Dave Holland

Making Space

The first time I met Dave Holland was at a seminar I attended as a student. Like most of the bass players there, I arrived expecting to spend the day wrestling with odd meters and sophisticated rhythmic concepts, an area in which Dave was widely regarded as one of the leading innovators at the time, particularly through the music of his band featuring Steve Coleman.

Instead, he had us play a simple I–IV–V blues for what felt like hours.

At the time, some of us were probably a little disappointed. Looking back, it was one of the most valuable lessons I ever received. Without ever saying so explicitly, Dave reminded us that music doesn't become meaningful because it's complicated. More importantly, he made us understand that unless the fundamentals are truly secure, there's little point in venturing further. Everything more sophisticated has to grow from a foundation that's already completely solid.

Years later, while touring with saxophonist Mark Turner, I asked him who the best bandleader he had ever worked with was. He didn't hesitate. “Dave Holland.”

What struck me was that Mark hardly talked about the music. Instead, he spoke about the way Dave looked after everyone on the road—travel arrangements, meals, everyone's comfort—but, above all, about the confidence he gave his musicians. He trusted them completely, and they could feel it.

Another memory has stayed with me. In 2008, Herbie Hancock was playing the Jazz à La Défense Festival in Paris with Vinnie Colaiuta, Lionel Loueke and Dave on electric bass. I went with my old friend James Genus, who had played in Paris the previous evening. On our way to the venue he smiled and said, “I think I'm going to get the gig. I should probably show up.”

After the concert we spent quite a while talking with Dave. I mostly listened, to be honest. The ease with which he accepted the situation made me think that this was probably something he and Herbie had already discussed. Yet there wasn't the slightest trace of competitiveness or disappointment. If anything, he seemed genuinely happy for James. The warmth, generosity and encouragement he showed that evening made a deep impression on me. It confirmed something I had already sensed: there was complete harmony between the man and the musician.

What fascinates me most, especially when Mr Holland plays as a sideman, is his remarkable ability to become part of the music without ever drawing attention to himself. He never imposes himself, yet his presence is unmistakable. Rather than filling every available space, he creates one in which everyone else can flourish. Very few musicians possess that kind of confidence.

One record illustrates this beautifully: “River: The Joni Letters”, by Herbie Hancock. The first time I heard it, I was almost struck by how unproduced it sounded. Everything feels so natural that you could imagine the music simply unfolded that way. Of course, I suspect the opposite is true. Every detail seems to have been considered with extraordinary care.

I wasn't surprised to discover that this delicate balance between the musicians had been captured by engineer Helik Hadar and produced with such elegance by Larry Klein, whose attention to detail and instinct for sonic alchemy have always impressed me. The space, the restraint of the arrangements and, above all, the sound of Dave's double bass reveal remarkable musical judgement. No one ever competes for attention. Every musician occupies exactly the right place, allowing the music to breathe naturally. Dave's bass is never pushed forward, yet it quietly gives the entire album its warmth, depth and foundation. To my ears, it remains one of the most beautifully recorded double bass sounds I know.

Oddly enough, despite my admiration, I've never thought of Dave as a direct influence on my own playing. That's probably a matter of sound. I've always been drawn to a drier tone with less sustain. But influence isn't always about imitation. Sometimes it's about values.

I also admire Dave's writing, and perhaps even more the way he assembles a band. His compositions seem designed to reveal the personalities around him rather than his own. Even in his most rhythmically sophisticated music, complexity never feels like the point. It always serves the music rather than the concept. His groups never feel like vehicles for a leader's ego. They feel like conversations.

When I think of Dave Holland, I can't help feeling that he chose exactly the right instrument. The double bass seems perfectly suited not only to his musical voice, but also to his character: quiet strength, generosity, humility and integrity.

Looking back, I realize that Dave Holland has been teaching me the same lesson ever since that afternoon spent playing a simple blues. The greatest musicians are not necessarily those who occupy the most space, but those who know how to create it.