To be honest, I first picked up a trombone because I thought it was a funny instrument. I was in third grade and that was my only criterion. I had no idea how profoundly the instrument would shape my life, or where it would lead me. But five years later I was still playing and met my musical mentor Bill Anthony, who has become one of my greatest heroes and friends.

My “one-hour” trombone lessons with Bill start at eight in the evening and often last until well after ten. On arrival at Bill’s house, I navigate past assorted cats and countless instrument cases to the inner sanctum of the practice room, a living shrine to jazz and musical development. There I’ll often find Bill deep in thought, studying his latest arrangement or transcription with a slight smile, making him look like some genial elf. Bill’s abode is stereotypical of the obsessed musician: all four walls are hidden behind towers of old records, the hardwood floor is covered by a tattered, red carpet, and a single music stand occupies the center of the room like an altar.

Bill often jokes “that carpet’s worth a lot. It’s just a jumble of great jazz DNA.” He’s not lying; many immortalized jazz trombonists have passed through that cramped bungalow, leaving the contents of their spit valves in the carpet. J.J. Johnson, the man generally considered to be the greatest jazz trombonist who ever lived, was a personal mentor and close friend to Bill. J.J. cultivated Bill’s chops, and I in turn have been the lucky recipient of Bill’s encyclopedic musical knowledge and tremendous enthusiasm for jazz.

This generational inheritance is embedded in the great jazz tradition. Jazz and its progenitor, the blues (or as my band director calls it, “North American indigenous folk music”), are founded on an oral tradition. Jazz culture is passed along through generations much like storytelling, but with music as its vehicle. Music itself emphasizes self-expression through collaboration; to hear a group of jazz musicians play well is really just to listen in on an elaborate conversation.

So every lesson I hold tight through scales, practice phrases, selected studies, and other
exercises that are great for improving one’s technique but notoriously tedious. I’m waiting for the last part of the lesson, when we put on a record and play along, taking solos and trading ideas. For me, this is music at its peak, and because I’ve rehearsed such moments in the comfort of Bill’s practice room, I can play comfortably on stage at a performance, even in a venue like New York’s Lincoln Center. I once confessed to Bill my fear of soloing in front of an audience. With his usual soft-spoken wisdom, he told me that as a jazz musician I’ve soaked up all the music I’ve ever listened to or played, so that when I solo it’s not just me playing, but all the great players who have influenced me. The music is there, I just need to let it out the best I can.

Now when I’m at the front of the stage, under spotlights, I just close my eyes and let the music flow. Bill has passed on to me not only the musical knowledge necessary to play well, but the enthusiasm for jazz that keeps the music relevant today. Although I do not plan to be a professional musician, jazz will always be a part of me and the lessons I have learned from jazz will guide me through life. And whether I’m on stage or in Bill’s house, there’s no better feeling than playing jazz with other great musicians, exchanging musical ideas and perpetuating the tradition of jazz.

This essay was written by Cory Hargus, Garfield Class of 2009, Brown University Class of 2013.