Since arriving in New York in 1981, Pete Malinverni has captivated his audiences, his students, and his colleagues with a highly personal concept that draws equally from the classical, jazz, and gospel traditions. He has invited the rest of us to join him as observers in his study of the piano via international concerts as a leader and a sideman, as well as nearly a dozen albums of his own, ranging from solo and trio dates to original suites for orchestra and choir. This year, he became head of the Jazz Studies program at SUNY Purchase, where he has been on faculty for more than a decade. Pete will appear at Smalls this Thursday, July 4th, at 9:30.
Who is playing with you on July 4th, and what is the repertoire?
Ugonna Okegwo is playing bass, and Eliot Zigmund is playing drums. Weâll probably play standards, but try to play as freely as possible, so maybe weâll do some of my tunes, which are just a basic, simple line, and just try to open it up, because these guys are real improvisers. Thatâs what I want to get to, as soon as possible. Iâm less concerned with what the tune is, except that it is as clear a canvas as possible. Thatâs what Iâm looking for all the time on the bandstand. Iâm headed more and more towards that. The more you play, the more experience you have, the better musicians you play with â you feel like you can trust everybodyâs own compositional skills, and that weâre all trying to make music that follows the rules that have worked for centuries. And, theyâre not really rules, theyâre just realizations of what makes great musi. If we all know those things, I like to see what can happen. Itâs also fun to do tunes with, say, interesting forms, but Iâd really rather just see where we can go.
Aside from Eliot, who is something of a legend in the community, youâve also had associations with some of the finer drummers in the last few decades of New York, for instance â Vernell Fournier, Mel Lewis, Leroy WilliamsâŠWhat, if anything, have you taken away from your experiences working with these paragons of swing?
Iâve always loved the drums, first of all. When I was in school, the only guys I hung out with were the drummers. I really like the real collegiality that drummers have together; theyâre all stuck with this âthingâ they have to carry around in many parts, and whenever anything goes wrong on the bandstand, itâs usually the drummer that gets the blame, and all that. Itâs a drag, right? So, I always liked the drummers. And Iâve always considered rhythm to be very important.
When I first moved to New York, the first shockingly beautiful music that I heard was down at the Village Vanguard, with Mel, and Dennis Irwin playing the bass. Iâve always been one to try and work with people better than I. Those were two very good examples of that [laughs]. They were great musicians, they were way more experienced than I, and I knew that they sounded well together. I was able to meet them, because by then, I was friends with Joe Lovano, and Ralph [Lalama], and I was hanging around at the Vanguard, listening to them on Monday nights, almost every week. Mel was from Buffalo, New York: my hometown. So, I was able to strike up a friendship with him. When I decided, at age 30, that it was time for me to make my first record, I couldnât think of anybody better to do it with. I had Mel and Dennis, and we went over to Van Gelderâs and made a record called âDonât Be Shy.â From Mel, I think what I learned was that if you let it swing, it will. You canât make it, you have to let it, assuming you have any rhythmic sense, or natural time feel. I think thatâs one thing I have- some natural time feel. Basically, working with him, I learned to trust that, to just let it happen. I would leave a lot of space for him, and for Dennis, and they would use the space compositionally. Dennis is a great example, too, of someone who just knew how good music goes. He would always serve the music. It was never, ever, ever about him, nor was it ever, ever about Mel.
