Master

Phil Haynes: Chasing a Master

by Troy Collins

For over four decades, drummer Phil Haynes has been investigating new creative horizons. Currently teaching at Pennsylvania’s Bucknell University, the downtown New York scene veteran is featured on nearly 90 releases from numerous American and European record labels. His collaborators include: saxophonists Ellery Eskelin and David Liebman; trumpeters Herb Robertson and Paul Smoker; bassists Mark Dresser and Drew Gress; pianists Denman Maroney and Michelle Rosewoman; vocalists Theo Bleckmann and Hank Roberts; and violinist Mark Feldman, among many others.

His current working ensembles include the romantic “jazz-grass” string band, Free Country, featuring vocalist/cellist Hank Roberts; the contemporary saxophone trio No Fast Food, with NEA jazz master David Liebman; the classic romantic piano trio Day Dream, a cooperative with Steve Rudolph and Drew Gress; and his solo project, Sanctuary.

In 2023 he published a memoir, Chasing the Masters: First Takes of a Modern Drumming Artist. Ever since committing his story to paper, and after health issues that threatened his ability to perform, Haynes wanted to move forward while simultaneously looking back to reassess his career. This desire resulted in new projects and collaborations that sidestep nostalgia, linking tomorrow to yesterday.

Haynes’ career as a drummer and composer has been driven by exploration, but his most recent projects reflect a connection to his past, embracing musical influences from his early days in New York. On his newest releases Haynes reconnects with one of his earliest passions, the electric guitar, for a pair of exciting new albums, Return to Electric and Transition(s), released on his own Corner Store Jazz imprint. Both albums feature Haynes’ returning to a genre that initially inspired him: fusion. These albums capture his distinctive take on the form, looking to the past as inspiration for the future.

Return to Electric finds Haynes delving into seminal fusion, embracing the subgenre’s experimental early days, not its much-maligned commercial heyday. Joined by guitarist Steve Salerno and bassist Drew Gress, Haynes tackles classics by composers like Wayne Shorter, Chick Corea, John McLaughlin, and George Russell, alongside reimagined Haynes originals and a trio of improvised solo “Cadenzas” by each member of the band. The album captures the trio’s vibrant energy, offering novel takes on familiar tunes while showcasing Haynes’ artistic growth.

Transition(s) documents a long-overdue collaboration between Haynes and guitarist Ben Monder, whom he first worked with during his early days in New York. The two musicians hadn’t performed together in over 25 years, and Transition(s) is their first recorded meeting. The duo revisits John Coltrane’s “Transition,” which was a staple of their past jam sessions, but here it becomes the framework for a set of spacious mood pieces – at times atmospheric, at others dense – or surprisingly lyrical, such as a spur-of-the-moment rendition of “I Fall In Love Too Easily” that showcases the duo’s sensitivity. The results are a captivating blend of spontaneity and careful listening.

Both albums serve as tributes to musicians who helped shape Haynes’ career. Return to Electric is dedicated to Haynes’ mentor, trumpeter Paul Smoker, who brought together Haynes, Salerno, and Gress. Transition(s) is dedicated to the late Herb Robertson, a close collaborator who passed away in December 2024, just as these projects were nearing completion. I interviewed Haynes in the late spring of 2025, concurrent with the release of Return to Electric and Transition(s).

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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?

Phil Haynes: Given your initial question regarding my early attraction to music, would you mind if I excerpted some of my memories contained in Chasing The Masters?

My earliest memories are of going to evening concerts with my mother, Gladys Haynes, a few blocks away at Pacific University, in my hometown of Forest Grove, Oregon. Mom always liked to tell the tale about needing to take me home for a late bedtime at each performance’s intermission. Apparently, I threw fits at such moments, a sure sign of fatigue. Well, one night, after beginning to leave, my mom turned around to greet a calling friend. They both noticed that I stopped crying and broadly smiled up at them. A penny dropped, and mom sat us back down. By her account, I lay in her arms peacefully for the entire rest of the concert. That was the last time she tried to take me away from an unfinished concert.

Born June 15, 1961, Hillsboro, Oregon, family lore notes that I regularly assembled pots, pans, toy boxes, coffee cans, and more, so as to drum, before my second birthday. Fingers, Lincoln Logs and knitting needles often served as preferred striking implements. A drum that had been my grandfather Haynes’ eventually was gifted to our game room’s holdings, along with a one-piece, self-proclaimed ‘Hi-Fi’ turntable and AM/FM radio console, together in a single 18-inch speaker cabinet. I clearly recall playing my improvised multi-percussion drum set along with family LPs of Fantasia, Sergei Prokofiev’s Peter and the Wolf, Ferde Grofe’s Grand Canyon Suite, and Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring, Fanfare for the Common Man, and Rodeo. I would happily drum along with each of these for hours at a time. And yes, I eventually discovered Casey Kasem’s weekly American Top 40 on the AM radio as pop music fully entered my daily reality.

I pleaded with my parents for years and years for drum lessons, plus a drum set. As I entered second grade, our local high school director, saxophonist Elburn Cooper, advised them to first provide me with piano lessons, which they promptly arranged.

Diller-Quale nursery rhymes enchanted me not in the least. Beyond scales and arpeggios, plus the sound of the instrument, I simply hated piano lessons. By my late teens, piano was a chore that simply felt beyond me – already more accustomed to reading horizontal percussion parts instead of vertical grand staff piano notation – let alone that my talents seemed to abruptly end at my wrists instead of my fingers.

Years later, while working to gain my piano proficiency at Iowa’s Coe College, I fell in love with Bela Bartok’s beginning Mikrokosmos series of short pieces. It dawned on me that I’d been a musical snob since well before my piano lessons began at age seven. In contrast, Keith Jarrett reportedly resisted his Bartok-only literature guidance. Go figure?

By the beginning of fifth grade, my dad, an esteemed optometry professor and researcher, managed a referral from the chair of Pacific University’s music department. I started lessons with a sensational Pacific student, Rick O’Connell, from the San Francisco Bay area. He introduced me to David Garibaldi, Elvin Jones, and Buddy Rich, all at the same time. I had found a new drumming heaven on Earth.

O’Connell recommended two LPs for under our Xmas tree that first year, Merry Go ‘Round, by Elvin Jones, plus Live at Ronnie Scotts (a.k.a, Rich in London), by Buddy Rich’s fiery big band. Well, to my uninitiated fifth-grade ears, Elvin’s date featuring Dave Liebman and Chick Corea (including their fabulous early take of Corea’s classic, “La Fiesta”) was seriously dark and moody, as Elvin’s drumming was mystifyingly advanced. It took me until my first semester in college to ‘get’ Elvin such that I could play along. Buddy’s record, however, was somehow instant magic to my ears. I could immediately relate, even without ever hoping to match Buddy’s technical wizardry. I began performing (repeatedly, daily, for years to come, through High School) with his opener, “Dancing Men,” first utilizing the trusty Rock Beat #1-A O’Connell had taught me.

