A concert artist and clinician for Malletech and the Zildjian Company, Dr. Blake Tyson is also Professor of Music at the University of Central Arkansas (UCA); a faculty member at the Interlochen Arts Camp; and served on the faculties of New Mexico State University, and the University of Alabama. He holds a DMA from the Eastman School of Music where he was also awarded the prestigious Performer’s Certificate; a Master of Music from Kent State University; and a Bachelor of Music in Performance from the University of Alabama. His teachers were: Marjorie Engle, Peggy Benkeser, Larry Mathis, Michael Burritt, Halim El-Dabh, and John Beck.
Dr. Tyson has written some of the most popular works in the percussion repertoire, and his compositions are performed in concert halls around the world. He has been a featured artist at numerous Percussive Arts Society International Conventions (PASIC), PAS Days of Percussion, the Northwest Percussion Festival, and the Leigh Howard Stevens Summer Marimba Seminar. Moreover, Dr. Tyson has performed in Egypt at the Ministry of Culture in Cairo and the Library of Alexandria; at international festivals in South Africa and South America; at the Beijing Central Conservatory; and in Norway as part of the European Cultural Capital celebrations.
When did you begin studying music?
There was an old piano at my grandparents’ house, and I used to bang around on it when I was very young. When I was seven, my mom and I talked about taking piano lessons. She told me she would find me a teacher on one condition: that I wouldn’t give up when it got difficult. I made it through about two months of lessons before I wanted to quit. My mom reminded me of my promise, so I kept going. Not long after that, the teacher gave up on me and told my mom that I should take a break from lessons. At that point, my mom decided I needed a new teacher. She was right. I started lessons with a new teacher and finally made progress! And I was having fun!
Did you always study percussion?
I didn’t start playing percussion instruments until ninth grade.
What made you choose percussion?
It was completely unplanned. At the end of my eighth-grade year, I went to the middle school cafeteria to sign up for my first year of classes at North Gwinnett High School. I walked over to the arts table to talk to the band director, Dr. Prescott, about playing piano in the jazz band. He told me there weren’t enough people signed up for jazz band in the fall, so it wouldn’t meet until spring. But, he said they needed someone to play bells in the marching band. I told him I had no idea what that meant. He told me bells were like the piano. I said okay, and here I am. I actually wore the bells on a carrier, and my xylophone-playing friend Anthony and I marched around the field with the rest of the drumline playing music from Fiddler on the Roof, On Your Toes, and Sweet Charity. After that year, the band switched to the relatively new idea of having a front ensemble or pit, so I spent the rest of my marching career on the sidelines.
Who were your primary teachers?
The first teacher that really changed everything for me was pianist Marge Engle. She had just moved to town from Ohio to be closer to her daughter’s family when I started taking lessons with her. She wasn’t just a pianist. She had been a band director, a choir director, and an English literature teacher. When I started studying with her, I was really into pop music. Prince, Hall and Oates, Van Halen, Flock of Seagulls, Thomas Dolby, Journey, Michael Jackson, and, although they weren’t together anymore, the Beatles. At that time, I wasn’t terribly interested in Bach or Mozart, and instead of pushing those on me, she let me play pop music instead. But what I didn’t know was that she was still teaching me technique and phrasing along with chord structure, chord voicing, chord progressions, syncopated rhythms, and improvisation. She showed me a few Gershwin songs that I loved, and then some MacDowell and Bartok, and pretty soon, I was excited about playing Bach’s Inventions, Mozart piano sonatas, and Chopin preludes.
In tenth grade, I started studying percussion seriously. My band director had tried to get me lessons with Jack Bell, the Principal Percussionist of the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra for many years. Mr. Bell’s schedule was full, but he recommended I study with a new graduate student named Peggy Benkeser. She was an amazing teacher, and I think about those lessons almost daily. She taught me how to play with four mallets, introduced me to the music of Keiko Abe, and helped me learn the Bach transcriptions of Leigh Stevens. She also introduced me to the Wilcoxon Swing Solos and taught me how to play rudimental snare drum.