Then, Mel passed away, and I started working with Vernell, another idol of mine because of the work that he did with Ahmad Jamal. Initially, I called him for some things, and then he started calling me for some things, with his trio. We travelled together, and from him, I learned a lot about the business â how to do. I never, ever â and I tried â got to a gig before him. I could never do it! Iâd get there really early, and heâd already have his drums set up, and be working on his second cup of coffee. He took great pride in the drums. He talked about them in a real tribal kind of way. He was from New Orleans, of course, and he taught me a lot about the second line. He taught me also about form. When I was working for him, he would always have these little figures: heâd sing them to me, and Iâd have to figure out what they were, and weâd place them at different points in the form of the tune, and we would have to observe them every time; little figures, or interludes. Weâd have to be ready to play those figures and those interludes whenever he would nod. He used to say, âFor awhile, Iâll have to tell you when to do it. After awhile, youâll know.â I learned from himâŠif you took a solo, and you thought you were done, he might point at me again, and say, âGo again! Donât stop!â He used to call that âoverdrive.â I learned about form, and how that can be a really important part of an arrangement of a tune. And you see all of the stuff he was doing in Milesâs group: He used to take Red Garland and those guys to hear Ahmad. Thatâs where Red got the âBilly Boyâ thing. That was Ahmadâs arrangement. That trioâŠhe wanted Ahmad, but Ahmad was the king of the world, at that time, with that trio with Israel [Crosby] and Vernell. Oh, and Vernell, again: when weâd be doing a gig, playing Bradleyâs, or whatever, and they would announce the band, heâd have his foot on the bass drum. Theyâd say âAnd at the bass, blah blah blahâŠâ and youâd hear âboom-boom-boom-boom.â Heâd do that under the applause. You couldnât tell that it was happening, but you could feel it, and it would give the people the courage to clap. Amazing.  It was funny, because, then my son learned that, and heâd play it when we played together at churchâŠIt was kind of like âinside baseballâ stuff that I learned from Vernell. Heâd say, âFirst and last night of an engagement, you wear your dark suit. First and last impression is what they remember.â That kind of thing. You know, we were on the road, and as soon as he got some money from the promoter, he paid us for up until that point. Just, very professional, in a lot of ways.
We were due to open Smalls, actually, and we were supposed to play steady Wednesdays, I think it wasâŠand he had his stroke, like, a week before. Thatâs when I started working with Leroy, who I had heard working with Barry [Harris]. That incredible feel, that ride beat that Leroy has. I started working with him as much as I could. I learned a lot from him. Iâll never forget: we were driving to a gig out in Jersey one time, and we were listening to âOne Night In Birdland,â with Charlie Parker, Fats NavarroâŠBird and Fats playing together. Bud [Powell] playing piano, and [Art] Blakey. We were listening to it on the way out there, and it was, obviously, incredible. I remember, Leroy said, âSo, are you ready to jump into that spot? Are you ready to claim your place? You know, you have to be.â That was a real awakening, for me, because itâs true. We all come this way. More than once, someone younger than me, has told me, âOh, I know your record, âDonât Be Shy.ââ When I made it, I wasnât âscared,â but I was definitely stepping out in faith. I didnât know anything. I didnât know a thing. But Lovano had told me, âIf you donât do it, Pete, no one else will. You have to take the bull by the horns. If you want it to happen, make it happen.â Thatâs sort of been my thing, my whole life in New York. If I wanted something, I made it my business to be on that scene until they called me. Thatâs the other thing Vernell used to say: âEveryone gets his chance. You just have to be ready when it happens.â
With Eliot, it's a different thing. The first time I heard him, he was playing with Bill Evans. For me, heâs one more great that Iâve admired from afar, that I get to play with. I didnât know what it would be to play with him â you never know, until you get there. I remember, the only time I ever played with Billy Higgins, it was interesting, because I loved him, but when you finally get to play with someone like that, itâs a different thing, because now, youâre driving. Youâre the piano player, and they expect direction, even if itâs Billy Higgins, or Vernell Fournier, thatâs your job. Itâs daunting, to say the least. Itâs not just that you have to stay in the game, and know the changes: Youâve got to lead.
A lot of your energy, over the course of the last decade, or so, has gone towards writing and arranging music that fuses American gospel music with bebop, or, âstraight-aheadâ jazz, whether through your work at Devoe Street Baptist Church in Brooklyn, or with the Soul Voices Choir at SUNY Purchase. Where did the inspiration come from to run with this idea, and develop the music to the extent which you have?
