FAQ  for  Fred  Frith,  prior  to  visit  to  Beijing,  March  2010  
 
 
Who  and  what  are  some  of  your  influences?  
Everything  I’ve  ever  heard.  
What  is  art?  
It’s  a  way  of  saying:  “I’m  here,  I’m  alive,  and  this  is  who  I  am”  while  at  the  same  time  saying:  
“We’re  here,  we’re  alive,  and  this  is  who  we  are.”  So  it’s  at  the  intersection  of  our  experience  as  
individuals,  as  communities,  and  as  specks  of  dust  in  the  vast  continuum  of  space  and  time.  
What  are  you  listening  to  at  the  moment?  
Jack  of  the  Clock,  Atomic  Bomb  Audition,  Molly  Thompson,  Paulo  Conti,  Ruben  Gonzales,  Cosa  
Brava  
What  defines  your  generation  of  musical  artists?  
No  idea.  
What  elements  make  a  strong  improvisation?  
Being  able  to  do  what  you  want  to  do;  being  alert  to,  and  present  in,  the  moment;  awareness  of  
your  physical  and  social  environment;  the  ability  to  listen  alertly  and  in  detail  and  instantly  to  
translate  what  you  hear  into  a  possibility  or  an  opportunity;  and  the  ability  to  change  your  
course  of  action  without  hesitation  if  the  situation  demands  it.  
What  defines  a  weak  improvisation?  
Lack  of  more  than  one  of  the  above  qualities.  
What  do  you  think  about  the  label  “noise  music”?  
Since  it  seems  to  encompass  just  about  anything  as  far  as  I  can  see,  I’m  not  sure  how  useful  it  
is!  For  a  lot  of  people  it  really  seems  to  mean  “loud  music”….  
 
 
Interview  on  improvisation  with  Amir  Mogharabi,  2007  
 

Let  me  begin  by  asking  a  simple  question  in  relation  to  the  idea  of  improvisation.  What  are  the  fundamental  
differences,  as  a  music  professor,  between  conventional  organization/teaching  of  musical  methods,  and  music  as  
improvisation?  
I  should  probably  start  by  saying  that  my  own  music  education  was  far  from  conventional,  and  
therefore  my  first-­‐hand  knowledge  of  how  music  is  “conventionally”  taught  is  limited.  But  there  
are  two  basic  methods  of  instruction  in  music  as  far  as  I  can  see.  One  is  the  way  most  people  in  
the  world  learn  music,  which  is  listening  and  imitating  as  best  you  can  until  you  have  a  
reasonable  grasp  of  the  principles  of  what  you’re  imitating  and  can  start  to  invent  your  own  
versions  of  it.  That’s  pretty  much  how  all  of  us  learn  how  to  do  things.  Even  when  formalized  
into  becoming  an  apprentice  to  a  “master”  for  years,  the  basic  idea  is  the  same.    
 
So  at  the  low  end,  you  copy  licks  off  records  (or  whole  songs)  so  that  you  can  exchange  them  
with  your  friends,  and  at  the  high  end  you  spend  years  studying  in  depth  by  observing  the  best  
musicians  at  close  quarters  and  figuring  out  everything  that  makes  them  tick  -­‐  not  just  
technique,  but  philosophy,  attitude,  culture,  context.  
You  could  apply  that  idea  to  Flamenco,  to  Jazz,  to  the  Indian  Classical  tradition,  to  Ghanaian  
drumming,  it’s  basically  the  same  across  genres  and  cultures.  
 
The  second  method  is  unique  to  Western  Classical  tradition  and  it  has  to  do  with  the  
peculiarities  inherent  in  the  invention  of  notation.  Notation  immediately  posits  an  authority  –  
the  score  –  and  ownership  –  by  the  composer.  So  classical  musicians  are  focused  on  how  best  
to  realize  the  score  according  to  what  are  understood  to  be  the  composer’s  wishes.  When  you  
add  a  conductor  to  the  equation,  that’s  a  further  relationship  that  needs  to  be  taken  into  
account.  
 
This  means  acquiring  a  very  specific  skill-­‐set  –  the  training  necessary  to  read  even  the  most  
complex  notation  fluently,  the  cultural  and  historical  knowledge  to  understand  how  the  music  
is  supposed  to  sound,  the  ability  to  follow  a  conductor,  an  understanding  of  the  peculiarities  of  
the  well-­‐tempered  tuning  system,  and  the  discipline  and  critical  acumen  necessary  to  work  at  a  
very  high  level  with  others  who  have  the  same  goals  and  training  that  you  do.  
When  talking  about  conventional  methods,  you’re  probably  referring  to  everything  that  leads  a  
musician  to  be  effective  within  the  above  set  of  parameters.  And  that’s  a  very  particular  focus!    
 
