He is unquestionably one of the finest and most influential trumpeters of our time. But how exactly did he become the musician he is for decades? Here, James Morrison reflects on the formative years that shaped him.
It took a long time for TrumpetScout to secure an interview with Australian trumpeter and jazz superstar James Morrison. During a concert series in November 2025, alongside fellow trumpet greats Thomas Gansch and Randy Brecker, the opportunity finally arose. The aim was modest: to learn more about Morrison’s early years. What emerged, however, was far richer. The insights gained not only reshaped the interviewer’s perspective on learning an instrument, but also confirmed the validity of his own approach.
James Morrison was born in 1962 in the small rural town of Boorowa, in the Australian outback. Brass instruments were nowhere to be found. In fact, the only instrument available at all was the church organ. When he was seven, his family moved to Sydney, and Morrison enrolled at a school with a brass band. He fell in love with the trombone immediately.
Unlike what we are accustomed to in Germany, Austria, and much of Europe, choosing an instrument did not lead to individual tuition. Instead, the young Morrison simply sat in on full ensemble rehearsals. The bandleader was a clarinettist, so instruction was minimal: “Spit into the horn and don’t stop blowing.” Fingerings—or rather slide positions—were scribbled above the notes. No one initially knew their names. Note values were not explained either.
“One might think this is a terrible way to teach children to read music.” And indeed, one might wonder how any ensemble could function under such conditions. The answer, however, is as simple as it is effective.
Childhood Learning: Reversed
Armed with instruments and sheet music, the children first listened to recordings of the pieces they were meant to play. Within the overall sound, they had to identify their own part and align it with the notation. In other words, they did not begin by translating written notes into fingerings and then into sound. Instead, they heard the music first, associated it with notation, and attempted to reproduce it.
From a European pedagogical perspective, this might be described as reverse learning. Yet the question arises whether this approach is not, in fact, the more natural one—and whether our tradition represents a reversal of it.
Morrison highlights several advantages of this method. Without being able to name notes or intervals, one simply aims to sound like the recording. TrumpetScout sees in this a major benefit often mentioned by other trumpeters who relied less on notation: a reduced fear of the upper register. That fear is often reinforced by notation itself and by self-fulfilling assumptions on the part of teachers, such as: “These notes are still too high at this stage.” It is far more effective simply to attempt the note and allow the ear–lip axis to do the rest.
At the same time, Morrison explains, children immediately learn to perceive the bigger picture—the essence of music: the overall sound of the ensemble, the harmonies, and the impact of the piece as a whole. Typically, beginners focus only on their own notes and may not fully grasp for years that music is about playing together.
TrumpetScout would add another advantage: those who learn early by ear are less bound to notation later on and are more likely to interpret music stylistically—because not everything can be fully captured in written form. The consequences of conventional training often remain visible for a lifetime. Many musicians can sing along perfectly to a pop song on the radio. Yet when asked to perform the same piece in a wind band, the early ingrained, almost arithmetic mode of translation takes over—and everything sounds stiff.
The Imitation Game – A Universal Path?
James Morrison does not attribute any grand theoretical framework to his early musical upbringing. “Our teacher simply said he wouldn’t explain everything in detail. Take the music, take the instruments, and play along.” It is precisely this almost accidental learning environment—hardly a system in any formal sense—that Morrison remains deeply grateful for today.
“It was fantastic not to have a proper trumpet or trombone teacher, because I can honestly say I know best how I learn.” Now, with more than sixty years of life experience, he can articulate it even more clearly: “I know that I learn fastest when I’m not told how to do something.”
For Morrison, imitation is the only truly effective path. “I watch someone do something, I get a feel for it—and eventually, it works.” And this, he insists, applies far beyond music.
He repeatedly emphasises that people differ, and that everyone must find their own optimal way of acquiring new skills. Yet he firmly believes in imitation as a fundamental principle of learning. “If I wanted to show you how to do something, I’d demonstrate it rather than explain it. The best example is language acquisition. Nobody in the world has ever been taught how to speak. Babies imitate what they hear, notice differences—make mistakes—and improve through adjustment. It’s entirely natural.”
The same applies to walking. “No one teaches a child how to walk. It sees other people walking and tries it itself. If you tried to explain it, you would create problems. And if a baby never saw anyone walk, it wouldn’t even occur to it to stand up and put one foot in front of the other.”