Peggy was dedicated and uncompromising when it came to her playing and her art. The example she set is always with me. And she gave me some of the most valuable advice I’ve ever gotten. When I told her I wanted to study music in college and make it my career, she sat me down for a very serious talk. She was clear about how much work it would be, of course, but she also told me something that I didn’t really understand at that moment. She said to be careful. I had to ensure that the thing I loved would never become the thing I resented, or even hated. As music became my job, something I HAD to do, I might start to feel differently about it. Many professional musicians seem to be quite resentful of the career they have chosen. That idea seemed impossible to me at the time. But since then, I have seen so many people, even those with dream jobs, be disappointed and even bitter about their life in music. I can’t honestly tell you that my musical happiness meter is always at 100 percent, but I can tell you that I always think about that conversation with Peggy. It helps me remember why I wanted to build my life around music. That advice steadies the ship and gets me headed back in the right direction every time.
As an undergraduate, I studied with Larry Mathis at the University of Alabama. He had been a student of three of the most important percussionists of the middle of the twentieth century: Fred Hinger, William Schinstine, and Saul Goodman. His teaching methods and playing styles weren’t beholden to one school or teacher. He took what he believed was the best of every school, every technique, and every musical idea and used them all freely. I always respected that. Mr. Mathis was one of the best timpani players I’ve ever heard, and I studied a lot of timpani with him. And while he was a mild-mannered fellow off stage, his performances were filled with great enthusiasm, and he always sounded wonderful. He was also a fan of new music, and was always interested in keeping up with the latest developments in technique. Even though he became a professor at Alabama many years before Leigh Stevens introduced his new grip, Mr. Mathis had Leigh out for a campus visit on one of his first tours. He worked diligently to learn and perfect the new technique so he could teach it to his students.
After finishing my undergraduate degree, I headed to Kent State University in Ohio to study with Michael Burritt. I had seen him perform at PASIC in New Orleans the previous November and decided to apply for a graduate assistantship at KSU. I hadn’t known of Mike at all before that day. I feel so lucky I arrived at PASIC just in time to wander into his concert. In fact, that moment is the inspiration for my piece, The Wind That Turns the World.
Mike pushed me to be a more emotional and expressive player. He showed me how to take my technique to the next level and set a great example as a performer and teacher. Everyone who knows Mike is aware of the incredible energy that always seems to surround him. But whenever we have a chance to talk, I always feel a sense of calm and thankfulness. I really don’t know if I could have made it much further without him. He believed in me when I wasn’t sure of myself, and helped me keep moving forward. I have been part of so many great things that wouldn’t have happened without his teaching, support, and friendship.
At Kent State, I met another of my most influential teachers, Halim El-Dabh. I had seen a number of his pieces for percussion in the library at the University of Alabama. Still, the notation system was something I could never quite decipher on my own. Halim had taught at KSU for many years, but had been retired for a while. I believe he was 74 when I met him, but his spirit was 28 at the most. Studying derabucca with him changed how I thought about sound and music, and the brilliant, creative life he led was inspirational. Although Halim is no longer here on the planet with us, he lived until he was 96 years old, and I was lucky enough to spend many years working on new music with him, playing concerts together, and traveling to places like Egypt, China, and South America to perform his music.
After Kent State, I was lucky to get a spot in John Beck’s studio at the Eastman School of Music. Like pretty much every percussionist, I had known about JB since high school. I had played his timpani solos as an undergrad and was always amazed by the long list of his former students who were busy transforming the percussive world. JB was always kind, funny, supportive, and willing to spend a lot of time helping me get my rolls (on both snare and timpani) in good shape. One time, when I was very worried about an upcoming performance, and had spent a while in his office telling him how worried I was, he looked at me calmly and said, Blake, I’m sure it will be fine. And, if it’s not, I’ll be right there. Looking back on it now, the contrast between my anxiety and his unshakable calmness makes me smile. He was right. It was fine. And he was right there supporting me. JB’s calm, positive approach to teaching and performing is something I try to remember when my mind wants to spin out of control. And his support for his students goes on. Every year at PASIC, he has so many former students performing, presenting clinics, and giving masterclasses. And you will always find him in each one of those rooms, letting his students know how proud he is of the work they are doing by just being there for them.
When did you decide to pursue a career in music?
I think Peggy and I had that talk I mentioned when I was in eleventh grade. I was 16 or 17 years old. Before then, I had thought about it, but I had also thought about being an astronomer, a landscape architect, and, of course, a professional baseball player.
Did you have a specific goal?
