Stage Fright: The Hal Galper Story

I'd never heard of Hal Galper before. But he was coming to my university to give a jazz clinic. For the uninitiated, a clinic is a performance that is interrupted by tips for the other musicians in the audience. They're intended for students and amateurs in order to learn more about performance techniques. I had, however, heard of the other two musicians in his trio, the aptly named "The Hal Galper Trio". The drummer, Akira Tana is relatively famous in the jazz world and the bassist, Rufus Reid, is a freaking legend. When Terry, my private instructor, told me I would be performing with them in the clinic, my knees almost buckled.

For the couple of weeks after I knew that my head was going to be put on the chopping block, I practiced every chance I could, trying to memorize and play every jazz standard I knew in multiple keys. I was also practicing for a senior recital. It was, shall we say, stressful. Adding to the stress was knowing that my partner in pain would be none other than Matt Blostein. Matt was six years younger than me but he had always been a prodigy and could play better than me by leaps and bounds. I was sure that I was about to be humiliated but Terry, as he usually did, reassured me that things would be just fine.

On the day of the clinic, I arrived in the music hall early, removed my sax from its case, and began warming up. I was so nervous I could barely play scales. Matt showed up and just as nervous as I was. These were his idols as much as they were mine. But it was little comfort. The kid was better than me and it was going to be obvious to everyone there. I was still prepared for the worst.

Finally, I met the band and the clinic started. They asked me for a song to play to start the show with. I chose an easy blues-based tune I knew like the back of my hand, Now's The Time, by Charlie Parker. Things were going quite well until we started trading fours. Matt took the first four bars, Galper took the second, Reid took the third, Tana took the fourth, and I brought up the rear. Trading fours in a blues tune was usually not a problem. I could hang. But I was so nervous that while the drummer took four (and did some crazy things in those four bars), I committed the ultimate sin: I lost count.

When he hit a crash to bring me in, I froze. The music stopped. I hadn't been that embarrassed since a similar thing happened to me in high school. But that was me at 15, new to jazz and not a very good improviser. But here I was 23 and still losing count. I could feel my cheeks flush as they all started to tease me a little. I think most of it was good natured, but I was having trouble feeling good about my mistake.

At that point, Hal Galper got up from the piano. He was a giant man, probably at least 6' 5" and obese. Plus, his left eye is glass so when he looked at you, the left eye was always stuck in the same position. He lumbered toward Matt and I. His glass eye was pointing hard right away but the good one was fixed right on me. He looked at Matt then. I heaved a sigh of relief.

"Play a scale with a jazz articulation," he said. Matt played it.

"Now play it without your tongue." Matt played that too.

He looked at me and requested the same. I played the first scale fine, but for whatever reason, I could not disengage my tongue from the reed to play the scale with a jazz feel. This part I will never forget. Galper got right up in my face and seemed like he was yelling.

"Don't use your tongue!"

I tried again and failed. He gave up and started dispensing advice to Matt. "You're very good, but it sounds like you've practiced too much with play-along CDs." Of course, he was right. There weren't many opportunities to go to good jazz jam sessions in rural Pennsylvania.

I don't remember what he told me, to be honest, but I do remember that it was much more critical than what he said to Matt. I think it was something about needing a lot more practice before I thought about playing in an environment like that again. I think I almost peed myself. All I remember well was leaving the hall after the clinic was over and thinking that I would never play the saxophone again. And I didn't for a whole week. It stayed in its case, stashed in my locker. When I showed up for my next weekly lesson, Terry was not surprised that I hadn't practiced. He also apologized for how Galper treated us on stage. It was some comfort to know that he, too, thought the man unnecessarily rude.

Unfortunately, the damage was done. It was that day that I acquired my stage fright. I was never again able to confidently take the stage without some significant preparation of my nerves. I won't lie and say that it was all Hal Galper's fault. But he did contribute to my issue and I have yet to figure out how to undo my fears. Maybe I should give Hal a call.