Why are jazz musicians “like that”?

A short analysis of shedding culture. 

A little over a year ago, I began going to the gym. A mix of wanting to be healthier and having a weird relationship with my body, I believed that waking up as early as possible four days a week to lift heavy things would help me feel better, and maybe have some positive side effects I didn't account for. 

I began seeing gym content online more frequently, a product of my phone’s amazing ears, transcribing the conversations I have with my friends. A common mantra within this community is that “discipline outweighs motivation always”. If you have the right discipline, it wouldn’t matter if you didn't feel like it; you would go exercise. If you have the right discipline, you will succeed despite the odds. I began slowly applying this more to my life: waking up early, getting my tasks done quickly, going out less, drinking less, indulging less. 

I will not lie to you. I suck at practicing. It is a struggle to be productive for longer than 30 minutes, and it always has been. In my early days of being a jazz musician, no one scolded me for not shedding enough, so it was not ingrained in me that it was supposed to be like breathing or eating; that it must be done. I hadn’t even heard the term “shedding” until I got to university. It didn’t feel natural at all to me. It felt like pretending, locking myself in a practice mod for two hours, as if I was actually doing any of the hard work. It felt pointless. I felt like I sounded the same whether I’d shed on a certain day or not. I became scared that if I practiced the wrong thing it would make my sound worse, or that maybe my wrist was placed slightly incorrectly ,so all the work I would do would be for naught, having to relearn it anyways down the line. My friends would talk about their daily 6 hour sheds; I’d blush embarrassingly. Maybe it was a sign I would never be as successful as them in this industry. 

I began shedding twice as often after I began going to the gym. Sometimes I would shed after a workout, the adrenaline leading me to play harder, faster, more complicated things. It seemed natural to apply my newfound philosophy about the gym to my practicing, and I had never felt better about my body and about my music. 

Nothing lasts forever, though. Like most musicians who double as gym-bros, my wrists started giving out and I had to pace myself more, my teacher telling me that I would eventually have to choose between them. 

I will not lie to you. I haven’t shed properly in a month. If I’m being generous, I could say rehearsals and gigs, which are still plentiful in my life, count as practice, but when I say shed, I refer to solitary confinement shedding, hours by yourself drilling the same Jon Riley snare bass drum comping patterns over and over and over. I have the same amount of gigs. I have more artistic opportunities coming my way. I have found my musical people, and they enjoy my musical capabilities. I do not feel the pressure to shed for 3 hours a day; I haven’t been, and my career is doing well. 

So why is it then, that jazz musicians are like that? You know what I mean. Obsessed, reclusive, vibey, outright mean, at times. Locking themselves in mods for days at a time, sacrificing work-life balance, nurturing friendships, relationships, their youth, for a really-cool-phrygian-eighth-note-line. Why is it that in this industry, it is celebrated to rid yourself of all your traits and hobbies outside of music, and to completely devote yourself to your practice to the point of isolation? 

The music industry has changed a lot since jazz’s heyday. The method of survival and success has changed equally. In today's day and age, you are successful if you possess technological prowess, you are successful if you know how to post tiktoks that feed the algorithm. You get record deals based on something as random and arbitrary as going viral. Yet jazz musicians still operate and practice the way the greats did, back when it was less about numbers, likes, and shares. 

The niche of jazz is kept alive by the students, who will one day either get a second job, switch to pop, or become teachers. It is nearly impossible to become a jazz superstar the way the greats were. Even if you do attain stardom or some sort of notoriety it’s possible it wouldn’t be enough to support a family. What’s it all for then? 

Success as an artist means something different to everyone, but everyone is aware of the burden living in capitalist society places on the artist. Perhaps you are fulfilled, but how can you expect to also sustain yourself or your family on emotional satisfaction? Most musicians find themselves, then stuck between a rock and a hard place, stuck between selling out musically or pursuing passion. Jazz is competitive, hoards of musicians vying for limited spots in jazz bands, jazz schools, jazz clubs. Therefore success is about survival, and survival is surely about shedding. And the culture around shedding is filled with self-deprecation, loneliness, and shame. Drummer Joao Rainier speaks of practicing “it's almost like a lonely battle, with myself and the instrument”.

Jazz is hard. It’s important to practice. But to me, practicing was more about learning to blend into the drumkit than it was drilling exercises for hours. Some of the most productive work I’ve done was shutting off the lights and using only my hands on the skins for some 20 minutes. Shedding shouldn't be seen as a battle at all, but as à beautiful fusing of ourselves and our instruments. 

Jazz musicians, then, are “like that” because of the vibey, embarrassing, shameful culture that comes with this style of music. They sacrifice friendships and nights out for long practice sessions out of fear of sounding bad at jam, of not being able to hang. They shed to survive in this cruel world of changes and modes and trades, and if you question it, then clearly you are not serious enough about jazz. 

Music is meant to be beautiful. It is meant to be communal, spiritual, fantastic, exciting, loving. Perhaps this bastardization of it can be applied to every other commodified artform, but we must be aware of what magic we are able to create with our instruments and keep that beauty sacred and special. It is important to practice, but it is also important to keep that pure relationship with your instrument and with jazz.