Linda May Han Oh

Miller Theatre commissioned the acclaimed writer (and musician) Tim Munro to write profiles of the creators featured onstage this season, with the goal of connecting listeners to both the creator and their music.

When she speaks with me, bassist and composer Linda May Han Oh has just stepped off a plane after a tour in California. We’re meeting over Zoom, and she is in her NYC apartment. Yet there isn’t a trace of the jet lag she must surely be feeling. Instead, she is focused, thoughtful, and engaged. (Much like her bass playing.) After each question, Linda waits for a moment, considering. She treats each question as if it is the first time she’s been asked. (Surely it is not!) The following has been edited for clarity.

Constant paradoxes

In many ways, this concert includes my most personal, risk-taking music. The Glass Hours was written at a specific time, towards the middle and the end of the Trump presidency.

A lot of what fed the music in this project was my own confusion. As humans, we have to choose what to fight for while we’re on this earth—with this limited time. As I was writing, I was thinking, ‘What more can I do more, as an artist?’ I have spent so much time on my craft. But there was a point where I wanted to learn other things.

So I took a Coursera course on international human rights law. I learned that while we say we value human life, we perpetuate things like war, continuing greed and selfishness in the world. We have the Geneva Convention to mitigate the consequences of war—but that in itself is a paradox—now there is a legal right to go to war.

We say we value human life, yet we don’t figure out ways to mitigate gun violence, in order to protect our little ones. We don’t take care of issues of health care, like maternal mortality rates. And on, and on…

These constant paradoxes were baffling to me. I wanted to convey this confusion and frustration in this collection of songs. I asked myself, ‘How can write about these paradoxes, musically, to get out my own frustration, but also bring some beauty…bring some emotion?’

So far away

I grew up in Perth, Australia. It seemed so far away from everything, but I absolutely loved it. As a teenager, I thought maybe I would become an orchestral bassoonist. I had so much fun with my dorky musician friends—dreaming about what kind of music we would play.

The exposure to music was very different back then, in such an isolated place. To get a jazz record, we had to go to Wesley Classics and order it months in advance, or maybe (maybe!) it would somehow be in the local library.

I was lucky to have my older sister as inspiration. She would feed me all sorts of really cool music. Everything from Meshell Ndegeocello to John Zorn, to Mr. Bungle, to Miles Davis Bitches Brew, and Bill Evans. I was able to get this other slant on things from her.

I played the bassoon in my high school jazz band—I was a pretty good reader, I had good ears, but I didn't know anything about improvising. I started exploring what was happening in the local jazz scene, and played the bassoon in the West Australian Youth Jazz Orchestra.

If someone back then, in Perth, had told me where I’d be now, I probably wouldn't have believed them. I didn’t think I would be literally on the other side of the world, playing this music.

Snake eating itself

A new tune can begin in a lot of places. It might start with an idea for a melody, or some sort of rhythmic riff or hook. I might sing it into a voice memo, then figure out a line that fits within that, and it goes from there.

Sometimes I want a specific feeling. Or a sound. Like the song “Circles,” for example. It’s purposefully chaotic in a way that itself is supposed to sound circular. Asking, ‘Where’s the top or the bottom? Where does the snake start eating itself?’

Sometimes I think, ‘What would it be like to sit in the front row in a concert? How would I want to experience this song?’ There may not be any technical nuts and bolts, but if I’m trying to go for something dreamlike, I might imagine myself in the audience, hearing a particular sound.

Sometimes students misunderstand this idea. They think I mean, ‘What do other people want to hear?’ But you can go crazy trying to assume what will move people. Everybody is going to feel things differently—there’s so much subjectivity in art. The best that you can do is imagine, ‘What would you want, as a musician, sitting in the front row?’

Overcoming hurdles

Some of the songs on The Glass Hours deal with quite heavy topics. They are about death, warfare, the beauty of childbirth, the innocence of being a young child. “The imperative” is about resilience. “Circles” is about hedonistic treadmills.

Combining all of these different themes and musically bringing them all together was challenging. The music of this project changed through the pandemic, and especially after giving birth to my son. The topics become so much more real for me, as a parent.