I grew up playing in church, as a kid, back in Niagara Falls. I probably started playing in church when I was eight or nine years old. I was used to thatâŠthat âthing.â The music that I liked was the music of the African-American church, so that was how Iâd play in church. I remember, the little old ladies, as sweet as they were, going âThat was very nice, but what song was that?â I was learning. It was up to me to make it sound like a song. I didnât know that â I had to learn. Iâve always heard that sound, and thatâs why I fell in love with Sly & The Family Stone, as a kid, not even realizing at the time that it was just church music with different words. When you listen to his recording of âQue Sera, Sera,â for example: thatâs straight out of the church. I started to listen to Mahalia Jackson, and all that, when I first moved to New York. Really, I started at Devoe Street in â92. When I got there, I wanted to learn the repertoire as best I could. I found that, when Iâd go out to other churches, and hear an organist that had the idiom down so well, theyâd always want to check out what chords I knew. Weâd trade information, et cetera. Iâd show him chords, or whatever. It was really organic for me. Thatâs how Iâd always heard musicâŠBen Allison, he had a composerâs collective thing. Youâd apply to do a concert, and he suggested that I make an application to do a concert, but to do something interesting. I said, âyeah, okay, I have this choir over at Devoe Street. Let me write some music.â I was composing this music, and I just could not find the right words. Then, it just hit me, that the Psalms of King David are songs. I started to listen to them, and, sure enough, the phrasing, the rhythm of themâŠit all just feeds a song. Thatâs what I used. But I felt that, sometimes, church music could get a little âdumbââŠI wanted it to have the integrity of something I could hold onto, to improvise on. I would try to put little things in there, chordally, that would be fun for blowing. But then, of course, in time, Iâve come to realize, âthe simpler, the betterâ â then, you can make your own thing happen. Thatâs really where I went. Then, I made that recording, âJoyful!â It was after that, I decided to start the Soul Voices, up at the college.  Vernell told me, way back when â he used to play with us, every Easter and Christmas, at the church â he told me long ago that he could tell the difference once I started playing at the church. It took me a minute to realize it, but what I think it was, was twofold. First of all, and this is what he was so strong with, being from New Orleans, is that the swing is off the one and three, instead of the two and the four. So itâs more firmly rooted, and it feels more like you could stand, and dance, and move rhythmically to it. But also, in church, I was never second-guessing myself, or judging myself, I was just letting the spirit move. Why in the heck canât I do that on the bandstand? Thatâs what I started doing, consciously: trusting the music, just figuring that thatâs the voice of God, and to just let it fly, and see what happens. What could happen? Nothing badâs going to happen. Weâre not doctors. We donât bury our mistakes. At the worst, you just come back tomorrow, and play better. And at the best â wow. Magic can ensue, you know?
Another big part of your life has been teaching. What is the reward that you reap from teaching music, and being a musician, in general?
First and foremost, Iâd have to say the unvarnished personal connections you get out of doing that work. If someone is honestly tuned in to learning, and the teacher is honestly tuned in to sharing, thatâs a beautiful connection. Thatâs a very intimate connection. I love that, because thatâs the way I want to deal with people, anyway. I donât want to have much artifice in the way, if any at all. I love that. The more you live in music, I think, the more it becomes just your way of meeting the world. The more time you spend talking about it, or doing it with younger people, or with whomever, the more you walk in grace. Music really does pervade your life. It doesnât mean I donât go to a ballgame; it doesnât mean I donât love to sit around and eat with friends. For sure, I love my family, and I love all of that. It becomes a more musical way of flowing through life. Youâre always trying to find the right phraseâŠI love that. To me, itâs very freeing. You can be of the world, you definitely have feet of clay, but at the same time, youâre about serving beauty, and making a gift of that- because itâs not yours in the first place - to your audience, or to your students. For me, itâs just another way of letting energy flow, and it just happens to be something Iâm good at, at least something Iâm better at than anything else that I do [laughs]. Thatâs the payoff, for me â the connections.Â
