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Jazz in 1's and 0's

Jazz in 1's and 0's
Jeff Fitzgerald, Genius By

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Even with legitimate for-pay download and streaming sites like Pandora and Spotify, the return for the artist has arguably never been lower (except perhaps since the very beginning of recorded music, when Edison paid artists with brightly-colored beads and pebbles).
If one were to happen by the GeniusDome, providing you could navigate the gauntlet of traps and snares leading to the door and pass muster by my parakeet Al Neri, you'd be greeted warmly and welcomed into my inner sanctum. You'd notice a veritable forest of guitars, an inexplicable collection of hot sauces and Barbecue sauces, empty Coke Zero bottles, and racks upon racks of DVDs. You'd see the vaunted Magic Chair, where Your Own Personal Genius relaxes when away from his duties as the Dean of American Jazz Humorists®. You'd see the Gigantoscreen, a 50" plasma TV upon which I watch everything from football to cooking shows to silent movies from the 1920s. You may eventually be invited to sit down on the couch, should I move the unfolded laundry from it.

What you'd see is a relatively normal habitat for a divorced 51-year-old man of manifold interests, from my replica Chinese terracotta warrior (known as General Tso) to my stacks of cookbooks and food magazines to my DVD collection covering a range of topics from World War I to Jazz to the entire series of The Sopranos. You'd notice my steadfast affection for the Atlanta Braves, the Carolina Panthers, the Mars Hill University Lions, and Coca-Cola products. If you're observant, you might even notice my collection of top-shelf whiskies hidden away behind boxes of Wheaties atop my refrigerator.

What you would not see would be a veritable library of CD's and vinyl albums, as would befit someone whose preponderance of work is about music. My hundreds of CD's are still packed away from when I moved into the current iteration of the GeniusDome back in August of 2017. As for my vinyl albums, I gave those up many moves ago when I was still young and callow (but still technologically aware enough to know that I could still gawk at the cover of Linda Ronstadt's Hasten Down the Wind album on this newfangled contraption called the Internet). I can't count how many cassettes and 8-tracks I left behind in my journey through life. The only formats upon which I never collected music were DAT (digital audio tape), MiniDisc, and those records you used to have to cut off the back of cereal boxes.

So what happened? Why have I not bought more than a half dozen CD's in the past decade or so? The aforementioned Internet happened and with it came broadband big enough to stream hip new music, research and fact-check my work, and obsessively check Facebook. All while watching clips of my favorite actresses in various states of undress (I'm looking at you, Heather Lind in Boardwalk Empire). A revolution happened right in front of us, and most of us were too busy laughing at singing hamsters and dancing babies to even notice. I'm not here to talk about the early days of file-sharing sites being used to disseminate pirated recordings of popular music, movies, games and other ostensibly copyright-protected data. The ballad of Napster has been sung, in increasingly sour notes. Peer-to-peer file-sharing apps like Kazaa and LimeWire have had their day, and are mostly just repositories for trojans, viruses, and other flotsam and jetsam of the digital wasteland that lies beyond the civilized Interwebs (if such a thing exists in these days of fake news, increasingly antisocial social networks, culture wars, hostile political partisanship, and the inexplicable rise of Nicki Minaj).

No, I'm talking about the rise of digital media and the concurrent decline of physical media. The younger Millennials among you may find it hard to believe that there was once a time when you had to go to a store in person and buy a hard copy of a recording or film. Your gigantic cathode-ray tube television was powerless to deliver anything but predetermined content over which you largely had no control. Ditto your AM/FM radio. The idea of watching or listening to what you want, when you want, was as foreign to us back then as was the concept of using our phones for anything more than just making and receiving voice calls. Our media consumption was largely controlled by someone else, from faceless corporate TV programmers to local radio deejays.

In order to consume our preferred music or movies we had to go purchase them on vinyl or tape. But even then, we were at the mercy of the store at which we bought these things. Their inventory guided our choices and if you grew up in a place like a I did, a tiny railroad town in the mountains of Virginia, your selections were really limited. Even in the nearest 'big city' of Roanoke, it was hard to find anything that strayed too far from the path of the currently popular. Even in record stores (remember those?), the Jazz section was no larger than the section devoted to dreadfully earnest singer-songwriters working out the various relationships in their lives with nothing more than an acoustic guitar.

Bear with me, kids, I'm going somewhere with this.

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