Morrison’s analogy with language learning focuses strongly on phonetics and articulation, as well as the direct link between sound and meaning. One does not explain to a toddler where to place the tongue for a particular sound. And when a digger appears, the word digger becomes associated with it automatically—simply through repeated exposure.
A Eureka Moment
For TrumpetScout, this part of the conversation was nothing short of a revelation. Of course we learn best through imitation. It is embedded in our very nature—our neural design. Observe, imitate, make mistakes, adjust, improve.
We are, in a sense, a natural intelligence—one that struggles with externally imposed rules but thrives on implicit, self-generated ones derived from practice. This also connects to something Marc Osterer noted in his own interview on video as a medium: humans are fundamentally visual beings. We have a natural preference for images because they require little or no decoding. Language, by contrast, must be processed—and that takes effort.
This is why instructions are often illustrated. Written language, however, dominated for centuries because it allowed vast amounts of information to be stored efficiently. Today, that limitation no longer exists. Visual media and video production have become more accessible than ever, which explains the decline of the book and the explosive growth of image-based formats.
In TrumpetScout’s view, the unprecedented global level of musical excellence today is also a result of this shift. We can now observe outstanding role models anywhere, at any time—learn from them, improve, and collectively push the boundaries further.
Explanation as an Obstacle
Morrison’s advocacy of imitation challenges conventional teaching in a fundamental way. For a long time, TrumpetScout believed the great shortcoming of his own teacher lay in his inability to explain how he achieved such remarkable playing. The motivational power of having a brilliant role model was undeniable—but unfortunately, the teacher did not remain silent. Most explanations were simply wrong.
This, Morrison suggests, is precisely the issue. He believes he plays the way he does because no teacher ever interfered with his learning process.
“A teacher can actually slow things down by trying to explain how something works instead of just demonstrating it. I’d rather do it like this: you play it, then I play it again—can you hear the difference?”
It sounds almost too simple—borderline naïve. Yet Morrison sees it differently. “People often say: ‘You’re very talented, you were gifted from the start.’ I don’t think it has anything to do with me. It has to do with how I learned.”
He sharpens his argument further, not without a touch of irony: “I see it the other way round—some intelligent people are so talented that you can explain something to them and they can still do it.”
For Morrison, intellectual understanding represents a higher level. “Today, I know how I have to play the trumpet. But I would never explain it to anyone.”
“No One Really Knows How to Play the Trumpet”
How, then, does Morrison deal with students’ specific problems? He offers an analogy from sport. A tennis player might obsess over wrist position, swing mechanics, or footwork—hyper-focusing on details. A good coach, instead, might offer a simple instruction: watch the ball. It sounds almost trivial, yet it works. “It doesn’t tell you what to do, but it shifts your focus away from the problem. Everything else happens unconsciously.”
Because, Morrison insists, no one truly knows how to play the trumpet. “You play a high A. That requires a certain air speed and a certain lip tension. No one on earth can tell you exactly how to do that. We just play. But the subconscious knows, because it has to be precise. If you’re even slightly off, you get a G—or nothing at all.”
This is not merely theoretical for him. At present, he says, he is struggling with articulation—precisely because he has started thinking consciously about his tongue. “The solution is not to talk about the tongue. The question must always be: Is that the sound I want? It’s the same as with speech—we imagine how we want to sound, and adjustments happen automatically, without conscious control.”
Learning to Improvise
If the most effective way to learn an instrument is simply to play it, then this must apply even more to improvisation. It is therefore no surprise how Morrison responds when asked about the importance of theoretical knowledge—particularly scales, which preoccupy jazz students all around the world. “Knowledge is always useful. But it tends to help later. At the beginning, when you’re learning the fundamentals, it often gets in the way.”
One would not explain verbs and nouns to a child just learning to speak, nor interrupt it for making mistakes. Nor would one explain how to pronounce “mummy” correctly. One smiles, continues speaking, and allows the child to imitate. Returning to his earlier analogy of walking, Morrison adds: “No baby walks for the sake of walking. It looks around and wants to get somewhere. Then it suddenly finds a way to take the steps.” In less figurative terms: one should focus less on how and far more on what. In music—and in life.