Funny, that even so early on, I routinely practiced with records and radio, even as I could only manage basic skeleton approximations of the drumming I heard. After all, to this point, I was largely self-taught and there was nobody to collaborate with. To this day, I continue teaching my own beginners, as well as highly advanced artists, to play right along with our master’s most legendary sides. Talk about an education! I discovered if one could play well enough with a recording (where absolutely no one is listening to you), that performing live with others becomes a relative snap. Besides, where were any of us going to find a better band to practice-perform with?

TC: Speaking of Chasing The Masters, you’ve been on quite a roll lately, what with numerous new releases and archival reissues, which seems unsurprising in this Post-Covid age, when many artists have revisited their archives, but writing an autobiography? That’s an ambitious undertaking. The book is most definitely entertaining and quite informative, but I’m curious, what prompted it?

PH: While driving back from a gig some years ago, NEA Jazz Master David Liebman intoned, “Bro, you are approaching the age where you will feel moved to write a book - to share your story - and by the time you get into your 60’s you’ll have plenty to say of interest to students, colleagues, critics, historians, and fans. When that moment arrives, you must not duck it.”

I must tell you, that writing a book (ever in my life) was the furthest thing from my mind. Post Covid’s nearly two-year isolation, while still uninterested in writing a book, it did strike me that culling and organizing the best of my correspondence, social media, critical reviews, liner notes, quotes, lyrics, arts-related poetry, and audio links would be a useful creative task to fill in the void. You know, a kind of solo spring cleaning and reorganization.

First, there were all those aged DAT tapes that needed to be tossed or converted to modern storage, which meant re-experiencing many of them 30+ years later. That’s when I unearthed the last concert by Four Horns & What?, Live at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. I also found myself curiously annoyed at having to change my volume settings when jumping between my albums on Bandcamp, which meant remastering many of them to modern standards. One of my colleagues mentioned, “So when are you going to do that for Paul Smoker’s catalog?” “Once I’ve retired.” was my immediate and earnest answer. Yet I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind and within 10 days found myself diving into all things Smoker, which in some cases meant working closely with Beverly Smoker and a team of engineers to restore the original Paul Smoker Trio releases, which had introduced both of us internationally.

I was immediately stunned by how my perception of our music had changed over the years. Always recording on short budgets, some of those sides had fallen out of (my) favor back in the day simply because of their sonic realization. Now, with decades more experienced ears and distance, I found myself suddenly dumbstruck: Anthony Braxton had been right all those years ago, back in the early 1980’s and before anyone else, exclaiming (paraphrased), “Smoker! Don’t you know? Don’t you understand? You’re a reconstructionalist (an innovator)! You can’t hide this - you’ve got to get your secrets out to the world! NOW!”

While intellectually able to grasp hints of what Braxton understood immediately, I was too young and too close to Paul to fully appreciate the reverberations of such an appraisal. Not to mention, Paul was smack in the middle trying to reconcile his own self-perceptions, frequently swinging hard between “It’s just not fucking good enough” to “This shit is the fucking answer.” I think what Paul and I both felt at the time, right up until after his passing some 8 years ago, was that we’d certainly given it the ole college try – and given it our all – yet our dreams of becoming one of the masters were fleeting. As Paul would have said, “Close, but no cigar, Haynes.”

Interestingly, time can change perceptions, and the reality of Paul’s maverick innovations - connecting early jazz, through the 1960’s, with the European classical avant-garde (the gulf between Freddie Hubbard, Don Cherry, and to today’s progressive musicians, squarely alongside Kenny Wheeler’s lyric and harmonic sea change) - hit me like a proverbial ton of bricks. While he/we may have missed international popularity, artistically he had absolutely moved the needle. Paul’s secrets were out, and had evidently rippled widely, from Dave Douglas to Nate Wooley and through most everyone in between. The Brooklyn based Corner Store community were in every nook and cranny of jazz modernism. Now, someone needed to help others discover Smoker’s pivotal role, and who else but yours truly was in a position to put the dominos in motion for such a historic reappraisal?

Hence, within a month of such an awakening, my interactive, mosaic-like, hardcopy autobiography was conceived and breathlessly launched in March, 2022. And as I suspected and feared, developmental editor for Chasing The Masters, Fritz Holznagel (my best friend since the first day of first grade), noted that CTM could fail if it were seen merely as a student/mentor love letter to Paul and Lieb. Indeed, it would have to be a penetrating, approachable and useful, self-revealing work – one which would succeed only if the current and coming generation(s) found engaging outlook, hope, and wisdom. Hence, it was time to face my own music. What had I done with such rare gifts of masterful guidance, acceptance, challenge, and talent. As Paul pointed out, “The only real measure of how important a teacher I may be, is if my students are at least as good and have moved beyond to influence others with vital gifts of their own. So, get busy, motherfucker!”

TC: Since the genesis of your book actually occurred after Covid, I’d like to jump back a little and ask you about Bucknell University. In the book you explain that you went from doing some contract work as a painter and plasterer to running a jazz series and then eventually teaching there. Can you recount for readers how this all came about?

PH: From 1983 through 2003, while living at my Brooklyn Corner Store, I supported artistic pursuits as an interior painter and plaster, working 50 hours per week, typically for clients on the upper West or East side of Manhattan. Toward the end of living in NYC, I found myself getting grumpy with my perceived opportunities in the music industry. With the advent of CDs, and then again as streaming services began, most of the prestigious boutique labels I’d been featured on were now going bankrupt or cutting back. Simultaneously, European touring became even more challenging as some younger colleagues were lowballing traditional fees (so as to be more enticing for promoters), which depressed everyone’s margins even more.

As promised to myself, after reading a couple of sour grapes interview segments by jazz heroes of mine, I retreated from the fray so as not to make such a public slip myself, post 9/11. After all, I could paint houses in Lewisburg, PA, just as well during the summers, where my wife had taken a tenured position at Bucknell University (only a four-hour drive from NYC). Let us say, my introduction and re-immersion into academia was as unusual as it was unanticipated.

Jazz@Bucknell began as an eight-times-per-year chamber jazz series I initiated and produced for a decade after meeting Brian Mitchell, the new university president, and his wife, Maryjane, around 2005. We had first been introduced the summer he arrived on campus, moving into Bucknell’s official president’s house, where I was part of the crew completing painting and plastering updates. It turned out that we three became friendly over the coming weeks as I was the last painter on site, working daily to hand finish some bedroom furniture that was made for them. Just as I had been well schooled in NYC while working on singer/songwriter James Taylor’s three apartments, right off of Riverside Drive, I never once mentioned that I was a musician. Conversations with the Mitchells I likewise steered toward the university, hobbies, politics, and my wife, organic chemist Dee Ann Casteel.