It  means  studying  the  canon  (as  mostly  defined  by  people  with  an  extremely  narrow  agenda),  
rigorously  developing  the  techniques  necessary  to  play  music  from  within  the  canon,  competing  
with  others  for  the  increasingly  limited  opportunities  to  perform  the  canon,  and  eventually  
teaching  the  next  generation  of  students  to  do  exactly  the  same  thing,  at  which  point  it  will  be  
even  harder  to  get  a  job,  so  the  number  of  highly  trained  teachers  from  within  this  system  will  
keep  on  proliferating!  
 
If  you  want  to  compare  that  to  how  you  might  set  about  teaching  improvisation  I  think  the  
easiest  way  to  understand  it  is  thinking  about  producing  something  in  a  factory.  It’s  your  first  
day  on  the  job.  You  are  met  by  the  foreman,  who  lays  it  out  like  this:  “OK,  this  is  a  photo  of  the  
antique  German  car  we  want  to  build.  Here’s  the  original  design.  Over  there  are  all  the  different  
parts  that  will  make  up  the  finished  car.    
Here’s  a  set  of  detailed  instructions,  showing  you  the  order  you  need  to  follow  to  construct  it.  
These  are  your  teammates,  they  are  going  to  be  working  with  you  and  they  have  done  this  
before  so  they’re  going  to  show  you  how  it  all  works.  And  we  have  to  be  done  by  the  day  after  
tomorrow.  You  punch  in  and  out  on  the  time-­‐clock  over  there,  and  I’m  in  charge,  so  please  do  
as  I  say.  Any  questions?”  That’s  a  conventional  music  education.  So  what’s  the  equivalent  
situation  for  a  would-­‐be  improviser?  It’s  your  first  day  on  the  job,  and  there’s  somebody  whose  
role  is  unclear  at  the  door  of  the  factory.  She  ushers  you  in  and  you  find  yourself  in  a  huge  
empty  space.  She  doesn’t  show  you  anything,  because  there’s  nothing  there.  And  she  says:  “So,  
hey,  what  shall  we  make?”  
I  like  the  idea  of  improvisation  as  a  metaphor  for  entertaining  an  empty  space.  Can  you  discuss  the  distinction  
between  "filling"  a  space  and  "owning"  a  space  that  you  mentioned  in  an  earlier  interview?  
I've  noticed  that  when  you  ask  most  musicians  (pretty  much  regardless  of  training)  to  start  
improvising,  their  first  reaction  is  to  immediately  DO  something,  make  sound,  "fill"  space  if  you  
like.  And  my  response  is  to  ask:  "is  that  what  improvising  is?”  All  the  clichés  come  into  play,  of  
course.  What  you  choose  NOT  to  do  is  just  as  important  as  what  you  do.  You  need  to  be  
"present"  all  the  time,  just  as  alert  when  you're  not  playing  as  when  you  are,  and  so  on.    
 
But  I'm  fascinated  by  the  interpretation  of  what  I  think  of  as  a  practice  based  on  the  
"recognition  of  necessity"  as,  rather,  a  "sound-­‐producing  action".  For  me  the  best  
improvisations  reveal  a  deep  understanding  of  the  implications  of  silence,  even  when  they  are  
not  silent.  "Owning"  space,  therefore,  means  demonstrating  that  you  are  in  control  of  it  even  
when  you  are  not  actually  feeling  a  need  to  do  anything.    
In  this  way  a  "solo"  is  a  question  of  authority,  and  of  self-­‐discipline,  and  a  certain  recognition  of  
the  limitations  of  technique.  I  think  of  Bill  Evans,  or  Miles  Davis,  or  more  recently  Co  Streiff,  or  
Lesli  Dalaba,  when  I  think  of  that  kind  of  improvising,  and  I  find  it  always  touches  me  really  
deeply.  
How  does  physical  space,  whether  empty  or  inundated,  relate  to  the  process?  
Well,  with  improvisation  you  are  always  in  a  process  of  collaborating  with  the  space  in  which  
you  are  playing.  It's  very  different  from  playing  composed  music,  where  in  a  sense  you  are  
trying  to  impose  yourself  on  the  space,  bend  it  to  your  will,  because  you  have  a  sense  of  how  
something  is  "supposed"  to  sound.  With  improvisation,  the  first  thing  you  do  is  listen  to  the  
space,  and  listen  to  yourself  in  it,  and  see  what  that  suggests.    
 
