Dezron Douglas Quartet

Miller Theatre commissioned the acclaimed writer (and musician) Tim Munro to write profiles of the creators featured onstage this season, with the goal of connecting listeners to both the creator and their music.

When I prepare to speak with any musician, I sketch questions, follow-ups, even some sidebars. Speaking with Dezron Douglas over a late-night Zoom session, all of that went out the window.

Dezron charts his own journey. Spontaneous, faultlessly crafted. The following is (very slightly) edited for clarity and concision. I’ve tried to retain most of Dezron’s flow of ideas and expression.

Give and take

Since I was 16—when I first started writing music—I grabbed whatever tool or device I could use to remember musical ideas that were in my head. Sometimes it was a progression. Sometimes it was a melody.

At that time the tool was the bass. Later it was a little tape recorder—I would sing the ideas I had. As time went on, I began learning piano, and studied various brass instruments. I wrote a lot of arrangements and songs from the trombone.

Since college, I write the same way. I have a recording device that I play ideas into, whether on the bass or on the piano. I play something over and over again to keep a constant flow of ideas. I revisit those ideas, hashing them out.

I’m not a composer that’s just going to sit and compose something, then put it out there. Once it becomes a first draft, I’ll workshop it with my band in front of audiences. I feel and believe that music needs that flow of vibration from the artist to the audience. That’s where you really get the response.

So, we get to a balance of 50/50, give and take. Then you have the composer’s message as well as the audience’s message.

Give of myself

In order to be a great leader, you have to be a follower. Not necessarily a side man, but a follower. All the great leaders are supreme followers.

I’ve been blessed to have been a part of some great bands. I’ve been in Lewis Hayes’s band for the last 13 years. I’ve been in Ravi Coltrane’s band since 2012. I was someone who was willing to give of myself.

Those type of band leaders, they create a family. It’s not just, I need someone to make this gig with me. It’s, I want to work with this artist, you know. It’s always the same kind of vibration,—we all contribute a lot of ourselves to create this sound. I’ve taken that into my own projects.

Right now there are a lot of bass players who are leaders. When I was coming up it was hard for a bassist to be a leader. There were still a lot of masters who had bands. I wanted to be in their bands. Steve Davis, René McLean, Pharaoh Sanders, Papo Vázquez. I was making sure that I was around all these masters, investing my heart in their music.

When I began leading my gigs at the age of 18, I had to learn how to talk to an audience. I had to learn how to talk to my bandmates, to convey what I wanted from the music, to convey to them that I want them to contribute to the music.

Composing life

I want to create something that is me— that is an oral dissertation of how I feel at that time, in that moment. At the highest realm, my compositions are a vehicle for self-expression. In other words, I’m going to compose life.

Duke Ellington wrote a piece every day. He was writing pieces, banging out pieces. He was inspired to write. He was writing for his band, he was writing for certain people.

But at the same time I am heavily influenced by Mingus as a composer and a writer. It was the same with him. He was writing life.

There’s a song, Sue’s Changes. He and his wife Sue went through a lot together. From the moment they met up until the end of his life, just dealing with life together. You can hear that. It’s a tribute to her and her beauty and her fire.

A great composer can make people feel a certain way about the subject that they’re writing about. That’s why I love Mingus titles.

There’s another song, The Shoes of the Fisherman’s Wife Are Some Jive Ass Slippers. When you hear the song, you are transported. This fisherman’s wife, she might not like the fisherman. He sees his wife’s slippers, and it’s like, ‘Those are some jive-ass slippers.’

Cut from the same cloth

Since the pandemic I’ve been writing for three specific people: George Burton, Joe Dyson, and Emilio Modeste. In April 2020, I was on the verge of being really depressed. [Right before that time,] It was probably my most promising spring as a leader. I had serious work coming up.

During that time I said to myself, If God gives me a chance to make it through this, I want to come out with a new band and some new music. I began thinking about who I want to play with.

I called George Burton immediately. Me and George are sort of cut from the same cloth, musically. We’re around the same age, and met in 2002. I’ve known Emilio since he was about 12 years old. I’ve always been a fan of his playing.

I first met Joe Dyson when he was 15 years old. When he came out of college we wound up on some gigs together, and he became like a little brother to me.

I called the three of them up and asked, “Would you be in a band with me once we get a chance to step out of the house?” I made it a point to let them know that it’s a collective effort. Meaning, Yes, it’s my band. But everybody’s contributing.

By November 2020 I had written maybe ten pieces specifically for George, Joe, and Emilio. I just know how they play.

Miller

I’ve been living a lot of life the last two years—this has been one of the most challenging periods in my life as a human and as an adult. At the time Miller Theatre asked me to play this concert, I was pouring my heart out onto the paper—just putting it out there.

I was really writing life.

This opportunity at Miller Theatre is a blessing for me. I love Miller [the theater]. I’ve been playing there since 2006. I’ve been on some memorable concerts, and made my debut there as a leader. It’s one of my favorite stages in New York City.

Then I was told the show has a holiday theme. I was initially worried— did I have to write Christmas music? —then realized what I had been writing this whole year had holiday season emotions.

A time of self-reflection

I grew up in the ‘hood, in Hartford, Connecticut. I also lived in Harlem for a while. I sort of experienced the same thing every holiday. It’s the time when family gets together—it’s supposed to be beautiful, you celebrate family, spirituality, togetherness.

But at that time of the year, there is this angst and anxiety. People realize what they have and don’t have. Violent things happen, mostly because people don’t know how to express themselves the right way.

One of the pieces I’m bringing to Miller is called Cold Spring. I finished it the first week of a super-cold March, but it has everything to do with winter and the holidays.

Christmas last year felt strange. It was the first Christmas without my grandfather. His funeral was the day of my debut as a bandleader at Miller on March 5, 2022, and I had to watch the funeral on the live stream. It was sort of like the beginning of a chain of craziness in my universe.

The New Year is also a time of self-reflection. This sense of a new chapter, whatever it’s going to bring. Something always happens, you know. Like, who knew during the holidays of 2020 that the Capitol was going to be taken over by crazy civilians.

Also, I’ve been writing some music with Wilbur Ware in mind. On September 8, 2023, Wilbur, one of the great bassists from Chicago, would have turned 100. I’m highly influenced by him. I’ve been listening to a lot of his music this year.

And, it’s almost as if Wilbur were with Santa Claus, you know.

Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches

Imagine this. You have two composers. They both write this new piece. The new piece is just specifically the C major scale. It’s eight notes going up, then going down, right? And that’s their new piece.

Now, someone listens to the first piece and says, ‘Oh, that’s just a scale. Beautifully written, kudos, hand clap.’ Then they listen to the second piece and say, ‘You know, this time I don’t hear just notes. This time I hear peanut butter and jelly sandwiches!’

Like, there have been some pieces that I have written that are so complex. I have really been excited about how people are going to think about this particular groove, how it’s on the other side of the beat.

Then people have come up to me and expressed how they felt about the piece. Saying, ‘You know, I really feel where you’re coming from with this piece and I stand in solidarity with you, I hear you.’ And I’m like, Damn, well, thank you.

And I’ve learned to forget about all that. Like, forget about the whole technical part of composing—things that exhibit virtuosity and facility. That stuff is going to happen regardless, especially in creative and improvised music.

What I’m thinking about is actually putting a message out—that’s going to make somebody feel something.

Tim Munro is a Brisbane-based, triple-Grammy-winning musician. He is currently Associate Professor of Music at the Queensland Conservatorium Griffith University

Copyright © 2023 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, without the prior written permission of the author.