Perhaps six months hence, Dee and I were exiting a downtown eatery when Brain and Maryjane arrived. We all greeted each other warmly and then began chatting like old friends in the restaurant’s entry vestibule, for some 10-plus minutes, during which the Mitchells asked us to join them for some wine. On perhaps their third request, we finally sat down and resumed enjoying one another’s unexpected company.

When I inquired how they were enjoying their freshly redecorated home and their Bucknell experience at large, they soon began discussing how odd it was that there were multiple concert venues on campus that were dark most evenings of the year. The list included Bucknell Hall, a charming space next to their new home, just where Dee and I had been married a few years before. This hall is a handsome 1880s brick structure that was originally built to serve as both the university’s chapel plus common lecture hall. Well, somehow either Dee or I mentioned that whenever we’d tried to book such spaces on campus for music events, we were discouraged and sent on our way, being told, “There’s just not funding available for non-essential programming.” Brian looked at us and exclaimed, “I didn’t know you two were musicians.” To which Dee responded, “Oh, I’m just an amateur, but Phil is an internationally acclaimed jazz percussionist and composer. What, Phil, aren’t you already on more than 40 published recordings by European and American labels?” Y’all, you’ve just got to love Dee!

Well, suffice it to say, I didn’t fumble that introduction, nor the extraordinary opportunity. Within a few short minutes after our revelations, I had a verbal agreement from Bucknell’s new president for an annual 35,000-dollar chamber series of contemporary jazz that I would produce and perform on, perhaps twice each year. It was to be, in the Mitchells’ terminology, “A monthly, special town and gown event.”

Within a week, I was personally called by the executive director of Bucknell’s Weis Center for the Performing Arts, who had been instructed to facilitate. “Is there anything you need to make your midweek series a success(?), as our new president’s prestige is on the line with the launch of this fresh endeavor,” he said. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Haynes, Dr. Mitchell tells me that he expects to attend the first concert in about three weeks, before the university’s Thanksgiving break.”

GULP! Only one thing to do on such short notice: call Paul Smoker and see if he might be able to drive down from Rochester on a Wednesday and revive some of his famed trio music with a fresh bassist. Fortunately, Paul was available and enthused, plus so was an extraordinary bassist new to our book, Ken Filiano.

Our concert day soon arrived, and Paul rehearsed us for a couple of hours in the early afternoon before making the hit that evening to a standing room only crowd of perhaps 120 students, faculty, and community members. It was as if we were abruptly transported back to Europe. Our audience went ballistic after just our opening two works. The vice president at the time came up to me afterwards and shared, “I understood from Dee that you were a highly accomplished drummer, but geezus, Phil, you’re a damned monster. I just wasn’t prepared ...” Jazz@Bucknell was born, off and running, and at lightspeed.

Then the quid pro quo return favor was soon asked by President Mitchell, “Phil, I need you to lead our disastrous university pep band, as no one will take the job and our basketball team is likely headed to March Madness again in a couple of weeks. We must not be musically embarrassed again.” After another GULP, I rationalized that this was at least some kind of college teaching – something I had always wanted to do yet had abandoned pursuing the mandatory advanced academic degrees. Well, the long and short of it was that Bucknell’s basketball team continued win and our pep band changed its tune(s!). While in Dallas, after upsetting Arkansas, Bucknell’s Vice President publicly declared “The Great Bucknell Pep Band Miracle.” Privately, he took me aside and noted, “Seriously, Phil, you are the only new damned variable in this pep band equation, and their turnaround is no coincidence. Brian has plans for you.” Sure enough, by early summer, I was offered a contract as the university’s first Kushell Jazz Artist-in-Residence. Not everyone in our Department of Music was as excited.

When I was invited to offer jazz coursework in 2007, my Chairman asked what single subject I thought was most important to teach. I responded, “an integrated jazz history and literature sequence, including a semester of classic jazz and one of modern jazz.” To which he responded, “Fine, just as long as you can craft it so that both senior music majors and first year non-majors can take your courses successfully, together, without prerequisites, and yet all be challenged.” That Chair likely intended such a challenge as one that was doomed to fail, however, this first exchange led to five wondrous consecutive years of teaching these courses, to both students and even a dozen Bucknell faculty members. Talk about being honored!

As I had never taught semester-length classes, collegiate or otherwise, I created my Introduction to Classic Jazz and Introduction to Modern Jazz courses from scratch. Being a Bachelor of Music jazz major in the early 1980s was fortuitous (Coe College, Cedar Rapids, IA), as studying with Dr. Paul Smoker, the maverick modern trumpet innovator and educator, soon proved. Smoker was one of the early pioneering Doctor of Musical Arts (DMA) degree-holders who successfully integrated street-learned values, experience, and traditions in his academic programs. Even as I earned my undergraduate degree and contemplated further studies, Smoker reminded me, “If what you really want to learn is how to play at the world level, you likely won’t do that in any school. Instead, go to New York and play with Miles Davis and his generation, if you can. If not, then find a way to play with some of Miles’ living sidemen, because that’s how it is done.”

I already knew that if I was to have anything worth teaching, it could never have enough impact if I couldn’t actually ‘walk the talk.’ My other influential teachers of the time (Ed Blackwell, Joanne Brackeen, Anthony Braxton, Jack DeJohnette, Dave Holland, Lee Konitz, David Liebman, and Kenny Wheeler) each imparted invaluable personal lessons to me that, with the exception of Liebman’s various publications, are not readily available. Hence, I decided to capture the trans-African cultural majesty, magic, and essence of jazz – an art form which had evolved from a long lineage of aural and oral tradition – on the shoulders of what I had learned from academia, my own explorations, and especially the aural/oral trans-African street tradition.

As NEA Jazz Master Liebman noted several years ago, “Philly, babe, this approach of yours is unique and important, a new way of introducing the music. I’m telling you, I don’t know of anyone who thought of teaching the music in this way. Sky’s the limit, bro.”

TC: Your move from New York to Central Pennsylvania brings you fairly close to where I live, and interestingly, puts you in direct contact with Steve Rudolph, a well-known pianist in this region. Rudolph’s approach is far more traditional than what you’re typically known for, yet you’ve enjoyed a long-standing working relationship with him. Can you explain how you first met him and how your working relationship has developed over time?

PH: Pennsylvania bassist Joe Michaels and I met through Dave Liebman after I’d inquired about some young musicians he could recommend around the Delaware Water Gap region. Well, teamed first with pianist Bobby Avey for a trio performance out in the middle of nowhere (Millheim, PA), we all immediately hit it off. The concert was simply a gas, and Joe promised to recommend me to some other folks he admired (evidently, turnabout is fair play!).

