Message from Maynard

When people remember Maynard Ferguson, they inevitably focus on those stratospheric high notes, the screaming lead trumpet that could shake a concert hall. But those who knew him, who worked with him, who sat in his big bands over the decades, tell a different story. They talk about a man whose generosity of spirit matched the power of his playing.

Ferguson believed deeply that music was a spiritual practice, not just a profession. He approached the bandstand with the reverence others might reserve for a meditation hall. Every performance was an opportunity for transcendence, for both the musicians and the audience. This wasn’t abstract philosophy for him. It showed up in how he treated his sidemen, many of them young players just finding their voice.

He ran his big bands as schools of life, not just music. Ferguson understood that teaching someone to swing wasn’t separate from teaching them to live with integrity. Former band members consistently speak of his patience, his ability to see potential in a struggling player and nurture it. He created an atmosphere where mistakes were opportunities for growth, where the competitive edge of jazz was balanced by genuine mutual support.

His spiritual inclinations weren’t tied to any single tradition. Ferguson drew from various sources, Eastern and Western, always seeking what would deepen his connection to the music and to people. He dropped acid with Timothy Leary. He meditated. He studied. He believed in the power of positive energy, and this wasn’t mere show business optimism. It was a practiced discipline that informed how he moved through the world.

What made Ferguson special as a person was this quality of openness. At a time when many bandleaders maintained stern distance from their musicians, Ferguson ate with them, laughed with them, listened to their problems. He remembered that he’d once been the young cat himself, trying to make it in the tough world of jazz.

His commitment to education went beyond his own bands. Ferguson conducted countless clinics at high schools and colleges, often for little or no money. He genuinely loved sharing what he knew with young players, and he did it without the ego that could have easily accompanied his status. Students felt valued in his presence, not intimidated.

There was a humility to Ferguson that people sometimes missed beneath the showmanship of his performances. He knew he’d been given a gift, this ability to play in the upper register with such power and control. But he seemed to regard it as a responsibility rather than a source of pride. The gift was meant to be shared, to bring joy, to lift spirits.

In the jazz world, which has never lacked for difficult personalities and artistic temperament, Ferguson stood out for his consistent kindness. He dealt with the business side of music, with all its frustrations and compromises, without becoming bitter or cynical. He kept his love for the music pure.

His bands reflected his values. They swung hard, but they also radiated joy. You could hear it in the arrangements, in the way sections locked together with both precision and warmth. Ferguson built musical communities that functioned almost as spiritual communes, groups of people united by something larger than themselves.

When Ferguson died in 2006, the tributes poured in from around the world. But the most moving testimonials came from his former sidemen, the hundreds of musicians who’d passed through his bands. They didn’t just remember a great trumpeter. They remembered a mentor, a friend, a man who’d shown them that excellence in music and decency in life weren’t separate pursuits.

Maynard Ferguson played his horn as an act of celebration, a daily affirmation that despite everything, life was worth living fully and joyfully. That spirit, that fundamental optimism grounded in spiritual practice, was his greatest gift to the music world. The high notes were thrilling, but the high spirit behind them was what truly mattered.

When I was a young trumpeter, I idolized Maynard. Message from Birdland was one of the first LPs I purchased. I knew would never be able to play those notes, but I had a lot of fun trying. I caught his big band live when I was fifteen at Lake Compound in Bristol, Connecticut. What an incredible experience. The band included several musicians who later would become friends, bari sax legend Ronnie Cuber, and pianist/arranger Mike Abene, an amazingly talented guy.

I could have never predicted that thirty years later, I’d be a jazz writer and would interview Maynard for JazzTimes on his 70th birthday. My dear friend, the late Bob Belden, also hooked me up with Michael Cuscuna and Mosaic Records, to write the booklet for the box set of Maynard’s Roulette Recordings, the very music I listened to practically non-stop when I was first became a jazz fan.

Listen to “Stella by Starlight” from Message from Birdland. Slide Hampton wrote the arrangement and he told me that he was trying to have Maynard’s band sound like Stan Kenton here.

View my interview with Maynard, from 1998, on his 70th birthday.