I Just Came for So What

I’m starting this journal partly as a way to build a study routine—something that helps me figure out what actually works for me right now. I'm a double bassist and I've been playing jazz for a few years. I now live in the United States, after spending my entire life in Mexico City—a vibrant place where everything seems to happen at once. On any given night, there are dozens of shows going on at the same time. In other words, boredom? Never.

I also write this as a way of contributing—however I can—to jazz education, to music in general. It’s one of the few things I truly believe I know how to do. These days, people are constantly recording videos, publishing methods, curating playlists—there’s an endless stream of content for the next generation of musicians. And yet, for some strange reason, I trust that my friends might read this. Especially those who know I enjoy writing—maybe they’ll even share it. At the end of the day, I’m also doing this for myself. To get away from those dull routines, those endless pages of so-called notes that I write and erase, sometimes not even using real words—just a few abbreviations, symbols, random scribbles that made me feel productive: 140 bpm / s.w. / imp. 20’ / 2&4 / 5/31

Today’s challenge: write my own lead sheet for So What—the iconic bass feature played by Paul Chambers, as mentioned by John Goldsby in The Jazz Bass Book, from the legendary album Kind of Blue.

Writing a lead sheet can be a pretty straightforward task. In fact, I wouldn’t even have to do it—So What is in the Real Book. But for someone like me, who learns more through listening than reading, it actually matters. I’m not just writing it down, I’m playing it from memory—music I’ve heard for years, a melody that’s been quietly living in the back of my mind.

Once I know the notes, I try to figure out the rhythm. What's the form of So What again? 32 bars, AABA. I know it’s only two chords, but I’m not sure if they’re major or minor. I do know each one holds for a while before switching, so I’ll play through some arpeggios along with the recording and listen for what feels right. Even before I start writing anything down, I notice I'm having a hard time just playing. Why is that?

I remember listening recently to this bassist around my age—Will Lyle—talking about transcription, and how important it is to understand the right-hand technique of the bassists we want to emulate. I remember him making a gesture with his hand: “So-and-so plays like this,” he’d say. Of course—the right hand is everything when it comes to sound on the bass. It also affects agility and depth.

I looked up a live video of the quintet on YouTube—I had to see P.C.’s hands. The camera doesn’t show his right hand up close, but one detail stood out: his fingering. His approach is different from mine. While I tend to keep notes in one position so they're closer together, he plays along the fingerboard across the D and G strings. That instantly reminded me of Jorge Roeder, during a visit to Mexico City as part of a residency led by Mexican drummer Antonio Sánchez. In a class, standing in front of a group, Roeder showed me how to play the melody of Days of Wine and Roses. He told me something like:

“I get that you’re trying to keep the notes close together, but this fingering sounds better and projects more.”

Could P.C. have been thinking the same? I don’t know. But I have to play it.