A few weeks later, I received a call from the legendary Steve Rudolph, for a gig down at the Harrisburg Hilton. As it turns out, I’d been given advice about Steve and his Pennsylvania Friends of Jazz organization years before, when I was in NYC touring my first band, Continuum (Mark Feldman, David Kikoski, Drew Gress). The word then was that Rudolph and his organization were hanging loose back in a largely 1950’s vibe, with the cool-ish sounds of Dave Brubeck, Bill Evans, and Chet Baker dominating, and that I shouldn’t bother trying to book such a striking young quartet with them.

Hence, I arrived at the Hilton 20 years later in a nice two-piece suit and tie. Steve was nattily dressed for the occasion and looking particularly dapper and distinguished. Philadelphia vibraphone virtuoso Tony Micelli was featured that evening, yet was more casually dressed in basic black (without jacket or tie); likewise for the terrific bassist, Steve Varner. Perhaps they knew something ... Rudolph counted off the first tune as I grabbed my brushes in unspoken anticipation. Well, suffice it to say, that within just two tunes I had removed my jacket. After the third, I took off my tie. Before the fourth number, my brushes were ditched, compelled to grab sticks. Man, did that pick-up quartet just smolder and burn all night long for three full, hour-ish sets. OMG, who knew? The rest has been history, as the abundant personal and artistic chemistry shared that night has flowered into multiple fabulous CD publications over the past 15+ years.

I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising. We share a deep love for Bill Evans and his revelatory, innovative bassists, beginning with Scott Lafaro, let alone the piano driven tradition stretching from Fats Waller to Duke Ellington, Thelonious Monk, Amad Jamal, McCoy Tyner, Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea, and through Keith Jarrett. Indeed, Lafaro’s conversational counterpoint inspired many, including drummers. The door had been opened for both romantic and modernist percussionists to try their hand at more equal roles (pardon the pun), if we could do it with appropriate subtlety and taste – furnishing both the traditional rhythm section carpet plus now, a more collective decor. As my early collaborations in New York utilized far more of my power drumming roots, Big Apple pianists and vocalists had overlooked this Gemini twin’s other, subtle sideman abilities. Steve did not.

Admittedly, leading up to my frequently whispering solo side, Sancturary (1999), I’d invested deeply in learning to control lighter, quieter implements and approaches. Even though originally utilized for more avant-garde expression, such skills transferred directly into my touch and approach with traditional jazz instrumentations - now featured frequently on live stages in Pennsylvania designed for resonant classical performances - with little or no amplification or PA support. This dovetailed perfectly with our joint passion for becoming terrific and versatile sidemen, before leadership opportunities presented (and demanded) themselves. After all, Steve’s piano influences dovetailed perfectly with my own drumming heros, from Zutty Singleton through Papa Jo Jones, Kenny Clarke, Philly Joe, Roy Haynes, Paul Motian, and Jan Christiansen, let alone the powerful virtuosos Buddy Rich, Art Blakey, Elvin Jones, Tony Williams, and Jack Dejohnette. We both treasured many, many of the same historic recordings.

Indeed, beginning with Paul Smoker, my mentors expected me not only to develop my own voice, but to base it upon the entire history of pivotal jazz, including the innovative modernists, populist traditionalists, and the avant-garde. After all, diversity is a good thing. Or, as Smoker advised, “Know something about everything and everything about something.” It’s a sound goal, if ultimately unattainable. Regardless, it fosters attaining something closer to our true potential over one’s lifetime, which in itself is unpredictable as new variables always present themselves and sometimes even seem to change.

Meanwhile, back at Bucknell University, a trio initially fronted by Rudolph, soon to be known as Day Dream (a la Duke Ellington’s composition), eventually recorded a pair of albums live on a university recital hall stage. Our second date was accomplished without any amplification (yup, even sans bass amp), so a certain drummer had to be seriously subtle, yet hopefully still sizzling and spry. Steve, Drew, and yours truly were blessed to have found one another, as the group yields an amazing warmth, patience, and yes, chemistry. All collaborative artists live to find such balance within their ensembles as well as with their audiences.

TC: Thinking of your work with Day Dream and the difference between “pure” free improvisation and more traditional theme and variations-based strategies, as well as your ability to navigate multiple styles and genres, are there any aspects of the tradition you find inspiring, and/or established practices you find creatively constraining?

PH: Whether functioning as a sideman, leader, or member of a collective – in traditionalist, modernist, or avant-garde contexts – my goal is always to enjoyably craft whatever is needed, which then can freshly serve the music at hand, the musicians gathered, and our audience(s). As a drummer, I’m ever aware of expressing a really good time feel, providing a reliable and infectious “carpet,” with context appropriate conversational interplay. And as a classically trained percussionist, I’m continuously thinking in terms of orchestrating arrays of distinctive colors and dynamics – never forgetting both the power I have to surprise and inspire, as well as to swiftly drown out other parts, which spoils everyone’s experience.

I’ve been continuously inspired by the great jazz brush tradition, especially from Papa Jo Jones through Philly Joe, Elvin, and Roy Haynes. I’ve also been greatly influenced by “go for broke” drummers from Buddy Rich through Art Blakey, Philly Joe, Shelly Manne, Jack DeJohnette, Tony Williams, and early period Barry Altschul. Likewise, distinctive/innovative cymbal time feels and their evolving drum interplay practices throughout the decades, from New Orleans, through Swing, Bebop, Hard Bop, Cool, Free, 1960’s Modernism(s), Fusion, ECM stylings, and today’s so-called Math Jazz continually furnish inspiration. Nothing constraining or boring about any of it, especially whenever one plays with masters! When working with students, amateurs, or less experienced professionals, then yes, one needs to be aptly constrained in what you bring to the collective gumbo.

Interesting that you note “the difference between ‘pure’ free improvisation and more traditional theme and variations-based strategies.” Actually, in every context I perform in, one of my self-defined traits is (like a good composer) to make bunches of exciting and affecting music from juggling a relatively small number of elements, working lyrically, conversationally and contrapuntally through and through – commonly based on my first few ideas – frequently via theme and variation practices. I find such an approach especially crucial in creating consistently worthwhile abstract, real-time “free” composition(s). When combined with awareness of sequence, momentum, pacing, compositional peaks and valleys, etc., if one then reveals the first, second, or third opportunity for an effective ending, it removes the inconsistent nature from “pure” improv. Borrowing this same approach truly refined and revolutionized my traditional styled efforts too, simultaneously reducing musical “run on sentences” as well as sparking more authentic freshness as I interpret the greats of various traditions and idioms.