Since high school I have always been interested in teaching. Maybe it was because of the great teachers I had. When I first started playing percussion, I wasn’t really aware of how many possibilities there were. Since I came from a piano background, I didn’t play drum set back then. I grew up near Atlanta and had seen the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra many times, so I thought orchestral playing was probably the way to go. But when I started studying marimba more deeply, I learned more about the contemporary chamber music my teacher Peggy Benkeser played, got into drum corps, and learned more about jazz and world music, and the possibilities seemed much more expansive and overwhelming.
I had been trying to write music since I was 11 or 12 years old, but I didn’t know how to make it work. When I was a senior in high school, I finally wrote a couple of pieces that worked pretty well. One was for the 1988 Spirit of Atlanta pit. It was entitled, Lamentation and Rage. It was for seven players and written to be performed in the auditorium of the high school where we had rehearsals. The piece included a vibraphone in the balcony, a glockenspiel in the back of the auditorium, and some secret (and very loud) toms played from the catwalk over the audience. The other was Variations on a Triangular Theme. It was a multiple percussion piece. Dr. Prescott asked each of the seniors going on to study music in college to perform a solo on the final band concert. I may have been wrong, but I didn’t think he’d let me perform my own piece, so I told everyone it was by the composer William Thomas (my grandfather’s middle and last name). There were a lot of drums, a cymbal, and, of course, a triangle involved. Sadly, the scores for both of those early pieces seem to be lost.
I never expected to be known as a composer. I think I was initially more interested in the process of composing than in having my music performed. As an undergrad, I tried to compose more pieces and even took composition lessons for a year. But then I didn’t write much for a while. I started composing again when I was 28 because a friend asked me to write a piece for oboe and percussion. Then, a student asked me to write a short piece for PASIC individuals. But I didn’t find my own voice as a composer until I was 30 or 31. That’s when I wrote Vertical River. Before that, I had been writing music that sounded more like other composers whose music I loved. With Vertical River, I finally felt like I was writing music that gave me an unfiltered way to express my ideas and emotions.
I should also say that I was shocked that Vertical River became so popular. My friend, John Parks, had asked me to write a duo for us to play together on his first CD. I thought we would record it, and that would be the end of it. But John sent a copy of the CD to everyone in the world, and then Eric Johnson called and asked if he could use it in Music City Mystique’s show. Thousands of people heard it because of those two things. Then, a group of graduate students at Rutgers asked if I could write something for them. That became Cloud Forest. Then, my old friend Brian West (we marched together in Spirit of Atlanta in 1987) emailed and asked if I could write a piece for TCU’s percussion ensemble. That became A Ceiling Full of Stars. And the requests kept coming, and pretty soon, without really planning or expecting it, I seemed to be a composer.
Do you focus on a specific area of percussion?
I mentioned earlier that I came to percussion from a piano background, and my first percussion instrument wound up being a set of aluminum marching bells. That was followed by a two-and-a-half-octave fiberglass xylophone. In my senior year, my high school finally acquired a vibraphone, and a four-octave marimba. Although I eventually started playing snare drum, timpani, and all the accessory instruments in band, I always felt the strongest connection to the keyboard percussion instruments.
As an undergrad at the University of Alabama, I played a lot of timpani in both the orchestra and the wind ensemble. At Kent State I played timpani in the university orchestra for two years, and the Blossom Music Festival Orchestra for two summers. During that time, I also played four or five concerts as the timpanist with the Youngstown Symphony Orchestra. I loved playing timpani, but I was still known as the marimba guy, probably because I still felt the closest personal and emotionally expressive connection to it.
That was when I first began studying the derabucca (and hand drumming in general) with Halim El-Dabh. Like Larry Mathis, Halim took many different techniques and approaches to playing the instrument and combined them into a personal style. I learned so much from Halim. His sensitivity to sound, to timbre, to the subtlety that exists in every drum, in every marimba bar, in everything, really changed the way I thought about approaching every instrument played.
At Eastman, it finally occurred to me that I needed to learn how to play drum set. By occurred to me, I mean that I suddenly realized I could take pretty much any gig, unless it involved playing set. I had been so busy practicing so many other percussion instruments that I didn’t have time to work on it. At least, that’s what I told myself. I think the truth is that I let my fears and insecurities keep me from learning it for a long time. There was always someone better than me already playing in jazz band, jazz combo, or even the set parts in wind ensemble.
