top of page

My Aborted Jazz Career

Writer's picture: Shoga FilmsShoga Films

Updated: Jan 28



One of the Victorian legacies of the middle-class homes of the 1950s which bespoke of aspirations to gentility was the piano in the parlor. Every house in the newly developed Pasadena neighborhood where I grew up had one, whether it was an upright or a baby grand. It didn't matter whether there was anybody who was interested in playing it or not; the piano was an unquestioned accessory of a well-furnished house. 


Ours was no different, and where our black, somewhat tinny upright came from, I never thought to ask. My father, who loved jazz piano, would noodle about a bit, but it never went beyond atmospheric noise. Of the four children who grew up in that household, I was the only one to show any interest, and although, unlike Chopin, I hadn't composed my first polonaise at the age of seven, I could plunk out a tune by ear, albeit with no particular fluidity. 


Somehow it was determined -- or maybe I decided -- that I should take piano lessons, and I suffered through the same uninspiring curriculum of scales and simple melodies that traveling mediocre piano teachers imposed on thousands of suburban boys and girls. This wasn't enough for me, and on my own, I painfully sight read and practiced a tune out of The Rogers and Hart Songbook ("I Could Write a Book," ironically enough) so that I could play it with some facility. 


At this juncture, my mother could see I was serious, and so she found me a real piano teacher in Pasadena, Lou Momberg. When I banged out my version of "I Could Write a Book" for him in his living room, he exclaimed, "Kid! I'm gonna make you great!" 


And so began years of practice and study that lasted throughout my adolescence. It was an education. Lou Momberg schooled me in jazz theory: voicings, extended chords, altered chords, substitute variations on common chord progressions, modal scales, and how to arrange popular melodies based on their chord progressions (the verse of Jerome Kern's "All the Things You Are" follows a perfect circle of fourths). 


Lou Momberg was eccentric, to say the least. He threw theory and his own arrangements of popular songs at me that were consistently over my head. I practiced enough at home so that I never seemed to dampen his enthusiasm as we sat on his piano bench week after week. One day he startled me by claiming that he had found the cure for cancer, but at the age of seventeen, I just let this bit of insanity fly by me and never gave it a second thought. 


There was no more talk of future musical greatness for me, but I enjoyed what I could grasp of his theory lessons, especially arranging. I came up with clever jazzy arrangements of "Heart and Soul" and "Mary Had a Little Lamb." Momberg was an excellent jazz arranger, and, although I had to painfully pick out then practice his versions of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and "Stella by Starlight," I mastered these compositions finally with some facility and impressed my friends and their parents. 


Improvisation, however, was beyond me; I simply had no sense of how to play alternative notes even if I was familiar with the chord progression. And there were other minor drawbacks I faced as a putative jazz musician. I had no sense of rhythm. I didn't seek out musical peers where I might develop a sense of music collaboratively. I enjoyed music, and I enjoyed playing music, but I didn't love music. It wasn't my life (however, I did develop a sense of rhythm later in life and a much deeper appreciation of music). Because of that, my patience with practicing was limited. I had extended it to 2 hours a day during the week. It wasn't enough to get any better, and as my social horizons widened, I often scanted my practice hours. 


One day, Lou Momberg announced to my mother that he could do nothing more for me (an ambiguous declaration if there ever was one). He passed me on to a friend of his, Clare Fisher, who had worked as a pianist/arranger with the likes of Cal Tjader and Joe Pass. My mother drove me out to his Hollywood home and left me there for an hour while I showed Clare Fisher my keyboard chops. He wasn't impressed, but he didn't want to offend his friend by refusing to take me on as a student. So, he gave me my first homework assignment. "I want you to arrange and practice a circle of fifths in all 13 keys."  


Those with a musical education will appreciate the enormity of this assignment. It wasn't exactly impossible; it was just demanding and tedious. Clare Fisher figured this would discourage me from coming to him again, and he was right. 


The end of my formal lessons ensured that I would make no further progress on the instrument. I wasn't sufficiently motivated. I had a decent enough repertoire of jazz standards that I could trot out when I liked, and it was fun impressing new friends and acquaintances with my "mastery." Certain arrangements -- "Summertime" and "Pennies from Heaven" -- came to me so easily that I joked that they were genetically ingrained in my fingers, and were I to have children, they would be able to play those songs as well.  


It took decades for it all to go away. Now I won't go near a piano. It's not exactly painful to look at this road not taken. It's just an acceptance that I was not particularly talented in this area. And, by God!, My introduction to The Great American Songbook ended up serving me well! Every time I croon "My Heart Stood Still" (and check out the version by The Mamas and The Papas) to a new beau, he melts. 


--Robert Philipson


Read about the professorial foray that prompted this autobiographical essay, The Jewish Mystery of the Great American Songbook


SHOGA FILMS is a non-profit production and education company. Please consider making a donation to help fund our efforts

1 view0 comments

Comments


bottom of page