While I admired early and pivotal experiments in free jazz, which aptly reflected the masses of Americans demanding “freedom now” for all – especially our black sisters and brothers – I found such raw energy limiting over time, by most artists on many of their most audacious recordings, as their materials were often too numerous and generally lacked effective development (especially by their rhythm sections). Hence, as I toyed with my own more subconscious based languages, discovering consistently effective and diverse expression (spontaneous composition) became my driving force. Combined with exploring Ritual Musics (as Herb Robertson named his free/spiritual experiences of our own post Coltrane, Ayler, and early Blues intuition mind sets), such avant-garde explorations served as a kind of literal “therapy” for likeminded artists restoring their own innate “inner child” curiosity and playful freshness.

TC: Your two new electric albums, Return to Electric and Transition(s), are dedicated to Paul Smoker and Herb Robertson, respectively. A good deal of your book deals with Smoker’s influence over your artistic growth, but since Robertson’s recent passing was so sudden, is there anything you’d like to say about him and your time working together?

PH: Clarence Clifford “Herb” Robertson (R.I.P.) revolutionized my approach to improvising. I can listen back and hear my conceptual approaches before first working with Herbie – in Brooklyn, NY, around 1990 – and then everything I’ve done since. His approach was youthful, playful, humored, spiritual, elemental, genuine, contagious, and profound, all at the same time.

Whether working his traditional instruments (trumpet, low brass, clarinet, and keyboard), or with literal children’s toys (whistles, rattles, a miniature bull horn, or a model truck), improvising freely, in the moment, Herb described not as Free music, but as Ritual music. It was an approach he shared with myself and others, generally beginning from silence (sometimes lengthy) while taking in all the background “noises” present. Relaxing with such environmental backdrops in acceptance, then swiftly transitioning into inspiration accompaniment for whatever unfolded next: where unintentional sounds and ideas were sculpted with equal weight, mingling with those more consciously intended – yet with a much greater reliance on intuition rather than practiced proficiency. A “safe place” for artists to become reborn was established, rekindling our authentic inner child curiosity and adventurous, imaginative playfulness. Opposites suddenly attracted one another, framing each other brilliantly. “Wrong sounds” often became cherished catalysts for growth and unexpected aesthetic discovery, to the point where more than once, Robertson quipped, “Man, sometimes the most totally ‘out’ thing you can play is a major triad!”

I want to tell you, Herbie’s Ritual Music was like discovering a long-lost religion, more pure and true than any other I’ve encountered. The better you become at such accepting, sincere, spiritually based creation – both as a solo performer, and of course in ensembles of any size or configuration – the easier it becomes to stay in the flow (or zone) state. And again, this mindset is contagious among any sensitive performers, let alone the amazing audience connections suddenly possible for even the most abstract experiences. Suddenly, traditional language and idiom approaches were revitalized! Even one’s practiced harmonic and melodic patterns became riper, full of flavor, nuance, and opportunities previously only longed for. Just what the doctor ordered(!), while dreaming of chasing the masters and their lasting brilliance.

My solo album, Sanctuary, along with Coda(s) by No Fast Food (featuring David Liebman), the collective Three Shaman’s Black Friday (with Herb and Ken Filiano), plus Transition(s) with Ben Monder, each pivot their successes on Herb inspired discoveries and practices, many developing from his period of Buddhist studies. Whereas the first couple of No Fast Food sides, Day Dream’s Duke & Strays Live, as well as Return to Electric (by Paul Smoker’s last Notet rhythm section), blend such ancient/contemporary conceptions readily with the more familiar “consciously learn and master your languages first, second and last” approach, hoping to discover one’s intuitive flow/zone eventually.

As it turns out, of course, both methods are vitally essential to any artist of merit so as to attain the elusive yin/yang balance. Combining each (and teaching each), as appropriate to the music and musicians gathered, results in a kind of fresh freedom and collective liberties one dreams of, in any style. What’s exciting is that you hear this so-called free approach now being increasingly utilized and developed by the younger generations in more and more idioms, whether originally self-taught folk musicians, classical European trained performers, jazz, or world-based artists. Herbie ripples on, and on.

TC: In addition to Paul Smoker, in your book you also credit Dave Liebman with a great deal of inspiration in your journey towards becoming a professional musician. Is there anything more you’d like to say about him that you didn’t mention in the book?

PH: David Liebman first entered my ears and slithered(!) directly into my soul a bit over 50 years ago. He arrived in the form of a Christmas present – picked out by my new drum teacher when I was in 5th grade – featured on Elvin Jones’ LP, Merry Go Round. To my young ears, he sounded like some kind of exotic snake charmer and shaman from another land, and over the coming few years I became spellbound. By the time I went to college, I had developed just enough language and fortitude to play along with such legendary sides, working hard and studiously just to keep up and not make a mess of things.

A couple of years later, in January of 1983, I first met Lieb as he performed in Chicago with a first-rate local rhythm team. Afterwards, when I approached him and suggested initiating private music studies, I discovered the same sincere, engaging, welcoming, inspired, swinging, challenging, powerful, mystical, and brilliantly direct person I’d long idolized as an artist. Indeed, the two were one in the same, and it led to a 4-decade relationship that remarkably culminated in No Fast Food’s release, Coda(s), recorded just before the holidays, in December of 2022, exactly 50 years after first encountering his stirring soprano voice. Who could have imagined such a coincidence, such manifested dreams, punctuating both of our artistic journeys?

As Lieb’s childhood polio recently further reasserted its degenerative physical challenges anew, unexpectedly, just a year or two before making Coda(s), I imagine my tunes may have been the last originals he recorded, turning instead to the relative familiarity of just occasional standards and free playing to close his late period. After all, everything is about time, as Paul Smoker often intoned. And our time(s) have been incredibly blessed with so very much hard-earned good fortune.

TC: In reference to performing, how do you feel about studio recording compared to live performance and how does that affect your playing in each situation?

PH: Interesting that you should inquire about such differences, as shortly after arriving in NYC in the mid-1980’s, I noted that recordings of live performances were not consistently at the level of our studio releases. Now, while that’s understandable given studio albums take selection culling (among multiples of the same work), I wasn’t satisfied with my overall “batting average.” I further observed that sometimes our emotions at the time – “this was incredible” and/or “this fell short” – weren’t always predictive either, especially in retrospect.

To solve this, I acquired a trustworthy Sony TCD5M field cassette recorder teamed with a good stereo mic and began recording every gig plus important jam sessions for 3-5 years, positioning the mic as if I were sitting in the front row with the band centered. What an education this simple approach turned out to be for myself and many in our Corner Store community. Instantly, upon listening back, I/we heard more of what the audience experienced – rather than a drummer’s or other performers perspective. It was a vastly more impartial experience, akin to what one hopes a great producer or critic will bring to any artistic happening. And sure enough, within a few short years, I began hearing plus sensing from the drum chair, in all situations, what was literally being created rather than what was mostly intended and felt. Eureka!