One day in 1997, in a practice room in the Eastman Annex, I told my friend Steve Owen how much stress I was suddenly feeling about not being able to play drum set. I didn’t want to ask Mr. Beck about it (it seemed strange for a DMA student at Eastman to ask for beginning drum set lessons). Steve was one of the best drum set players I had ever heard. He currently plays with the President’s Own Marine Band, and is still one of the best drum set players I’ve ever heard. Steve looked at me and said, Blake, if you want to learn how to play set, I’ll help you. That moment was a huge turning point. Here was someone who was better than I could ever be, offering support, kindness, and understanding (not the ridicule I irrationally feared). Steve did help me a lot, and when I finally asked Mr. Beck about working on drum set in lessons, he helped me a lot too. The following summer, I practiced drum set five or six hours a day. It turned out that everything I had already practiced on the other instruments made it possible for me to move forward pretty quickly.
The next fall, I got called for a gig playing drums for the musical, Nunsense, and was able to take it. And that went pretty well and they hired me for their next musical. I was also able to begin teaching drum set lessons. The perspective I have as a late-in-life beginner on the set is still very helpful when working with young students. When I moved to Arkansas, I played in a jazz trio for a number of years, and I still often sit in with the university jazz bands. The studio drummers in Nashville definitely don’t have to worry about me taking any work from them, but I’ve learned so much about time, groove, note placement, and style from playing drum set, and I’ve found it has made me better at everything else I play. I’m so thankful for Steve’s kindness that afternoon many years ago. It truly changed things for me. And it’s always with me as a reminder that we shouldn’t ever be afraid or embarrassed to ask for help.
And snare drum? Well, if anyone is interested in how the snare drum and I became good friends, they can check out the Forward to my book 14 Etudes for Snare Drum. If they don’t have the book, the entire Forward can be found on my website. Anyway, because of my background, and because some of my most popular pieces are marimba solos, I think I’ll always be identified as a marimbist, but I’m so grateful for everything I’ve learned from playing so many other instruments (including the banjo, but that subject is for another day).
Who impacted your musical growth the most?
The obvious answer to this might be a teacher, and I hope you can tell from my previous responses how important all of my teachers are to me. But the first person who comes to mind, again, is my mom. She’s not a musician at all, but she made so many sacrifices to make so many opportunities possible for me. I should also say that having a larger family that loves and supports you (even if they think you are crazy), makes a big difference. And my wife! There were at least a couple of times when I almost gave up. She helped me find my way through those challenging times. I know not everyone has the kind of support I’ve had. I am lucky and grateful, and I am doing my best to honor those who helped me by helping others to find their way.
What teaching positions have you held?
I taught in the Community Music School at the University of Alabama as an undergrad, and then was a teaching assistant at Kent State and Eastman (where I also taught in the Community School). My first university position was back at Alabama in the late 1990s – just for one year as an adjunct. After an unsuccessful job hunt for myself, I moved to Boise, Idaho, where my wife won the flute position at Boise State University. I gigged, taught privately, and applied for every job I could. Then, in 1999 – 2000, I taught at New Mexico State University for one year while the percussion professor, and now department chair, Fred Bugbee, was away finishing up his DMA. Then, after another year of unsuccessful job hunting, I began teaching at UCA in the fall of 2001. I’m thrilled to still be at UCA after all these years, and feel very lucky to have worked with so many wonderful students and amazing colleagues during that time.
What percussionists have inspired you the most?
I’ve already mentioned my teachers; they were undoubtedly my biggest influences. But outside of my teachers, there are a number of people. As a high school percussionist in the mid-80s, and with a keyboard percussion focus, Leigh Stevens was the biggest influence. I read his book repeatedly, worked on his exercises and arrangements, and listened to his Bach on Marimba recording all the time. When I was a freshman in college, I finally saw him play live. It was a life-changing experience to see him play an entire concert from 10 feet away. As an undergrad, I learned about Gordon Stout and played a lot of his music. When I finally saw him play live in the summer of 1993, it was another life-changing experience. His sound on the instrument, his musicality, and everything about that performance helped me see more clearly what the marimba was capable of. He’s so important as both a player and composer, and such a great role model in so many ways. It really would be a different marimba world without all he has done.