Nothing Unusual – Morrison the Multi-Instrumentalist
Morrison’s extraordinary ability to master multiple instruments at the highest level is closely linked to this hands-on, imitation-based approach to learning. It began at school. “There were about fifty instruments in our instrument room—but only thirty-five students. So there were always some left over.” Young James would repeatedly ask if he could take another instrument home. Alongside trumpet and trombone, he experimented with euphonium, tuba, E♭ cornet, and later, at high school, saxophone. And since he admired Erroll Garner and Oscar Peterson, the piano naturally followed. “Fortunately, there was no one there to tell me it couldn’t be done.”
This freedom made it easy, Morrison says, to learn multiple instruments. He simply listened, observed older players, and tried to sound like them. Of course, one cannot entirely dismiss natural aptitude. Morrison’s talent appears to be an extraordinary curiosity for sound, combined with exceptional perception and speed of execution.
At this point, he recounts a formative experience. At around nine years old, he took a lesson with a famous American trumpeter who happened to be in town. Morrison brought four instruments with him. The trumpeter asked what he intended to do with all that brass and insisted he should focus on the trumpet alone if he wanted to become a good player.
What a misjudgement, given Morrison’s later career as a world-renowned multi-instrumentalist. Yet the truly remarkable aspect of the story is not the irony, but the clarity of judgement displayed by the child. Even in that moment, standing before a master and confronted with what might have discouraged most, Morrison thought: How disappointing—I was sure he would know better. Doubt? Not even remotely.
A Crystal-Clear Vision
Where does such self-confidence come from? “When I was seven, my mother asked me what I wanted to do in life. I didn’t say fireman or astronaut—I said musician. ‘I’m going to travel the world and play music for people.’” But this was not a wish or a hope. It was, as Morrison describes it, a vision of the future. He could see it. He could hear it. The question, therefore, was never where he was going, but only how he would get there.
This vision has accompanied him throughout his life, providing unwavering certainty whenever obstacles arose. “I never doubted it, no matter what happened. When that trumpeter told me I couldn’t play multiple instruments, I immediately thought: that’s not true—I’ve already seen the future.”
For Morrison, it is not primarily about music, and even less about the instrument itself. It is about the effect—what happens in the room during a performance. “Last night, when we played the concert, there was this energy in the room. I’ve always felt that this is exactly what I want.” Anyone who has seen Morrison perform knows the effortless confidence with which this ever-smiling musician lights up his audience—whether through words or music.
He then quotes one of his own aphorisms: “Music isn’t about playing. It’s about listening.” Playing, in essence, is merely the means to an end. Morrison even suggests that if only musicians existed in the world, there would be no need to perform at all—because they would already hear the music in their minds. “We only need to play so that everyone else can hear it.”
A Self-Taught Writer
When Morrison entered high school—around the age of twelve or thirteen in Australia—he soon founded a big band. There was no sheet music available, so he began writing and arranging himself.
“I’m sure the first pieces were terrible. But I realised that—and learned from it.”
Before long, he no longer needed to test his ideas through performance. The music existed fully in his mind, and he knew how to write it down. “The only purpose of notation is to pass my music on to other players.”
Thus began a relationship with big band music that has now lasted over fifty years. At an age when other children might have been building Lego models—or today, more likely, exploring virtual worlds—Morrison was founding a band, leading it, and providing its repertoire.
A Child Among Professionals and at the Conservatorium
At just thirteen, he also began performing in nightclubs. He became part of Sydney’s professional music scene, gaining more experience as a child than many musicians do as adults. Throughout his teenage years, he regularly played four gigs a week, led bands, and composed music.
It is hardly surprising that school held little appeal. “School just annoyed me. It didn’t suit me—everything about it felt wrong.” On the one hand, he wanted only to write music. On the other, the model of frontal instruction—teachers explaining things step by step—was as unappealing to him in school as it was in music. “If I wanted to know something about geography, I would have found a book and read it somewhere outside. Sitting in a classroom listening to a teacher—I couldn’t do it.”
He skipped most classes, which caused considerable trouble. But instead of going to the beach like his friends, he found an empty room, wrote music, or played the piano in the school hall. At fifteen, he left school altogether.