The results, whether performing live for an audience, or for the ear of a studio, became more “one in the same.” Hence, when coupled with recording complete album sets (before repeating full alternate takes), I am able to capture more of that “live music” excitement for audiences, consistently, whether in concert or in the studio. Such efforts feel especially gratifying now, as many of my favorite recordings by the masters were made in concert, including fistfuls from Buddy Rich, Art Blakey, Miles, ‘Trane, ‘Bird, Keith, and the rest.

TC: In the same line of thought, what are your thoughts on the state of the recording industry, especially regarding archival copies (CDs, LPs) versus more ephemeral formats (downloads, streaming)?

PH: Having grown up with LPs, I am still totally in love with them for their artwork, credits, plus liner note presentation. Sadly, to produce fine quality vinyl releases, the costs are several times that of digital discs. At least CDs have assisted loads of folks with modest stereo equipment to readily hear more detail (sans all the background noise of well-loved vinyl) in both contemporary and vintage releases. Each of these older formats deserves a hallowed place in any collector’s library, given their visual and tactile impact alone. As a musician coming up in the transition between LP and CD formats, I dig that they each challenge artists and producers differently, given their contrasting 18’ per side (and flip!) presentation versus up to a 75’+ through composed experience. Regardless, I enjoy providing rich, fulfilling experiences for those spending the time to immerse in an entire LP, a double LP set, or single/multiple CD box set, creating longer narratives which develop through many carefully sequenced works/movements – akin to a great opera or novel.

Download and streaming formats clearly have significant pros and cons. On the bright side, access to music and artists of any genre has never been easier, nor more readily and compactly stored – let alone mobile. The dark underbelly includes the vanishing royalty payment rate structures for creators (especially we independents), let alone ever shorter consumer attention spans, plus a market glut of products such that acclaim for worthy artists seems to be orders of magnitude more challenging every decade, if not by the year.

Still, consumer format choices and access has never been easier to personalize and artists may easily target their work for both serious connoisseurs and casual listeners alike, in search of a potentially more viral response from fans, from whatever “stripe” and taste they may be.

TC: You’ve mentioned working on archiving Paul Smoker’s recorded legacy. What is you plan in that regard and is there a schedule of releases for listeners to look forward to, since so many of Smoker’s albums are now out of print?

PH: Over the past decade, more and more of Paul Smoker’s catalog has thankfully been made available again via his Bandcamp site: <paulsmoker.bandcamp.com>. Together with his wife, Beverly Smoker, and a couple of his former students, we’ve been collecting and archiving for publication materials we think are important. And while it is an evolving process, several pivotal collaborations of his are available again now, including the first four (of 5 albums) by his storied Paul Smoker Trio, with bassist Ron Rohovit, which introduced each of us internationally via our debut side, QB, featuring Anthony Braxton.

On my own Bandcamp site, <philhaynesmusic.bandcamp.com/music>, Paul’s exceptional work with my quintet, 4 Horns & What?, was recently rereleased to heartening critical acclaim via a 3-CD set, The Complete American Recordings. Next, in the coming two years, the collective composer’s quartet, Joint Venture (with Drew Gress and Ellery Eskelin) will likewise be made available as a 3-CD set. For each reissue, I’ve had Jon Rosenberg carefully remaster to contemporary standards from the original sources or recreated via multiple early sources. It’s been exciting for all involved as more of the international community has a fresh chance to experience maverick Paul in his prime, as each of these ensembles “moved the needle” of jazz development.

Additionally, from the final decade of his life, a stirring series of three recitals Smoker presented at Nazareth College (Rochester, NY) will be published for the first time, including: duets with myself; a performance featuring his wife (pianist Beverly Smoker); and an unexpected gem with pianist Bill Dobbins, reveling in a collection of joyful jazz standards. This performance with Dobbins, in fact, is a literal missing link to hear Paul’s more traditional swinging mastery in the company of a kindred spirit from the same generation.

Beyond these immediate objectives, I am working to prepare a compilation of Smoker solo works from over his few decades of recording, as Paul gave a number of such live performances in the U.S. yet never managed to document such works as an album project.

TC: What other projects do you have planned for the immediate future?

PH: This coming fall, 2025, I will release the fourth studio set by my Americana string band, Free Country, entitled Liberty Now!. After nearly 3 decades since first forming this timeless “all but unplugged” ensemble, instead of covering various eras of our nation’s popular music classics, Disc 1 will feature a collection of originals contributed by each member, including cellist/vocalist Hank Roberts, guitarist Jim Yanda, bassist Drew Gress, and yours truly. While planned for well in advance of our nation’s recent political tumult, somehow the quartet’s collective unconsciousness birthed a most timely set of compositions for our reunion, and together with a Disc 2 compilation of previously released, politically observant cover tunes, the result is a powerful, yet accessible protest album aimed at thoughtful reflection, healing and unity.

For spring 2026, I look forward to introducing next gen sax marvel, 28-year-old Peyton Pleninger, with guitar visionary, Ben Monder, on an album entitled TERRA. It’s a wondrous live document of the trio’s first ever meeting, presenting spontaneous, collective composition, as well as a sensuous reading of “Skylark.” Fascinatingly, our performance revealed itself to be another activist’s call, yet this time for sustainable stewardship of our mother earth. And while neither TERRA nor Liberty Now! were originally conceived as political commentary, there’s a kind of relief to know that one’s colleagues “ensemble unconscious” is so attuned to our era’s great challenges and that such artistic outpourings may help many to better process, plan, and then to act sympathetically and usefully.

Paired with TERRA, will be Resonance, a quite magical duet set of standards performed with Pleninger, captured in-studio with the anticipated sympathetic vibrations of a few of my favorite Asian gongs – which add an ethereal and unexpected natural reverberation – punctuating and framing the music. As one can imagine, such overtone resonances had inspiring impacts on our interpretations. It was akin to having a trio partner who only emerges from the background to excite particular ripe instants, only to retreat until surprising us once again, and then again. I can’t wait to mix it this summer with Peyt and Jon!

Down the road will be a climactic big band set of my originals, culled from my entire career, arranged and directed by a marvelous Iowa contemporary, Chris Merz (University of Northern Iowa), who is yet another connection to the “The family Liebman & Smoker.” I’ll first workshop and debut Merz’s fresh arrangements next spring with his ever outstanding #1 band, before documenting them in NYC with a refreshed, all-star, greater Corner Store jazz orchestra.

TC: Thank you, Phil, this has been great. I do feel like I missed something rather important, however. Your book mentions ongoing challenges with clinical depression and the struggle to find the right balance of medication, but also mentions a recent physical ailment that almost stopped you from playing drums. Can you talk about those issues, if you feel they’re related in some way?

