Author: Greg Scheer

I have a confession to make: I hate Christmas music. There. I’ve said it.

I don’t know if this hatred grew because I’m a liturgically-leaning worship director who dislikes the way the Season of Walmart displaces the Season of Advent. Or the sickly sentimentality of most popular Christmas music. Or the soundtrack of Yuletide dittes that accompanies the binge/purge cycle of consumerism that begins as quickly as the Halloween decorations are put away. Who knows? But I’m not a fan.

You can imagine my dismay as the last three weeks of my jazz gig turned exclusively to Christmas repertoire. Yikes. But I’m a good sport and have played along. This week, however, I was overcome by a strange desire to compose a Christmas song of my own. What?! It’s true. I sat down at the piano and an hour later there was “One More Christmas Song.”

My goal was to write a song that could sit comfortably next to all the other standards we would be playing. Indeed, I borrowed liberally from existing songs. You’ll hear echoes of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” “Bring a Torch, Jeanette, Isabella,” “Angels We Have Heard on High,” “The Christmas Song,” and “Jingle Bells.” Not bad for a 16 measure song!

Do we need one more Christmas song?
Do we all need to sing along?
We need tidings of good cheer
that will last throughout the rest of the year.
It would be so glorious
to sing of peace on earth
and bring a message of good will
to all whether near or far.
Yes, we do need one more Christmas song!

This jazz tune was a long time in the making. It started its life as the 4 bar phrase that begins the song. I developed it into a full song and named it “Sprite Lee” because it was (wait for it…) sprightly. With time, however, it grew more and more complex, with shifts in and out of the key and weird phrases of uneven length, rendering it virtually indecipherable.

When I get lost in the musical weeds, I always think of Occam’s razor, which can be paraphrased as, “the simplest explanation is usually the best one.” In music, I take that to mean, “cut away the frills and doodads and get to the point.”

And that’s just what I did. I soon had hacked it down to a simple AABBA form that is delightfully tuneful and memorable. Since it was now an entirely different song than the previous version, I needed a new title, too. I chose: “Simple Lee (The man who shaved with Occam’s razor).”

_{Note: The trio was sight-reading this, so you’ll hear B naturals (instead of B flats) in the first time through the head.}

When I was a kid, I had a 45* of the song “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.” The song is written by Joe Zawinul and has been performed by everyone from Cannonball Adderly to Queen Latifah. I can’t find the exact version I heard on that record all those years ago, but the song is etched in my musical memory.

I decided to write a song inspired by the thick Gospel groove of “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy.” The tune was originally called “Grace, Grace, Grace” (you see what I did there?) but as I entered the music in Dorico and clicked the little button labeled “grace notes” to make a secondary melody smaller, I realized that “Grace Notes” was a much better name. 

The harmonies in this song are much simpler than my other jazz tunes, instead concentrating on a catchy melody and knee-deep groove. On this recording, you can hear Steve Talaga on piano with a groove so far in the pocket that he’s counting change in his sock!

_{*Editor’s note to young people, a “45” is a small record that used to be the only way to hear hit singles.}

My quest for the perfect jazz tune continues. “Alexander and Hall” began its life as a Stéphane Grappelli/Django Reinhardt style tune that was playing in my head while walking to work last week, but ended up being a chromatic bebop tune by the time I was finished. 

While “Alexander and Hall” may sound like a law firm, it actually refers to streets I pass on the way to work. It was on the corner of Alexander that I was happily humming this tune when a car nearly ran me over. I would like to tell you he had a good excuse like texting and driving; no, he simply thought he had more right to a rolling stop than I had to cross the street on a crosswalk.

I’ve been writing some pungeunt, complicated jazz tunes recently. It’s good to explore the edges, but it’s also good to write simply and from the heart. I named this one “Placidity” because of its serene nature. From the first seed of an idea–a few chords played quietly at the piano–until last night’s premiere at the club, this song has a certain something that soothes the soul.

Of course, even the most soothing music needs some contrast, movement, and tension. There is a bit of that tension even in the opening melody. Notice how the melody stretches, starting with a 3rd against the root, then a 7th, then a 9th. It’s not a biting dissonance, but just enough that the melody feels like it’s lifting away from the harmony, then gently returning–an ebb and flow like ripples on a lake.

When you think of the Euro Bistro, you may think of a broad selection of fine wines, old-world French cuisine, and a cozy atmosphere. But some people–at least two of them–think of Euro Bistro as the venue that premieres a new Greg Scheer jazz song every Thursday night.

“A Day Away” is a breezy tune with a subtle funk lilt. It began its life as two chords: F6 to Eb9. I like the way the notes of these two chords ease into each other. (As did Benny Golson when he wrote “Killer Joe.”) I also like the way the Eb9 acts like a substitute dominant chord (C7) in the key of F.

That opening riff suggested some other material, and from there I let the song tell me where it wanted to go. It ended up being a satisfying AABA form that lends itself well to multiple repeats as each musician takes a turn soloing over the changes.

A few weeks ago, I took a lesson in jazz composition. (I won’t name names because I don’t want my writing to sully his good reputation.)

One of the teacher’s observations was that my melodies are generally tethered to chord tones. Explanation: In traditional harmony, chords are constructed of root, third, and fifth. In jazz, most chords include a seventh, as well. But on top of those four notes are often a series of extensions and alterations, creating chords that look like math formulas: F7b9+11, for example.

I accepted my teacher’s challenge, writing a melody that only rarely rests on chord tones. Instead, it floats above the chords like…well, like oil and water. Interestingly, this freer approach to dissonance doesn’t sound as biting as one might think. If I hadn’t explained what I was doing, it’s unlikely you would have noticed a difference between this and previous jazz tunes I’ve written.

And that, my friends, is why I’m always trying new things. There is always something more to learn and often serendipitous accidents that come with experimentation.