Jason Roberts

Robert McCormick has been organist and choirmaster of Saint Mark’s Church, Locust Street, Philadelphia, since 2016. Previously he held similar positions at Saint Paul’s Church, K Street, in Washington, DC, and at Saint Mary the Virgin, New York City. He is represented in North America exclusively by Phillip Truckenbrod Concert Artists, LLC.

Editor’s note: Part 1 of this series may be found in the May 2022 issue, pages 20–21; Part 2 may be found in the September 2022 issue, pages 12–13.

Introduction

This is the third in a series of articles on improvisation, incorporating interviews with distinguished and distinctive American exponents of the art. The first two articles included enlightening contributions from Matthew Glandorf and Mary Beth Bennett, respectively; this article contains a discussion with Jason Roberts. Roberts is an alumnus of Rice University, Yale University, and the Manhattan School of Music. In recent years he has served numerous notable Episcopal parishes, and now is the director of music at the (Roman Catholic) Church of the Blessed Sacrament, New York City. Notably, he won the American Guild of Organists National Competition in Organ Improvisation (NCOI) in 2008. I have known Jason for nearly twenty-five years, and in addition to many other compliments that I easily can give him, in 2002 he also introduced me to the person who now is my husband, something for which I am most grateful!

As will become clearer later in the article, Jason’s responses led me to enjoy a fair bit of nostalgia. He and I met in the summer of 1998 in Macon, Georgia, my hometown. Jason and his family had moved to town the year before, and he spent his senior year of high school at the same school from which I had graduated the preceding year. For several summers running, while home from college, often we would “hang out” only as nerdy teenaged organists might—driving around town, playing organs, listening to sacred music, and discussing churches and church music in great detail. (I had forgotten that we specifically listened to Gerre Hancock, as Jason mentions, or that I improvised for him; I shudder to think what those efforts may have been!)

Going further back in memory, I have been thinking in greater detail about my early musical experiences, some of which I shared in the first article of this series. I grew up in a large downtown church in Macon, Mulberry Street United Methodist Church, with a strong tradition of formal worship and great music. My first influence, teacher, and mentor was Camille Bishop, for many years organist and director of music at Mulberry Street. Now retired from regular church work, she is an organist’s organist and musician’s musician. I suspect she does not give herself enough credit for playing fluently “off the page,” because on countless occasions I have heard her extemporize glorious hymn accompaniments, especially on the piano. I am not sure that I would be doing what I am now without her tremendous influence. Subsequently, when I was about nine or ten years old, at a summer church music conference with a group from my church, I heard the late Paul Oakley play services. Though sadly deceased, in the later years of his career he became known more as a choral conductor than an organist. Yet I would bet that not a few readers of The Diapason will share my recollection of his tremendously creative hymn improvisations and accompaniments. I wish I had a time machine to go back and listen to him again. 

All these influences, coupled with regular piano lessons yet only sporadic organ lessons until later in high school, led me to be brave and bold (. . . those poor listeners. . .) in improvising, mostly on hymns, at the organ and piano. My first-rate childhood piano teacher, Marian Gordon, even allowed me to improvise in her annual studio recitals. I believe all of this gave me a marvelous blend of inspiration and opportunities that shaped the musician I am today. How grateful I am to all these people and for all those experiences. By the time I got to college, I had not yet played a note of Dupré or Messiaen, something that seems now hard to fathom, but I had the good fortune to develop harmonic fluency and a willingness to extemporize. It has been eye-opening for me, in this series thus far, to learn more about when and how others began improvising. 

Discussion

Back to Jason Roberts. Jason is particularly gifted at the imitation of specific composers, periods, and styles, and that is one of the facets of improvisation that I wished to explore with him. 

When, how, and why did you start playing by ear and inventing your own music? Did it coincide with your early music training?

I never took piano lessons as a child, but my parents were both pianists, so I was always around lots of music. Not surprisingly, I refused to take any kind of formal advice from my parents, preferring to figure out how to play the piano on my own. I remember learning my first hymn. I practiced “While shepherds watched their flocks by night” (Winchester Old) for about two weeks, laboriously figuring out each note. I would play by ear quite a lot, but I wouldn’t say I really improvised. That came later.

Did you employ improvisation in public over the course of your childhood? Did you improvise in church in some way?

My early church experience was in the garage behind our house, which I transformed into a “cathedral” complete with makeshift rood screen and high altar. My closest friend played the archbishop, wearing vestments created out of old sheets with the proper liturgical colors, and I was the organist, playing an electronic keyboard. I would improvise enough to cover the “liturgical” action, but it really wasn’t anything to write home about.

Was there a watershed moment that inspired you to develop your skills seriously?

It’s odd that you, Robert, should be the one asking me about this, because you are the person who introduced me to the world of improvisation. When I was a senior in high school in Macon, Georgia, you had just started your degree at Westminster Choir College. You would come home for the summers and call me up, and we would drive around town and play every organ to which we could get access. You would play recordings of Gerre Hancock and sometimes improvise for me. It was the first time I realized that some people made an art of improvisation, and I thought it was fascinating and wonderful. 