PH: Mine was largely a happy childhood, though I struggled with terrible monthly (even weekly) sick headaches, which were untouchable by pain medications of the era. I found out late in life that these were actually migraine episodes, likely tied to changes in brainwave activity from normal to depressive (or manic) patterns, and back again. I literally lived most of my life oscillating between extremes of true happiness and sick despair. Sometimes I related such swings to coincidental life experiences, believing it was all simply a “moody artist’s” temperament accompanying life’s ups and downs. In any event, there was very little middle, or equilibrium, in my experience until quite recently.

There were many clues throughout life, of course, regarding my manic/depressive reality. I didn’t make friends easily, though interestingly, those made frequently have lasted for decades, whether men, women, personal or professional. As I look back, my manic periods may have been seriously off putting to those around me. Paul Smoker’s second wife, Wendy, once announced while I was summering at their home, “Phil, you are clearly a very nice, polite and well-intended young man, yet I simply can’t stand you in the presence of Paul. I think you need to leave.” Evidently, she was not alone as maverick Paul (a literal Taurus the bull!) and I notably amplified each other’s passionate and complex artistic/personal natures, for apparent great good and some ill. On the flip side, my depressive periods left yours truly distraught and feeling helpless, without adequate motivation to problem solve – something I’m oddly known for.

For example, numerous times while living in NYC, for months on end, I would nervously screen calls instead of working to resolve normal challenges in advance – let alone in real time – failing to explore solutions directly with those generally trying to help me (as I’ve generally managed in diverse music groups). Yet when depressed, one cannot make even the simplest business decisions with any confidence, let alone anything complicated by interpersonal emotions and feelings. Since I was functional overall, generally productive and an “optimistic realist” about most things, it never occurred to me that I should seek help until I turned 50.

Just before beginning my first year of teaching Jazz History and Literature as Bucknell University’s inaugural Kushell Jazz Artist-in-Residence – the very opportunity I’d dreamt of essentially all of my life – I was uncharacteristically so nervous and panicked that I seriously considered backing out, even the very night before I was to start. Alarmingly, I actually observed myself toying with which method of suicide might be the most palatable, and that was a first. Somehow, without help that had likely been warranted over the years, I once again bulled my way through the sheer dread and began teaching (a.k.a. performing and improvising in front of my new student and faculty audience). After all, once I was finally “on stage.” this was a familiar, adrenalized safe zone, and my first year could not have gone better professionally, yet ...

The following spring or summer, I spent some time with my brother James, ten years my senior, alone on a multi-hour drive. My darkest thoughts had not left even with a wondrous first professorial year under my belt. When I asked him how his career was, it was as if a dam broke. James recounted his own tale of struggle with mental illness fomenting only the decade before. This was a story I didn’t know, nor ever suspect. Apparently, as he approached the age of fifty, James also found himself having serious suicidal thoughts, despite the fact he had an amazing wife and two kids he loved, plus an ideal teaching and research career. He recalled that when trying to prepare a list of life’s pros and cons, he couldn’t come up with anything – absolutely nothing of consequence that was negative – for his cons column.

James then retold the family story of our grandfather Haynes who had successfully committed suicide right around age fifty, immediately after putting his affairs in order and not telling a soul: not his wife, our father, his other son, family business associates, best friends, nor even his beloved daughter, Martha. This family legend suddenly hit home, resonating in a way it never, ever had previously. After all, I had not known my grandfathers, yet James was right next to me, going through such eerily identical struggles, ones we each shared at precisely the same point in life.

James noted that when it struck him that he may have inherited the male family condition, as our aunt Martha referred to it, he confided in his primary care physician who immediately prescribed a modern antidepressant. As it turned out, James soon emerged with a fresh mental stability he hadn’t felt in years. Amazingly, his demons had been vanquished. Clearly, they’d literally found the right drug for him immediately, normalizing his own mental chemistry. To this day, James remains successfully and happily medicated – relieved to have sought and found help.

Hence, armed with fresh insights and unwavering brotherly support, I swiftly turned to my family doctor. After a very challenging summer of drug uptake (complete with all the negative side-effects listed on the bottles as “potential”), I found myself eventually without anxiety, depression, nor suicidal thoughts. Even life with migraine headaches largely disappeared, with my doctor explaining they likely struck each time my brain waves switched from normal to depressive, manic, and/or back again. Apparently, a major health mystery of mine had been solved, even if somewhat temporarily.

A few years later, an antimanic prescription was added to my cocktail after my wife, Dee, became worried that work on philhaynes.com had become obsessive and antisocial over its development cycle of some 18 months. I had chalked it up to burying myself in another big project akin to others I’d accomplished over the years. After all, I relished(!) tackling big projects. It was, however, this same manifested mania that had likely repelled even a very close colleague (or perhaps five, actually) in New York, let alone many of my collegiate and earlier acquaintances. Each may have literally recoiled from an excess of Phil energy over all those decades. I simply didn’t/couldn’t comprehend my own issues at the time.

Regardless, after adjusting prescriptions again, I became much more balanced in my interactive behaviors with Dee, so that was another welcome step in the right direction. On the other hand, my zest for life and even enjoyment of music waned during this new period. Unintentionally, we had actually suffocated my muse, and it took me years to fully recognize the scope of my losses. I assumed this was just the price of mental stability, and likely for the rest of my life, ya know? After all, contemplating suicide is no joke – let alone repelling one’s own wife – and not to be tolerated as normal, as it is anything but.

Over recent decades, I’ve come to understand such extreme feelings and reactions are not the normal highs and lows of being an artist, or any human being. While often coincidentally triggered(?) by significant personal and career challenges, my responses were part and parcel of an endless, recurring pattern of depressive withdrawal – as well as manifest mania flips where I felt wonderfully alive and inspired. For decades, I just never imagined that what I was enduring might be an internal chemical imbalance. As my wise and loving mother used to often quote her great grandmother Holloman, “Live and learn, then die and forget it all.”

Sleeping 12 to 16 hours per day should have been enough warning that my doctor-prescribed anti-depression and mania cocktail was not working correctly anymore. For most of a decade, beginning in 2011, I was too often a literal couch potato. I slept so much that, even when awake, only the bare minimum of life’s everyday tasks (let alone any artistic pursuits) were possible to be accomplished. I truly believed I’d never be able to get off such emotion compressing and muffling meds. Dee had managed a muted contentment for years, now that I wasn’t swinging wildly from sky-high to bottom-low. Sadly, still at this point, I had little feel for what my true center should be, although I suspected it was seriously out of kilter.