I also met Bob Becker for the first time at the Stevens Seminar in 1993. I performed a George Hamilton Green rag at his masterclass. As I played for him, I was aware of every mistake. As I finished, I was sure he would mention everything that went wrong. Instead, he started talking about everything he liked about my performance. I couldn’t believe how many nice things he had to say. That masterclass was a significant learning experience for me. I know Bob heard every mistake. There’s no doubt about it. But sometimes, when a student is aware of all the mistakes they made, the most important thing you can do is help them see that there are so many great moments they are missing (or at least ignoring), because all they can hear (and remember) are the mistakes.
Since then, I’ve had the chance to play with Bob a couple of times, and I’ve seen him play many times. Whether playing tabla, xylophone, or just rolling on a cymbal, he’s always inspiring. I played in the PAS 50th Anniversary Marimba Orchestra back in 2011. Some of the greatest percussionists in the world were in that group. At the end of rehearsal, everyone dispersed, but there was one person still behind their marimba, still practicing their part: it was Bob. I thought it was such a perfect moment. The person who least likely needed to practice their part was the last one there practicing.
I have a sign on my office wall that reads, Bob Becker is better than you. That sentence also used to be my scrolling screen saver all the way back in the late 90s. The meaning is not negative or insulting. It’s just a reminder to me, and now my students, not to become too self-important and overconfident. There is always someone better than you at something, and it’s probably Bob Becker.
I saw Steve Schick play for the first time in the recital hall at Kent State University. Since that day, I’ve seen him play many more times. I admire his commitment to the music he plays, his intelligent approach to studying and performing the works, and his ability to talk about it in thoughtful, inspiring ways.
On drum set, there are a lot of inspiring players, but everyone who knows me will tell you that Steve Gadd is my favorite drummer. His playing is so tasteful. It’s filled with a distinctive personality while simultaneously supporting the musicians he is playing with. His groove and his time are so flawless. And his playing is everywhere, on so many recordings, across so many styles. EVERYONE has heard Steve Gadd play the drums! Even so, he is kind and humble about his playing and his success. He’s also very open about going through some really tough times in his life, and coming out on the other side of it. Another good role model.
Is there a specific genre you enjoy performing most?
As far as genres or styles go, I love all kinds of music. I grew up listening to country music, got deep into pop music in the early 80s, got deep into classical music in the late 80s, got into both contemporary classical music and classic jazz in the 90s, and world music, classic R&B, and funk in the late 90s, and the list goes on. I’m always interested in learning new things about new music, and new things about old music. There’s a lot of great music all around us. At various times in my life I’ve felt more connected to some styles than others, but I’m always up to try something interesting and meaningful.
I don’t think I can narrow it down too much more than that. I love playing solo marimba music. I love playing jazz, especially in small ensembles. I love performing orchestral music, especially playing cymbals in late romantic works, or movie soundtracks by composers like John Williams. But I’ve been playing less orchestral music over the past decade or so. As I get older, I am more aware of the limited amount of time available versus the large amount of things I’d like to do. I had a lot of fun playing timpani and percussion in orchestras for many years, but I felt it was time to focus on other projects and ideas. And by doing that, it also makes room for other percussionists to get the experience of playing orchestral music.
I really love playing chamber music, especially duos. When you are there with one other person, there is the opportunity for connection and communication that can be hard to find in large ensembles, especially for percussionists. You also get to play throughout the pieces and have a chance to meaningfully shape the musical experience.
What composers do you identify with?
When I was first starting to write music seriously, there were a lot of composers who inspired me, but two that come to mind right away are: Tori Takemitsu and Leonard Bernstein. I still love their music. And, of course, I identify with, and take inspiration from the percussionist/composers like Mike Burritt, Gordon Stout, Bob Becker, and Keiko Abe, who laid the groundwork for all we do today.
As I said, Vertical River was a real breakthrough for me. I was finally communicating what I felt directly instead of imitating the styles of other composers; followed by, Cloud Forest, and A Ceiling Full of Stars. And then Justin Alexander needed an encore piece for marimba, so I wrote Firefish. Josh Knight asked me for a multiple percussion solo and that led to Inside the Shining Stone. Eric Willie commissioned Moonrise; the Caixa Trio commissioned Vagabond of Light; Julia Gaines commissioned Lost Mountain Sunrise; Mark Boseman commissioned Night Light; a group of my former students commissioned The Wind That Turns the World, and so on. For about twenty years after Vertical River, almost everything I wrote was written because someone asked me to (and because I said yes). During that time, one of the only pieces I wrote without someone asking for it was A cricket sang and set the sun. Although almost all of my pieces have a personal and emotional origin, that one is very special to me. It seems to be the one piece I absolutely had to write. But all of the pieces mean a lot to me.