Nevertheless, he wanted to attend the Sydney Conservatorium of Music, where a jazz programme offered access to like-minded musicians. He auditioned—and was accepted. No one asked his age or whether he had completed school. Morrison today attributes this to the fact that he looked older and, given his lifestyle, carried himself with greater maturity. In his second year, however, a teacher reviewing documents realised that this student was only sixteen—too young to have finished school, which was a requirement for admission. As Morrison later learned, the faculty quietly decided to overlook the issue, fearing negative publicity if they expelled him on formal grounds.
He completed his studies at nineteen—the age at which he would normally have graduated from high school. “Ironically, they offered me a teaching position straight afterwards,” Morrison remarks. “But I preferred to go on tour. The rest is history.”
Lessons at College
Even at the Conservatorium, Morrison showed little interest in theoretical instruction. He preferred to jam and valued the opportunity to play with so many musicians—especially dedicated jazz players.
Although he could choose his instrument in ensemble settings, he was required to declare a principal instrument. This led to trumpet lessons with American lead trumpeter Dick Montz, who had performed with the Airmen of Note and in Las Vegas before moving to Australia in the 1970s. “He was a fantastic trumpeter and a very knowledgeable technician, and naturally he wanted to pass that on to me.” Yet as we now know, this is precisely James Morrison’s Achilles’ heel. He therefore made it clear from the very first lesson—at the age of just fifteen—that things would have to be done on his terms: “Mr Montz, I know you understand the trumpet very well, but I want to save us both some trouble: I can’t really learn by being told how things work.”
He suggested dispensing with technical instruction and focusing instead on styles. Montz, a seasoned studio and musical performer, had to master a wide range of genres. Despite Morrison later describing him as an authoritative personality, Montz agreed. “He looked at me and, fortunately, seemed to sense that this approach might work.”
Lessons then consisted of analysing different trumpeters and styles, discussing the history of the instrument—and, of course, extensive imitation.
Don’t Practise—Play
Unsurprisingly, Morrison does not follow structured practice routines. “I hardly ever practise—I just play every day. Occasionally there’s a tricky passage, and then I’ll look at it separately.” He has never quite understood the concepts of work and discipline. They may suit some people, but “I don’t want to work—I want to enjoy myself.” He also strongly challenges the idea—common among trumpeters—that one must continually improve one’s instrument. “To me, that’s nonsense. You can always improve in music—but not on the instrument. High, low, loud, soft, different sounds—that’s it.”
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Once again, he returns to the analogy of walking. “It may take four years, and then the body knows how to walk efficiently and safely. But you can spend the rest of your life discovering where you can go.”
Freedom as a Form of Support
Towards the end of the conversation, Morrison speaks about his three sons, two of whom have become jazz musicians. He never forced them. “I said to my wife: if they’re going to be musical, it’s very important that we don’t get in the way.” And they didn’t—until the age of fifteen. By then, the boys had their own bands and had found their path into music independently of their world-famous father.
While many advocate strongly for actively fostering musical talent, Morrison repeatedly emphasises that one should not stand in its way. This is not a contradiction—it is simply another facet of the same idea. To support, in this sense, also means to grant freedom. This applies especially to teachers: “In my view, a teacher’s role is to create the best possible conditions for each individual to learn.” It may mean: Let me tell you how it works. But it may just as well mean: Let me show you how it should sound. Or it’s a combination of both.
Epilogue
TrumpetScout began playing the trumpet at the age of six—but had already been sent to theory lessons a year earlier. Dry, abstract, far removed from the instrument and from music itself. He knew the term enharmonic equivalence long before he could read. Is that really an achievement worth striving for?
He stayed with it and suffered no lasting harm. Others, however, may have dropped out precisely because they were put off by theory and an overly intellectual approach.
Recently, a father contacted TrumpetScout about buying a trumpet for his son. The boy, he said, diligently performed breathing exercises every day—assigned by his teacher. Six months into learning. For TrumpetScout, this was shocking.
Especially in those formative early years, melody, sound and the joy of playing should take centre stage—not the premature refinement of a subordinate technical detail that ultimately works against the very goal: making music.
Looking back, it was the period when TrumpetScout stopped taking lessons and spent years playing along to recordings without sheet music that brought the greatest progress—range, sound, and the ability to translate music from the mind to the instrument, almost unconsciously.