To the extent that you improvised as a child, did you understand the music theory behind what you were doing, or did that understanding catch up later?

I think for me the theory came first. I’m not always so intuitive, so I would tend to get stuck if I didn’t know what was coming next. When I discovered musical forms, suddenly I could make a plan. It also allowed me to relate my improvisations to pieces that I knew. A hymn interlude could be organized like the development section of a sonata form, and there are thousands of models from which to draw inspiration. I learned ways to build musical tension and ways to extend a motive with sequences. When I discovered a new technique or form, I always was eager to find a way to use it and make it my own. 

Who were your principal teachers and influences in improvisation? How did you learn from them?

Bill Porter was a major influence on me. He encouraged his students to practice and perfect their improvisations. I know a lot of people think that this isn’t true improvisation, and maybe it isn’t. But I have found that when I practice a compositional technique enough, my speed can improve. I might have spent a week practicing my first fugue. Later, I could make one in a day, and now I can make one without any practice, provided the theme isn’t too complex!

McNeil Robinson was another great influence. I know it has been mentioned in these interviews already, but he taught improvisation and composition as one subject. I learned mostly by watching him work. He would take a theme and work out all its possibilities on paper. How could the theme be broken down? What were the most recognizable motives and their inversions? What were the implied harmonies? Then he would sit at the piano and try out what he had written, making phrases and sequences by recombining all the fragments. 

Even though I only met him once, I feel that I have learned a lot from Pierre Pincemaille. I know him primarily through his recordings, and I think I learn something every time I listen to him play. The same is true of Wolfgang Seifen. They are amazing musicians with so many wonderful ideas and the technique to turn their ideas into music.

You won first prize in the NCOI; to what extent has that influenced your career and your identity as an improviser? Have you entered other improvisation competitions?

The NCOI gave me an excuse to practice improvising, but it also made me think of improvisation as a legitimate pursuit—it was OK for me to spend my time on this. Later, having won the competition, I felt like it was all right for me to improvise in a concert or even just to improvise more in church. I might have been a little embarrassed to do this before. After all, it takes quite a lot of confidence to think that people want to sit and listen to music that I have just made up!

I entered the Haarlem Improvisation Competition once, and it was a great motivation for me to practice playing in more harmonically progressive styles. Often, competitors in Haarlem are given twelve-tone or free-atonal themes. It takes a completely different set of tools to extemporize a piece using such a theme.

When did you first improvise in a concert setting?

I think my first concert improvisation was a silent film accompaniment. It was a great start for me, because the film was really the center of attention. I was free to try out all sorts of things, and although some of them weren’t so successful, it was a good film and I think that covered my shortcomings!

Do you consider yourself to have your own distinct musical language? Is there anything distinctly “American” about your improvising?

I have two thoughts about this. First, even when trying to play in a historical style, a musician can’t help sounding unique. We all have our own voices, whether we like it or not. Second, I think it’s extremely rare to have a truly new musical style. If I improvise a twelve-tone piece, that has been done before. If I play in the style of Mendelssohn, that has also been done before. 

The question of style seems like it is more easily answered if one is a part of a school of playing. Pierre Pincemaille, one of my favorite improvisers, sounds a lot like Pierre Cochereau. But rather than saying that he was an imitator of Cochereau, we might say that they are both part of the French school of improvisation.

I don’t hear the same level of consistency among American improvisers. Some are influenced by jazz, but many are not. Some are more harmonically conservative, but others are not. So, I would say that there isn’t an American school of improvisation. This isn’t a criticism—it can be good that we’re not expected to sound a certain way. But it can also lead us to expect ourselves to come up with a completely new and unique style, which is extremely difficult. As for me, I don’t intentionally try to sound unique.

How does the creative process differ when you are imitating a historical style or particular composer? Is it a different process altogether, or a different side of the same coin?

All music has a style, whether it is one that has been around for a long time or not. I like music that is consistent, so I try to set limitations, regardless of the style in which I am playing.

What’s your procedure for practicing improvisation in historical styles?

My goal is usually to find out what compositional technique is generating the music and isolate it. This can be done in terms of harmony, texture, or form. I keep a list of harmonies, textures, and forms that I like to use in any given style. I will practice them on their own, and then will mix them. For example, I might make a piece using a sequence I like, and not be concerned with anything else. Then I might use the same sequence with several textures I like, often imitating pieces. (Can I play something that sounds like Louis Vierne’s Naïades using a circle of fifths sequence?) Finally, I’ll try to make a piece using my chosen sequence and texture in song form, or another form I have chosen. So, in the end I’m practicing three things at once. Sometimes these exercises sound a little dry, but often they yield good ideas.

What is your favorite sort of improvisation, either a form, or environment in which to improvise, or both?

I like liturgical improvisation. Probably my best improvisations are postludes, since after the service is over I don’t have to be worried about cadencing when the priest is ready to begin!

