I'm not sure there's an official definition of groove music, but the idea is that you lay down a really nasty line and repeat it often, because it's so catchy.  A lot of popular music is based on grooves.

But 'serious' composers need to avoid grooves at all costs, right?  We need to strive for abstract structures, that take repeated hearings to unwind (or so I thought).  Because of the trappings of this sort of thinking, I scuttled the groove idea and went on with the 'ultra-serious' business of flipping melodies upside down and backwards, etc.   

The piece received its first premiere, and I remember thinking that I really didn't like how the second section unfolded.  It seemed as though the ideas got lost in my own complicated musical map.

In general, I think it's good idea for a composer to move on to the next piece after one is completed, rather then continually rewriting pieces to get them just right.  But in this case, something kept gnawing at me about this marimba piece, as though there was a better version inside me somewhere. 

Earlier, I had sketched out the groove section, and began taking a look at it again.  It really seemed to fit, and provided a much needed sense of repetitive structure in the work.  At that point, I just sort of let go of any misconceptions I had about groove music, and began trusting my instincts.  I kept bringing the groove music back, with improvised material in between, that kept getting a little further and further out.  For good measure, I also added a hi-hat, that the marimbist could strike on beats two and four, to really get the piece rockin'.  

So in a few short days, the work was drastically rewritten, and performed yet again.  Interestingly enough, I've actually seen people in the audience bob their heads during this section, grooving right along with the performance on beats two and four.  

This was an extremely important musical discovery for me. A sort of coming out of the closet moment in the sense that I grew up with funk, jazz and rock music and I used to play a really mean electric bass.  There wasn't a bass line around that I couldn't play and I played 'em all with jazz groups, speed metal bands - you name it!  So I feel these types of music deep down in my bones. They're a big part of who I am as a musician.  To not write in these styles, or to at least incorporate aspects of them in my writing, would essentially be ignoring a core part of who I am.  

You may have heard of The Crossover Phenomenon in music.  It's often used to describe a recording where a classical artist, like Yo Yo Ma, plays folk music, or a popular artist like Billy Joel creates something in the classical realm.  This is all well and good, and anything Yo Yo Ma plays sounds terrific.  But I prefer to think of the crossover phenomenon differently.  I am a crossover artist through and through.  I don't wear one hat most of the time and crossover to wear another hat on a whim.  I have grown up with one leg firmly planted in the classical camp and the other firmly in the rock camp.

So what the hell does all of this mean, when it comes down to the important business of making music.  Well, it means a whole bunch of variety within a piece, sometimes within the same movement.  It also means that the groove-based music I create develops or morphs into something completely different over time.  You can hear the core melody coming through, but you might feel as though you've been transported into a completely different world.

Take, for example, my trio Furtive Glances for sax, piano and electric bass.  Initially in the work, the sax is improvising over the top of groovy jazz feel.  As the work unfolds, the sax melody morphs into something that sounds as though Brahms wrote it himself.  These sections are separated by several minutes in the actual work, but I've merged them together in the excerpt below to illustrate the point.  Take a listen, and let me know what you think.  Can you hear the same melodic shape, slowed down a bit?