In the run-up to Paul Smoker’s final recording, Landings, even after setting up almost all of the production details myself (locations, engineer, performances, etc.), I nearly backed out the very morning I needed to drive to our first rehearsals with his Notet in Rochester. Though I was still on the anti-mania/depressant cocktail, such depressive behavior was rearing its ugly head again. All I knew was that sleeping at home somehow felt preferable to making a new recording with Paul, Drew, and Steve Salerno. Can you imagine? The dread and panic had crept back. HELP!

Then, a couple of encounters happened. First, my favorite Aunt Martha looked at what I was taking for the “male family condition” and noted that I was on quite low dosages. More than a decade into my prescriptions, one of our local pharmacists noted the same. Perhaps I should discuss increasing dosages with my doctor? Since I had been thankful to find relief from my darkest thoughts and all but rid of my migraine headaches, I had assumed that most side effects were to be tolerated for my overall well-being, not to mention that of my friends, colleagues, family, and cherished wife.

Instead, I very, very gradually reduced my dosages to see if some of the unwanted side effects would lessen, knowing Dee (whom I didn’t tell) would notice if there was a problem, as a kind of double-blind observer. Before beginning anything new I thought it best to be fully weaned. After two years of glacially backing off my ‘scripts, I was free of such medications for the first time in nearly 20 years. I waited ... At first, little to nothing seemed to happen – neither anything particularly good nor bad. After my first drug free year I slowly began to feel more “me old self.” Then, my muse suddenly reappeared during the following year (screaming at me to pen Chasing The Masters, for starters), yet miraculously still without the frequent migraines or excessively depressed feelings and thoughts. Plus, now I understood to be vigilantly on guard against my manic and depressive behavior patterns. Heck, perhaps I had simply grown out of it, or ... ?

Beyond such mental realities, there were my growing physical challenges, centered first in my hands, wouldn’t ya know. Fortunately, I was blessed by my high school guru’s tutelage, Oregon Symphony percussionist Steve Lawrence, whose methods for establishing a relaxed and efficient drumming technique never needed amending. About 15 years ago though, again around age 50, I noticed mysterious thumb joint discomfort for the first time whenever playing, to the point that I’d duck many virtuosic ideas occurring with bands such as No Fast Food. While I was readily able to find simpler choices to make vibrant music – as I’d long since given up trying to be a technical wonderkind – still, I was now actively shutting down my spontaneous subconscious, increasingly in the midst of other virtuosos. Let me tell you, after working tirelessly over a lifetime to shape, develop, trust, and utilize one’s intuition so as to spontaneously compose with elan, dodging such artistic flows was antithetical to everything I’d worked for artistically.

At first, I wondered if my thumb joint discomfort was also inherited, as the women on my father’s side developed such degenerative issues too, again beginning interestingly around age 50. In fact, Aunt Martha always put off recommended surgical intervention, which left her hands weak and what she described as “agonizingly clumsy.” And my sister, Mary Beth (a working coloratura soprano, pianist, and organist), resorted to prescription intervention for most of the past 15 years so as to maintain accompanying her 20 weekly voice students plus provide organ music for multiple churches. While prescription meds worked for some years, within a decade their side effects forced her to cease taking them and contributed to her instrumental retirement. So, even without a diagnosis, yet armed with multiple personal data points, my answer was to rest my hands as much as possible beginning a decade ago.

Hence, I cut out nearly everything that caused my hands pain, including most practice, mowing of the lawn, digging in the garden, household maintenance, etc., plus even my lifelong addiction to bicycling (long distance and racing), saving all efforts for performing, cooking and necessary driving. While my approach provided some immediate physical relief, avoiding household chores was very hard on my self-esteem and draining to my soul. After all, I had given up multiple activities I loved. By the time of forced and voluntary Covid isolation over 18+ months (protecting my elderly live-in mother-in-law’s health), my right hand in particular was simply feeling worn out and with more than just joint pain. I now had developed multiple, increasing indications of repetitive motion fatigue.

Then, a series of what felt like miracles happened. With 18 months of Covid drumming inactivity, my hands seemed to be healing themselves, no doubt seeded by limiting their use for the previous 6+ years. My chops, however, were now at a tragic all time low, and I found myself seriously considering retiring from international level performance (talk about depressing!). Fortunately, coming out of isolation, my first gigs with Steve Rudolph illustrated that while my technique had become notably limited, my musician’s mind was amazingly sharp as ever. Plus, my hands seemed to improve a touch with each tune and set. A penny dropped: it was time to return to the relaxed orchestral and rudimental technique exercises Steve Lawrence had provided 50 years previously.

Carefully and gradually, so as not to reinflame my hands, I began practicing daily technique exercises 3 years ago. At first, my hands showed fatigue even after just 2-5 minutes of easy warming up. I then recalled that athletes alternate muscle groups as they stretch and workout, allowing for blood flow recovery intervals. Likewise, Paul Smoker’s classical long tone routine also utilized a minute of rest between every full breath length note. Another penny dropped. Now, as I finished each 2-minute drumming exercise, I took time to breathe and stretch for a couple of additional minutes before going on. It turned out that the same upper body techniques I trusted as a cyclist were just as beneficial to drumming. Eureka! Within some weeks, I was able to accomplish the regime with little discomfort. Within multiple months, my trusty ole drumming hands were returning, finally becoming ready for much of what I could imagine. Perhaps even my endurance might now return in time as well? Step by step, time will tell. Or, as ‘Smoker often quipped, “In jazz, everyone’s time tells – aways.”

Now that my head was clear and my hands were no longer feeling as challenged, my family doctor recently noted it was time to see a cardiologist as the inherited heart murmur that kept my father out of WWII, and then robbed him of life in his early 70’s, was now swiftly cutting off my own blood flow. The look on my first cardiologist’s face said volumes. He sent me to a specialist at the big regional hospital in PA, who had the identical look of concern, further advising me to “live now” before referring me to a cardiac surgeon to implant a defibrillator. Once installed, all three specialists suddenly had notably relieved and relaxed facial expressions, one remarking that while all the cycling I’d done had no doubt strengthened my heart, he was surprised I’d not actually suffered a serious heart attack in my prime. When I asked what any next step would entail, he said that other than replacing my defib unit’s battery in about 8 years, my team hoped that cracking my ribs for open heart surgery could be delayed, perhaps indefinitely. Me too, yo.

Hence, given I finally have my head, hands and heart together (LOL!) – at least for the coming few years – it’s been a blast to live life fully now that Dee has retired. We’ve begun traveling a bit and I’ve been working with fresh determination to actualize most of the musical dreams I’d left unfinished for decades. Not to mention, by incorporating stretching breaks during gentle bicycle outings, I’ve even been able to refresh my love affair with cycling for an hour or so most days. As Aunt Martha’s English hubby quipped, before succumbing to pancreatic cancer following several experimental treatment trials, “My boy, assuming you can live long enough, you’ll live long enough.” And so I have, eager for what’s next.

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