All About Jazz needs your help and we have a deal. Pay $20 and we'll hide those six pesky Google ads that appear on every page, plus this box and the slideout box on the right for a full year! You'll also fund website expansion.
Grief, desire, memory. When utilized properly, they can serve to provide a sort of forward motion. Even if only down the street for that last drink of the evening. From somewhere nearby can be heard the faint tinkling of a piano as it has a conversation with itself.
What do I have, what do I want? I close my eyes to make the here and now waiver. Her kiss, no, it is just the coolness of an ice cube now left alone in an empty glass.
I am not avoiding going home, but there is an album which goes perfectly with a certain hour that has yet to come.
I must wait a while longer before I can let the needle sink down into the record, following it into sleep.
I look around, a few sleepy eyed refugees from what it fast becoming yesterday. I pull my notepad pout of my pocket. It holds a white envelope which I had forgotten about in its mouth.
I am superstitious, king of the land under the ladder, it's a sign. I will write her, then I can go. I am already humming that first song. I just want to tell her that I am here, that I know. It is a lie only in that it is all more for my sake than hers.
I put it in the envelope, my missive, the doodle of a pinecone, before I can change my mind.
Although I normally don't, I write my name on the envelope's upper left hand corner. There it was, an alien thing, perching on the three lines of my address. I felt like having eggs, with a beauty mark of Tabasco on each yoke. And for a moment I am grateful to have a desire which I knew would be satisfied. The bartender was whipping the zinc with a rag, a jockey in the final stretch. I nod to the waitress now holding up the far wall.
Outside a taxi pulls up, a woman gets out. She is in a black cocktail dress, shoes in one hand, she stretches, raising both arms over her head making the late night air receipt a poem upon her flesh.
The driver leans across the front seat asking me if I needed a ride home. I nod my head no. I have a short enough walk to tomorrow.
I love jazz because anything is possible; it has few rules and the best jazz breaks those ones. I prefer free improv because it doesn't really have any rules at all.
I was first exposed to jazz in my teens (in the late sixties).
The first jazz record I bought was Filles de Kilimanjaro by Miles Davis, shortly followed by Extrapolation by John McLaughlin.
My advice to new listeners is to listen as widely as possible and not to make snap judgments--stick with it.