I’ve spent a few days reflecting, and there’s more that Joe left in me that I haven’t described yet. Bear with me, it’ll take a minute to paint the picture.

If I said to you, “Carlos Santana!” you’d probably hear in your mind’s ear that buzzing, saturated sound that only Carlos can get and wield properly. Sure, I can get a distortion soaked, infinite sustainy tone out of my rig, but that doesn’t make me sound like Santana. But I believe it propels me towards studying what my own sound is, by comparing the possibilities and reacting to myself. It’s about taste and choices.

If I said to you, “Joe Zawinul!”, what would you hear?

Joe came along at the time when keyboard technology changed rapidly over a forty year period. Think about this: when Joe went to Berklee, nobody was playing Fender Rhodeses yet. When he left us this week, my laptop could put together a synth rig 10 times the size and power of what he played in 1975 without breaking a sweat. That’s a long way to come. Joe rode this wave of innovation and was one of its leaders. He relentlessly studied and found new sounds. He was one of the pioneers. He was on of my heroes.

His sound profoundly influenced my sound, and I pursued a line of study that lead me through the bowels of analog synth programming and equipment schlepping. Thinking back on those days this morning, I’m reminded of two tangible pieces of evidence of how Joe influenced me.

First, the Fender Rhodes. I used to lug one of those around back in the seventies. I’m fortunate enough to still remain friends with some of the other guys whose backs complained every time we had to move me to another jam or gig. I loved the sound of that instrument for two reasons: Herbie Hancock and Joe Zawinul. I went through a period where I would constantly play the Rhodes through a wah-wah and phase shifter, just to get that Zawinul sound.

Second, Joe’s Arp 2600s. I was immediately turned on as a kid by any track that had synthesizers in it, starting from then-Walter Carlos’ “Switched-On Bach” to “Here Come the Sun”. By the time “Chameleon” hit the scene, synths had become part of the funk lingua franca and would enjoy a decade of over-use until they very much fell from fashion and became a joke.

If you have a chance, look up a cut called “The Juggler” – it’s my favorite cut on “Heavy Weather”, and it’s for me one shining example of what Joe was all about. It’s his tune, it bounces around in a triple/duple kind of way, using his sing-songy pentatonics, and the sweet little lead sound he coaxes out ot the 2600 is priceless and haunting. It haunted me for all those years, a mental backdrop that never got erased by Talking Heads or The Clash. If you’re lucky, you’ll find a used copy somewhere.

One morning, I heard about a study at the University of California which was investigating the genetics of absolute pitch.

This was of interest to me, so my ears perked up. (I know. Cheap one.) I’ve got pretty good ears – really good ears, when I’m “in shape”. I think the debate I’ve had with myself over the years is whether I have absolute pitch or just really really good relative pitch.

Time was, I was able to sing an A 440 out of thin air, and be spot on. (Still can – just did it. Ha ha.) That would be proof of absolute pitch.

On the other hand, I experienced an ear training class at Berklee where the prof played a whole example, and I was able to take the dictation and notate it in C. Meanwhile, my pal David was over in the corner cringing – he could tell that the example was actually being played in the key of B, and it was like nails on the chalkboard to him. That would argue the case for my having relative pitch.

I got to a point in my pedagogy where my teacher Charlie would play tone clusters on the piano, and I could pick out which of the 12 tones were not in the cluster. But this took a lot of practice and training – another argument in favor of relative pitch. I can’t do that one anymore. But I bet I could if I worked on it. For a year.

So anyway, I took the test on the U-Cal San Francisco site and did miserably. The tones came too fast for me, and they were sine wave tones, which contain no harmonics. It was like trying to read a book with vaseline smudged in your eyes, that’s what it felt like. I got really frustrated and bailed after a few missed notes. I felt embarrassed.

But I’m over it, a little. And I also found that I share some interesting traits with the survey results.

For example, my perception is going sharp, as they put it. In other words, if you play me an E, I am more likely to identify it as an F. This appears to be associated with age.

That’s a relief. I thought I was losing it. Last few years, when I’d restring a guitar, I’d tune it by ear and discover I’ve “Alice In Chains”-ed it – i.e. tuned it perfectly down a half step flat. Thank my stars for electronic tuners to keep me honest.

The other trait has to do with confusing A with G-sharp. The theory behind this has to do with the fact that “concert A” sort of floats around, depending on which orchestra or consort you consort with.

One other interesting side effect I experience often is synesthesia, or the phenomenon of having sound trigger a visual response in terms of color perception. Not only do I tend to think of pitches as having colors associated with them, when I am deep in listening concentration, I see these colors. This was especially true during the days when I tuned pianos for a little side cash.

Maybe I’ll bone up, and take the test again. Or maybe I’ll just grow up and get over myself, and get on with things.