All that is to say that now I have a collection of music that exists in large part because of my friends: old and new, and I’m intimately connected with it. Although their genres are a bit different, I also feel a connection with the composers we call singer/songwriters, like Paul Simon, Dolly Parton, James Taylor, Regina Spektor, and others. I find their work to be very meaningful and emotionally communicative. I love to share my music directly with audiences and tell the stories. Even though there aren’t usually lyrics, the music has deep emotional meaning to me. About my love for people, about friendship, about gratitude, about things that amaze and inspire me. Sometimes the subject matter is serious, but I always want it to be positive and uplifting, and being able to stand on stage and share it with others is a good feeling. I like making personal connections, and I hope the music helps everyone listening feel more together than apart. Also, I am so grateful that so many people perform my pieces and find their own connections, and their own meaning in them.
Do you get nervous before you play?
I’ve never had a huge problem with nerves. When I was a student, someone told me that the feeling of nervousness is actually very similar to the feeling of excitement. I’ve heard that often since then. I think it’s true. When I perform, I see the audience as my friends. We’re all in it together. I’m happy that they are there. I’m excited to share the music with them. Halim El-Dabh really helped me understand how much the audience is a part of every performance. There is an energy between the performer and audience: vibrations, electricity, something completely undefinable. Feeling nervous can close off this energy. Excitement can fuel those energies.
Often with brand new music, there just isn’t enough time to prepare the way you’d like for a performance. That can cause some nervous energy to creep in. But there is excitement in that too. In a Mission: Impossible scenario there may be a few explosions, but you’ll come out alive on the other side. Stay focused, positive, committed, and whatever happens, the experience will be worth it.
Do you ever make a mistake while performing?
Yes! Sometimes a wrong note just simply has to be left in the past. That’s the first step. It’s over. It’s not coming back. It likely wasn’t as noticeable as you think. Keep playing! Other times you might need a more involved solution. There are times when it’s not just a wrong note or two, but a true wrong turn where you wind up on a dark and unfamiliar path. But there’s always a way out. Keep moving. Keep playing. Use everything you know about the piece, use your previous experiences, and improvise your way out into the light again.
But sometimes you just have to stop. I can think of a least four times I’ve seen incredibly famous, world-class percussionists stop in a performance, reset, and start again. I remember those moments, not because they were uncomfortable or embarrassing, but because of how calm and accepting the performers were of the situation. I won’t give any names, but one marimbist stopped early in a very difficult work after things went wrong. They looked up at the audience and said something like, You know…we’re going to try that again, and then gave a stunning performance of the piece. Another percussionist was in the middle of, Rebonds by Xenakis, when one of his sticks flew out of his hand. It didn’t stop rolling until it hit the wall on the other side of the stage. He walked across the stage, picked up the stick, walked back to the drums, looked out into the hall, shrugged, and said, It happens even on the best days! Then, he jumped right back into the piece with no loss of intensity or confidence, and amazed us all.
Has your practice regimen changed from when you were a student?
In high school, I practiced quite a bit. Most days I stayed after school and practiced percussion in the band room until they kicked me out. Then I went home and practiced piano. I also played the viola, and so I practiced that too. As an undergrad I practiced a lot, but the most practice time I had in school was during my master’s degree. It was easy to practice four or five hours a day. At Eastman, the academic aspects of the DMA actually meant a little less time for practice, a little more time in the library. Still, there was a lot of time to practice when I was in school.
Building a percussion studio, maintaining a percussion studio, and recruiting for a percussion studio takes a lot of time. Teaching a full percussion studio, keeping up with equipment and instruments, preparing for, and conducting percussion ensemble rehearsals, and dealing with all the other responsibilities of being a faculty member takes a lot of time! Not just a lot of time, but a lot of energy. Also, I’m spending time and energy composing. So, for most of the year, there is less time to practice than there used to be. But, having less time does help you focus your mental and physical energy towards meaningful and productive practice.
