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Outside the club at 131 West Third Street, neon signs lose their glare in the stillness of snowflakes that mark a late spring. A rumble perplexes pedestrians accustomed to subway cars or thunder, but neither has a presence here or now.
Inside the club called the Blue Note, Elvin Jones glistens through a drum solo, a sustained cacophony of color. Typical sticks aside, he performs with tympani mallets, locomotion forceful enough to make the cotton tips disintegrate into the air, to float above the audience in a delicate stream, a truth serum that belies violence.
I love jazz because it mixes intellect and emotion in a very spontaneous way.
I was first exposed to jazz by liberating a Coltrane and a Pharoah Sanders record from a friend in NYC and listening to them over and over until I got it.
My advice to new listeners is you have to take the time to listen to some jazz tunes a number of times until it starts to make sense.