And  you  start  from  that  point.  It's  a  profound  difference  that  takes  into  account  acoustics,  
density,  the  social  situation  (on  AND  off-­‐stage,  assuming  there  is  a  stage),  not  to  mention  the  
daily  small  variations  in  the  condition  of  your  instrument  and  in  your  constantly  changing  
perceptions  of  it.  With  preconceived  music  you  are  fighting  to  keep  your  preconceptions  intact.  
With  improvisation  you  are  trying  to  let  go  of  them...  
And  how  would  you  describe  the  relation  to  space  in  your  work,  both  metaphorically  and  literally,  in  terms  of  the  
spaces  you  have  chosen  in  the  past  to  perform?  
Choice  is  an  interesting  way  of  looking  at  it.  The  fact  is  that  choice  is  seldom  involved.  Like  most  
musicians  I  play  wherever  I'm  invited,  and  I'm  very  seldom  invited  to  perform  in  places  that  
were  designed  for  music  to  be  heard.  In  the  last  40  years  I've  played  in  apartments,  basements,  
railway  stations,  gymnasiums,  war-­‐time  bunkers  describing  themselves  as  jazz  clubs,  fall-­‐out  
shelters,  lecture  halls,  class-­‐rooms,  cinemas,  ice-­‐skating  rinks,  parks,  the  roofs  of  apartment  
buildings,  prisons,  back-­‐rooms  in  pubs  and  bars,  disused  factories,  churches,  breweries,  you  
name  it.    
 
And  occasionally  I  get  to  play  in  a  concert  hall,  which  means  a  place  designed  by  acousticians  
for  listening  to  orchestras,  without  any  concessions  to  amplified  music,  which  is  why  amplified  
music  usually  sounds  so  bad  in  concert  halls.  So  my  relationship  to  space  is  necessarily  
extremely  pragmatic.  I  make  the  best  out  of  it,  on  its  terms!    
Over  the  years  you  discover  places  that  are  kind  to  you,  which  you  like  to  revisit.  Others  you  
dread,  knowing  that  it  will  always  be  a  struggle.  However,  you'd  better  listen  to  the  space  and  
adapt  to  it,  just  as  you  listen  to  another  musician  and  adapt  to  her...  
When  speaking  to  Ikue  about  group  improvisation,  she  mentioned  the  simultaneous  decision  to  make  a  change  in  
the  course  of  the  music,  as  an  alchemical  ingredient  integral  to  improvisation  itself.  In  a  sense,  a  coalescing  of  
listening  and  adapting  that  you  mention  in  your  response.    
Can  you  discuss  the  processes  of  concomitantly  listening  and  adapting  in  a  real  time  acoustic  environment?  
And  if  anyone  understands  that  idea,  it’s  Ikue!  I  remember  reading  an  interview  with  Karlheinz  
Stockhausen  years  ago  in  which  he  talked  about  the  importance  of  intuition.  And  the  thing  that  
struck  me  was  his  idea  that  intuition  is  a  skill  like  any  other,  that  you  can  learn  it  and  develop  it,  
it’s  not  just  a  thing  that  you  either  have  or  you  don’t.    
 
I  think  improvising  is  all  about  developing  and  honing  your  intuition.  What  will  work  here?  
What’s  needed  right  now?  How  can  I  support  that  idea?  Would  this  be  a  good  moment  to  
introduce  a  new  thread,  or  to  show  the  material  from  another  angle?  Of  course,  those  kinds  of  
thoughts  are  the  result  of  analyzing  processes  after  the  event.  
 
In  the  moment  of  “doing”  you  don’t  have  time  to  formulate  questions  or  to  understand  what  is  
making  you  do  what  you  do.  You’re  just  doing  it.    
But  nevertheless  reflexive,  intuitive  “questions”  (and  responses)  are  happening  every  second.  
And  if  you  practice  your  art  with  the  same  people  over  many  years,  or  with  people  who’ve  also  
had  long  experience  of  the  same  kind  of  “intuition”,  it’s  hardly  surprising  that  many  times  you  
find  yourselves  heading  suddenly  in  the  same  direction  without  either  having  planned  it  or  
knowing  where  you’re  going!  When  I  play  a  duo  with  John  Zorn,  or  with  Chris  Cutler,  or  with  
Ikue,  it’s  beyond  a  “conversation”.    
 
It’s  like  one  instrument,  a  single  beast  twisting  and  turning,  nothing  is  impossible.  Is  there  any  
more  powerful  metaphor  for  defeating  our  essential  solitude  than  that  ability  to  eliminate  
separation  that  characterizes  good  improvising?  Alchemy,  sure.  Magic,  why  not?