Keeping technique fresh is a challenge. There’s just no time for deep practice on every instrument every day, or even every week. Having a strong technique that was built over years of practice is very important. I’m lucky to have studios at school, and at home where many instruments are easily accessible. I like to improvise and to explore sounds, and it’s easy to walk up to all the instruments and start playing. I find that creative, improvisational exploration can be a rejuvenating way to keep technique and touch fresh and responsive. All that being said, there are still times where you have to buckle down and play rudiments, play exercises, and make sure things are neat and clean.
How do you define a good musician and a good teacher?
Great musicians and great teachers are creative. You need the ability to solve problems in situations where the questions and answers are constantly on the move. The more fearless you are about expressing your emotions, the more you will be able to communicate effectively as a performer and a teacher. The more control you have over those emotions, the more focused and successful your performances and your teaching will be.
Do you think that performing and teaching are intrinsically intertwined?
There have always been great teachers who were not good performers. And there have been plenty of great performers who were not good teachers. But, there are a lot of people who are great at both. For me, they are intertwined in a way that is hard to pull apart and define clearly without an hour or two to do it. In short, I’ve learned a lot from watching my teachers perform. I’ve learned a lot from watching my students perform. I’ve learned a lot from my performances. As musicians, a big part of what we do is sharing music with others, so we need to develop the ability to perform well. To communicate meaningfully with the audience and share the excitement, the beauty, the cleverness, the majesty, and everything else with them. I can teach that by example. I can teach that by giving my students the right experiences in ensembles and as soloists. I can teach that by talking with students about the experiences I’ve been through. But it’s important that I put all those things together in a way that is effectively balanced, and with thoughtful attention to each student’s individual experience and reactions.
Has teaching made you a better musician?
Yes. I think a lot of the how and why is probably covered in some of my previous answers. But there are at least a few small things to mention: sharing the moments with students when they learn something new, discover new music, or perfect a new technique helps keep me connected to the energy and excitement I felt when I was in their position. I also want my students to challenge me. I want them to ask me why I told them to play a certain way or to hold their mallets a certain way. I want to always be thinking about what I’m doing and I want to make sure they understand the reasons behind what I am teaching them. And, if they challenge me and I am wrong, I want to admit that and learn from it together. All of this is part of being creative and open to change and new ideas. I find it to be a good approach to teaching and performing music, and to life in general.
What usually inspires you to compose?
That depends on how you look at it. I improvise a lot. Sometimes, I improvise because I’m trying to learn something, or figure something out. Often, though, I improvise because I’m trying to express a feeling that is difficult or impossible to put into words. I don’t usually record those improvisations, and they are gone when I step away from the instrument. I don’t feel the need to write them down.
But there are times when I need to write things down. If someone asks me to compose a piece for their ensemble or solo recital, I’ll need to get it on paper. So, the first inspiration to get something notated is often someone asking me to write a piece. Often, the person or group commissioning the piece doesn’t ask for it to be about anything specific. In those cases, it’s up to me. Other times, there are requests that focus on the subject right away. That was the case with the original marimba solo version of Not far from here, as well as with the ensemble version of it.
When I was asked to compose a piece honoring the Little Rock Nine on the sixtieth anniversary of the desegregation of Central High School, I took that very seriously. Even though the story was a familiar one to me, I read, watched, and listened to everything I could about it. I learned so much more about the members of the Little Rock Nine and all they went through. I wanted to write a piece that showed honor and respect for all they accomplished. And I hoped that I could write a piece that would be played by ensembles all over the country. I found that many people in younger generations had never heard of the Little Rock Nine, and to many older people, it was a faded memory. I hoped the piece would share the story with the students who rehearsed and performed the piece, and with all the audiences who heard it. I’m glad to say that at least 35 ensembles shared The Surface of the Sky with their audiences in the year surrounding that anniversary, and many more have performed it since then.
Many of my pieces (most of them) are inspired by people I love, friends, and personal experiences. A Ceiling Full of Stars is a thank you letter to my parents. Cloud Forest was inspired by my trips to Ecuador, its beautiful landscapes, and the wonderful people I met there. Moonrise was inspired by the love for my grandparents, moon watching, my niece’s birth, hearing Brahms’s Fourth Symphony as a teenager, and, in general, all the moments where something happens that causes you to suddenly see everything differently, and more profoundly than before.
