When I was brewing this Substack and exploring the meaning of “stride”, I was intrigued by the last definition presented:
stride /strīd/
noun
denoting or relating to a rhythmic style of jazz piano playing in which the left hand alternately plays single bass notes on the downbeat and chords an octave higher on the upbeat.
My first reaction was: Huh, how cool is that? I want to know more!
My second was more shameful: Wow, how did I not know this?
A wanna-be musician myself, I spent a lot of time around extremely talented players, as an audio engineer and studio owner in Nashville. Much of what we recorded was County music, but the majority of session players I worked with had extensive jazz training and chops, or at least a great appreciation. My studio partner would frequently share his love of the genre, teaching me the nuances to listen for in the recordings of Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, and Chick Corea, among others. I don’t recall us specifically talking about stride; if we did, I obviously forgot.
I wanted to know more. And I was intrigued by how this definition of stride fit into my “decidedly wandering” analogy. So I did a bit of Googling.
Stride piano took roots about a century ago, blending ragtime and early blues styles. Its name comes from the powerful play of the left hand that strides across the keys to produce a whole-orchestra “rhythm section” sound. Jazz legend James P. Johnson — known as the father of stride — was a musical innovator who fused blues and syncopation with the ragtime phrasing of his “mentor” Scott Joplin to pioneer a new, modern style. It’s considered to be technically and physically demanding, and mostly known in circles of die-hard fans and players and the occasional movie score.
I grew curious about the women who played stride when I discovered Judy Carmichael, a more popular pianist in a still man-dominated genre. Jazz greats Barbara Carroll and Mary Lou Williams were among few women who achieved success in stride’s early days, carving a path where modern-day stars like Carmichael and Stephanie Trick continue to…forgive me, ahem…make strides.1
It was Carmichael’s story, in particular, that struck me. (No sponsored content here, just my finding and musings.)
Strong-arming the nay-sayers
Nicknamed “Stride” by Count Basie, Judy Carmichael is respected around the world for her musical abilities and insights. She’s achieved acclaim in multiple media across several decades, as a singer and pianist, radio show host and producer, and author.
Carmichael gained popularity in the early ‘80s, her rise awkwardly captured in a NY Times’ article from 1982. The piece introduces us to Brad Swett, the owner of a Manhattan restaurant popular with stride pianists, who hired the California-native to perform. Reportedly surprised when seeing her for the first time, Swett commented to a friend about Carmichael’s physical appearance: “The pianists we have here who play stride and ragtime are big, heavyset men with broad shoulders. That's where the power comes from. Where does she get the muscles?”
<Insert eyeroll>
The article goes on to share how Carmichael got started in stride, giving credit to her grandfather who promised $50 to whichever grandchild could ace Scott Joplin’s “Maple Leaf Rag”. She taught herself the song after her piano teacher refused, claiming her student “wasn’t good enough”. Carmichael won her grandfather’s $50 and ended the lessons.
Carmichael played ragtime through college and at various jobs, including a gig at Disney, gaining both confidence and encouragement. She eventually met Harold Jones (Count Basie’s drummer) who, according to Carmichael, seemed pleasantly surprised to hear that she played rag and stride simply because she “liked it”.
Decades later Carmichael continues to dazzle audiences with her recordings, performances, books, and long-time NPR show.
Winging it through the wrong notes
In his famous show, painter Bob Ross reminds viewers (and I paraphrase): “there are no mistakes, just happy accidents”. Jazz musicians including Carmichael offer similar advice — improvise your wrong notes to invent something new you meant to do.
“I was very nervous when I started doing concerts and I asked one of the older musicians what if I hit a wrong note and it’s really obvious. And he goes ‘well, you know, that is a really great thing about being a jazz musician. …With classical music they pretty much know what the notes are supposed to be. But as a jazz musician if you hit a wrong note you just hit it over and over and over again.’ ”
Improvisation may sound like a cover-up, a bluff to distract us away from the “mistakes”. But many artists like Ross and Carmichael see it as a necessary ingredient in any creation. In her latest book, Great Inspirations, Carmichael explores how jazz and improv are embedded in the creative process and perhaps even in life. Her conversations with creators in a wide range of fields are stitched together by our common ability to try, error, and try again.
Life is like a box of…improv.
Children arrive in this world with no preconceptions of how things should be. Babies and toddlers especially learn skills, build strength, and get a sense of what’s possible through play. Humans are wired to learn through experimenting and exploring — through improv. But somewhere along the way in “growing up” we are influenced to add more structure — to our play, our work, our lives.
Structure’s not a bad thing. Rules and systems provide guidance. A path doesn’t become a path until markers, lines, or boundaries indicate there is one. Otherwise it’s just…space. Music itself is inherently structured, the very thing creativity and improvisation feast on to generate new material.
