The Yuppies snicker. There is applause, first a polite smattering, then a substantial ovation. This must be Performance Art, they decide. But we understand it, and it is Good. Confidently, you stride back to the musicians, slap a couple of twenties on the bar, and say, "Drinks for everyone. Except HIM." You point an accusing finger at the clubowner. Then you head for the exit.
You feel good. You've learned a lot about jazz jam sessions tonight. You've also single-handedly defused an explosive situation, and done it with flair. As it turns out, you won't soon be forgotten, either. Looking back over your shoulder, you see Yuppies flocking to the stage to be part of this new cutting-edge art form. A middle-aged businessman has the mike, and is pointing to one of his associates near the back of the room. "Eat s%!*," he bellows artistically, to great laughter and applause. He passes the mike to a slender young woman, who points at a beefy young man near the bar. "Kiss my ASS," she warbles. The room goes ballistic. The line behind the microphone grows, filled out by Yuppies in search of self-expression. Meanwhile, the house band has snuck back into the picture. It is both accompanying and commenting upon the surreal proceedings with freely improvised blips, bleeps, squeaks, and farts.
Your final image, as the door swings shut behind you, is of a critic seated near the stage. He is furiously taking notes, euphoric to be present at the birth of next "New Thing." He will praise the "collective spontaneity" of the Yuppies, noting their "almost Ellingtonian integration of individual voices into a collective fabric." He will draw parallels between your creation and avant-garde work of the 1960s, describing it as "Ornette Coleman meets Laurie Anderson in a revisionist framework for the new millennium." He will note a "new dynamic redefining audience as performer and performer as audience." He will praise the "direct and powerful text elements." He will refer to you as a "drive-by genius," and an "unassuming sculptor of human interactive paradigm."
Your place in music history is assured.
(IH: Need a manager? Try the Musicians Union directory, under "Trombonists...")
I was first exposed to jazz by my high school girlfriend's father. On the one hand he was the school's Vice Principal, on the other
he was a big Miles Davis fan. He gave me my first jazz record, Miles at the Blackhawk.