Firefish was inspired by the idea of a fish made completely of fire swimming through the ocean. No matter how deep it dives, or how high it jumps, its flames burn bright. When I wrote it for Justin, he was starting his DMA studies at FSU. In the arts, we all know that pushing yourself to achieve great things is difficult work. Sometimes, it seems like it might be impossible. And many people around you will question your decision. The message to Justin in this piece is: Be Inextinguishable! I guess I could go through them all, but I’ll stop there.
How do you feel when your work is performed differently than you intended?
I love it when I hear a performance of my music that shows me a new way of looking at it. I appreciate thoughtful performances that don’t just recreate my version, but share the emotions and ideas of the performer on stage (or in the recording booth) at that moment.
Sometimes, I hear a recording or a live performance with wrong notes, wrong rhythms, or memory slips. That’s okay too. Of course, if a piece is too difficult for your current level of playing, it might be a good idea to take a step or two back. But sometimes, things go a bit wrong, even when your last run-through was almost perfect. I’m thankful that people want to play my pieces and share them with others. If a few things go wrong, we’ll all be okay.
What would you like others to know about your compositions?
That they are a sincere expression of how I feel and of ideas that are meaningful to me. Because the tonal language and formal structures I’ve used for the last 25 years are not as complicated as those found in many pieces in the standard repertoire, some people don’t see them as serious. One term I’ve heard used to describe my pieces, and pieces by other percussionists/composers is: practice room improvisations. While I do like to improvise, I can assure you that my pieces are not improvisations (even my collection of graphic notation scores entitled Improvisation was carefully constructed and revised repeatedly). I spend a lot of time ensuring every note and every harmonic change is meaningful. I work on the pacing. I cut notes. I add notes. I cut them again. Ultimately, the piece that goes out into the world has been refined and focused to express the ideas and feelings that inspired it. I’m not saying I’m an equal to Brahms or Boulez, please don’t think that. And please know that I think Reflections on the Nature of Water, After Syrinx II, and See Ya Thursday are some of the greatest pieces ever written for the marimba. I couldn’t write those pieces. But I am serious about the music I write and work hard at it.
Some say that music is abstract and that you can’t express specific ideas or emotions with it. In other words, saying it is about something doesn’t make it so. I don’t see it this way. I don’t think I can play a piece without giving the listener the title or the program notes, and when I finish, they’ll tell me the detailed story behind it. However, I think they can connect to the emotional content in an abstract way. That emotional connection is important. As they hear more pieces by a composer and learn more about that composer’s vocabulary through personal experience, program notes, and so forth, they can understand the language of that composer more easily.
I have something called aphantasia. What that means is that I can’t see images in my mind. I also can’t hear music in my head. No melodies. Definitely no harmonies. None of the inner senses work. I can’t see my grandmother’s face. I can’t remember the taste of my mom’s cookies. But I can remember (and experience) how people, things, and specific moments made me feel. Because the sensory memory isn’t there, the emotional memory is incredibly powerful. So, it’s true for me when I say that a piece is based on an emotion, a feeling, a narrative of some sort. I have painstakingly built a musical representation of the emotions I’m experiencing. I’m creating something in the outside world that I can’t experience directly in my mind, or often, even describe in words.
Here is one last thing: I want to communicate through music. That’s important to me. Really important. And although I have spent a lot of my life playing very rhythmically and harmonically complicated music, and have even written music in those styles in the past, those are not the voices I can communicate well with right now. How I write now is how I can best translate what I want to express so that others can experience it too. And, if you want to know a little more about how I write, there is an essay you can find by poking around my website called In Defense of Unserious Music.
Knowing what you know today, would you change how you prepared for your career?
Most of what I have to say about this is probably mentioned in my previous answers. But, I’d work on drum set and jazz improvisation sooner. I’d find a musical connection to the snare drum sooner. Oh, I’d be a better dresser sooner! Most of my undergraduate apparel was terribly embarrassing. Luckily, there weren’t any camera phones to document it back then.
What words of wisdom would you like to share with students?
There is a lot of hard work to do. Do the work! Study teachers, performers, composers, writers, actors, and artists who are brilliantly creative. Push yourself to be creative. Don’t be afraid to be creative. Don’t let your insecurities cost you opportunities. And, most importantly, have fun!
If you would like to know more about Dr. Tyson, please visit his website at: https://www.blaketyson.com/