I look back at my teen years, when “what do you want to be when you grow up?” was hot topic of conversation. I was expected to follow a “structured” path: to go to college, graduate with a high GPA, get a good job, launch a career, and do better than my parents and grandparents who didn’t go to college. Not all of my relatives required me to be a physician like my cousin (who knew she wanted to be a doctor at age 3, and still practices medicine today), but most thought I was crazy for wanting to pursue something that wasn’t a 9-5, that didn’t have insurance and a 401K. I wanted to make music — specifically, I wanted to produce recordings in a studio. It’s all I thought about, the only real consideration in my mind.
I knew such a job existed. I hoarded music and obsessed over the liner notes, memorizing names of songwriters, players, and engineers. But the path to get there was less known, and I certainly had no illusions it came in a 9-5 package. Confident it likely wasn’t a 9-5 made it that much more attractive.
Back then I had no fear to just go after what I wanted, to keep poking around, trying things, fail a bit, and start over. I wasn’t phased that most engineers were men. I preferred to be “one of the guys”, talking football instead of hair and nail polish. And like Carmichael, I also just really wanted to record music — simply because I liked it.
I eventually found my way to Nashville’s Music Row, thanks mostly to hearing a random radio ad about a music business program while pulling an all-nighter (and winging my homework assignment). Ironically, my path did include attending college, but not because I thought college was necessary (a topic all its own, for another day).
With support, perseverance, some structure, and a whole lot of luck, I worked my “dream job” for most of a decade. I worked with great people, learned a shit-ton, and got really good (“band punch”? No problem). I even got my dad to sit in on some sessions so he could watch me do my thing. I loved it.
Until I didn’t.
All industries evolve and music was no different. Business changed. Life happened. I adapted. The decade+ that followed saw me reinvent myself a few times. I went back to school, tried new things, improvised. I eventually ended up in a more structured “day job” than I ever expected myself to qualify for, let alone keep for years. But it worked out, mostly because I again poked around to find opportunities where I could carve my own path / design my own role / make a business case for what I wanted to do.
This time, however, I let myself drink too much of the “corporate Kool-Aid”, while still believing my improvisational approach to success would continue to bear fruit. I put too much faith in both my contrarian obstinance and my attempts to fit in and play the game. I straddled the fence, thinking I could remain an oddball and thrive in a system that encouraged all of us to play but only let a chosen few win. I lucked into occasional success, which coaxed my ego to up the ante at the roulette wheel. In the end I got tangled up, drained, and ultimately defeated.
As discussed in my launch post, I moved on from that job last year. Another career transition, one I’m finding much harder to improvise through. I am winging it, because I have no choice. But I find myself doing so with baggage — cynicism and fear that make improv feel like a losing gamble. I don’t just have the “wrong notes” in the overstuffed suitcase of my past, I feel I collect more with every step I take. Improv doesn’t feel fun and creative. It’s feels excruciating. And I can’t help but hear the skeptical voices of my relatives interrogating a freelancing 20-something me: “what do you mean you don’t have a job?”
I don’t know the full story of Judy Carmichael. I haven’t yet listened to her radio show or read her new book (it’s on my list!). I haven’t researched all details about James P. Johnson or any other creative trailblazer for that matter. But I do believe Forrest Gump (love him or hate him) was on to something. Life is the choices we make: to bite into the chocolate at all, or when we play a wrong note, or even when we get it right. Carmichael’s story reminds me that we can end up with more rights than wrongs if we have the courage to simply do what we like, no matter the current circumstances, no matter how fierce the expectations.
The world encourages — sometimes insists — we structure our lives to perform like classical music: carefully planned, rehearsed, precise. Even the word stride claims “decisive steps in a specified direction”. I feel my life bops along to amateur jazz on good days, and thrashes to screeching, out-of-tune, obnoxious hysteria on bad days. In the mucky middle I’m likely tripping over myself.
Despite my cynical fear and chronic ability to get in my own way, I do believe improv is freedom. Freedom to wander, to notice, and to be in the moment. Freedom to begin again.
Carmichael offers inspiration:
“The great gift of an artist’s life is the focus on listening, seeing, and paying attention. Artists live in imagination and playfulness and have the desire to challenge themselves, to grow and create.”
Writing these posts is my way of satisfying my “desire to challenge” myself. It is my stride, my “step or stage in progress toward an aim…especially after a slow or hesitant start.” It’s still slow, but I have started. And that is major, creative, tank-filling win.
Here’s to all of us who are making strides — those taking measured steps in a steady direction, those taking leaps into a new one, and those in between playing around with the “wrong notes”. May we all find our groove.
She found her stride.
What a joy to stumble upon this video in my Googling! I don’t know who she is but it’s glorious. Be sure to watch on YouTube — most of the comments are equally inspiring (odd, I know) with many people sharing sweet stories of their ancestors who played instruments and filled their homes with music and love. Cheers!
I’m not as savvy as I should be on the proper way to credit sources, but here are additional sources i didn’t link to in the post, that I referenced in learning about musical stride:
I’ve never heard of Carmichael. Thanks for introducing her to me! I enjoyed this piece. Looking forward to reading more from you.
So much about this post resonates with me. I didn't know the term stride, but it's how I approach my piano. I’m glad to find you here and look forward to reading more. Thanks for sharing your joie de vivre.