Each song has its own narrative, its own purpose. I thought a lot about how to give these musicians, who improvise so well, space to create something different each night, and still maintain the integrity of the meaning behind these songs.

I have been very lucky to have such a great band of musicians who can go on this journey with me. It’s been a really fun and fulfilling exploration. Many of the songs have morphed in ways I may not have intended, but I purposefully left room for the music to breathe.

There were hurdles along the way—moments where I didn’t know how to get over a hump. A lot of it was perseverance—having faith in the process. I’m a big fan of puzzles—I love getting past a challenge. It’s important, the visualization of what you are trying to capture. Trying to stay true to that, but also being open to the fact that the result may not be exactly what you envisaged.

Both perspectives

When I first moved to New York City, I had little interest in being a bandleader. My intention was to become a stronger bass player, so I could be the backbone of a band. I wanted to be someone that people could call, to really give it my all within a band context.

During my master's at Manhattan School of Music, I started doing a lot of writing. The program encouraged a lot of composition. I was writing a tune a week, and also arranging and studying orchestration.

I found I really liked it, and decided I wanted both: to be a strong supportive player, but also to write and have my own thing. I got little gigs here and there as lead, and slowly built up that experience. I’m grateful for those opportunities to build up those skills. I’m lucky that I get both perspectives.

There’s a sense of responsibility that a band leader takes. To be someone the band can trust—someone who knows the music, but who’s also flexible in the moment. Someone who, if things don't quite go a certain way, can make the other musicians feel like everything’s going to be okay.

A good band leader can also recognize what works best with the particular people in the band. To embrace the qualities that these particular improvising musicians can bring to the table, qualities that maybe weren’t initially intended.

Full-bodied red wine

I knew I would have a small group for this project, but I wanted it to sound fuller than what you would expect. On piano, Fabian Almazan has these magical effects—people are like, ‘What’s going on…is there a guitarist there?’ And on bass, I’m sometimes doubling other parts—playing root note, but also another line.

Sara Serpa was the perfect singer for this project. She and I have been friends for a long time. We have worked in various different situations. We always wanted to do a project together.

I’ve used voice on past albums. I had Jen Shyu on an earlier record, singing in Mandarin as well as English, and worked with the wonderful Australian vocal ensemble, Invenio. I’ve also used my own singing voice, doubling certain lines.

Sara’s voice to me is like a beautiful, full-bodied red wine. It doesn't take over everything—she has this way of being emotional but understated, adding the perfect color to the instrumental parts. She’s also taken on these challenging lines like a pro.

I wanted to have a lyrical element in some of these songs. In “Jus Ad Bellum,” when the music starts gearing up into the battlefield, I really wanted to feel like it had more of a human connection. And that’s also where Sara’s voice is so wonderful.

Constantly evolving

I wonder what it would be like, playing some of this music in ten to fifteen years from now. I think about my first-ever release, my trumpet trio album. It would be interesting to play that music now, to see what I would do differently.

I have no idea when each project is finished. My music is constantly evolving—I reshape some of my tunes for years afterwards. To this day I still practice and learn songs that are from like the 1940s, 1930s. I still love learning those melodies and songs and structures.

I don’t really think too much about when a project is done, or when it is dated. Every tune is going to be different—yesterday, today, tomorrow.

Not too precious

Ninety-nine percent of the time on a gig, I’m not playing my own bass. (Not on this gig—this is my own bass!) Often it’s an instrument I’ve been handed just a few minutes before showtime. It’s like meeting a new person for the first time.

We work so hard, day to day, developing the strength in our sound on our own instrument. But bassists have to be flexible, to still sound like ourselves if we're playing some bass that we've never met before.

There’s a lot of parallels with people who improvise. Sometimes you’re playing with a musician that’s doing something unexpected, or maybe someone’s more ahead of the beat. You have to figure out how to work with that.

You can’t be too precious—you make it work, to problem solve, to adapt. It’s a puzzle to solve. There’s something beautiful about meeting that challenge.

Tim Munro is a Brisbane-based, triple-Grammy-winning musician. He is currently Associate Professor of Music at the Queensland Conservatorium Griffith University

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