How does improvisation differ from composing to you? Do you prefer one or the other?

I like to compose at the keyboard, and I try to envision an entire piece before I work out the details and begin to write. This involves improvising until I settle on ideas that I want to include. I think the main difference between a composed piece and an improvisation is that the composition has to stand up to repeated hearings. Improvisations are heard just once, and music that might be perfect for a specific moment in time can sound dull or even ridiculous when it is recreated later. Composing gives me a chance to take an improvisation and improve its structure, its counterpoint, or its melodic appeal, so that it isn’t painful to hear repeatedly. Of course, notating music takes a very long time, so it’s probably more fun to stick with improvisation. 

How does your voice differ when composing versus improvising? Do you try to make it more “unique,” for better or worse?

As mentioned above, it seems that truly new musical styles are extremely rare, and they are usually not received well. We know that Stravinsky and Monteverdi wrote masterpieces that many people at the time did not even consider to be music. But there are also lots of composers who achieve a unique sound by mixing ideas from other musicians. I think Herbert Howells has a unique sound, but it’s not because he is doing anything new; instead, he is combining the modality of Vaughan Williams with some jazz harmony and maybe some impressionism. He does this masterfully, and the mixture is wonderful and decisively unique. 

I have never invented anything truly new. I think that my most successful compositions have been novel mixtures of things. I once wrote a piece with the same form as Mozart’s Fantasia, K. 608, which has a bold introductory motive and two fugues with a set of variations in the middle. My piece was in a Gershwin-esque style, and it came out sounding unique because I don’t think Gershwin would have considered writing a densely packed organ piece full of counterpoint! So, to answer your question, in both my improvisations and compositions I will look for undiscovered combinations of musical textures and forms, but the musical language for these styles is not my invention at all.

Reflection

I am grateful to Jason for terrific food for thought in all his responses. Perhaps the keenest insight I have gained from him is his helpful and clear distinction between “new” and “unique” musical styles. I would have to agree that a totally new musical language is a very rare thing indeed. I also note that both Jason and Matthew Glandorf said something similar about seeking a unique musical voice: Matthew said that he believes that “having a distinctive voice as an improviser happens by accident, so I try not to fuss too much about that.” Jason said that “[expectations of an American style] can also lead us to expect ourselves to come up with a completely new and unique style, which is extremely difficult. As for me, I don’t intentionally try to sound unique.”

I think I can safely say that I have never come up with a groundbreaking, new, musical language, myself! I have realized, however, more than ever, that I do aim to sound distinctive. Matthew Glandorf is probably correct that it would happen regardless, whether intentionally or not. Yet perhaps I have a previously undervalued fear of sounding only like a cheap imitation of some other composer or other improviser? I don’t mind at all if a listener hears a snatch of Howells there, or Vierne elsewhere; clear influences are inevitable, to be sure, in any composer or improviser’s music, as Jason also notes. (There have been occasions, however, when I have intentionally sought to pay homage to a particular composer by explicit imitation, yet those occasions are the exceptions to the rule.)

Something else that Jason wrote that will stick with me is, “Even when trying to play in a historical style, a musician can’t help sounding unique.” My assumption to date has been that if an improviser is attempting to imitate, say, Couperin, it should aim to be more or less indistinguishable from another improviser doing the same. Jason’s viewpoint is a new one for me, and I suspect it will bear fruit in my own endeavors. I shall ponder that, going forward!

Regarding whether or not there is a distinctive American school of improvisation, both Matthew Glandorf and Mary Beth Bennett (interviewed in the second article of this series) suggested that a blend or even melting pot of musical style might in itself be distinctly American, perhaps something of an American manner of improvising that happens by accident.

Yet, in the introduction to this series, I cited Gerre Hancock and McNeil Robinson as perhaps the foremost American improvisers of their generation. I wish that I could ask them some of these questions. In thinking both of their improvisations and written compositions, though they were very distinct from each other, each could be nothing else but American, to my mind and ears, with decided French influences of various sorts. 

Before closing, I would like to expand just a bit on the intersection of composing and improvising, a topic this series has begun to explore. Jason contrasts the two, saying, “. . . the main difference between a composed piece and an improvisation is that the composition has to stand up to repeated hearings. Improvisations are heard just once, and music that might be perfect for a specific moment in time can sound dull or even ridiculous when it is recreated later.” I believe there is a great deal of truth in this statement. I like to think that my own best improvisations might stand up to repeated hearings, but there have been more than a few I never wanted to hear again! (And like any performance, sometimes in listening back, the things I had thought might have been the best of the lot were in fact less so, and vice versa.) Some version of Jason’s assertion has been part of my response often when asked to transcribe my improvisations, that they were for a particular time and place. (The other part of the response is that I am too lazy to spend the time transcribing! Please forgive the shameless plug, but I recently relented and commissioned another trusted musician to transcribe three improvisations by request of Selah Publishing Co., which published them in June.)

At this juncture, I have just as many questions as possible answers to all these matters, and I am eager to continue to explore them as the series proceeds. Stay tuned!