Let me preface this post with an apology to musicians in general, and jazz fans and lovers, whoever or wherever you may be.
Went to a live jazz performance last night, at the request of my wife, in the Amherst area. (Names of persons and locations have been changed to protect their families) This night’s festivities offered up a three piece (I believe fairly well known and respected jazz group) band composed of guitar, drums, and organ as well as a guest alto saxophone. I can safely say that the next three hours may have changed my life irreparably for at least the near future.
Each musician was very talented in their own right, but I realized after the first minutes of the first “piece” that it had seemed as if each member of the band had become enclosed by an invisible soundproof glass case which did not allow them to hear the other band members, only the crowd. Now don’t get me wrong, every so often it was clear they had a brief moment of understanding as they knew when to let each other’s instrument go into a long, undirected tirade of musical notes and bars at the conclusion of which they bowed and accepted my forced yet polite applause. The guitarist seemed to be the most mellow. The drummer was fairly reserved yet possesed a selection of tools to rival the most skilled medievil hooded torture master. He had the basic drumsticks and then cooking wisks and a set of sticks with rabbit tails glued to them, and maybe some others I couldn’t see. The organist, the apparent leader of the musical offenders, was very, very good with the organ. But, I was at times concerned that someone with medical experience should step in as he fell into numerous closed eye transes which forced him to create some of the most spectacular, yet disturbing facial expressions I have seen in more than recent memory. I remember on numerous occassions where his face was trying to tell a tale of horrible physical pain that would lead me to believe there was someone unseen behind him attempting to simultaneously remove both of his beer soaked kidneys with no more than a piece of unusually sharp paper (the kind that gives you paper cuts) and a hot, rusty claw hammer (the old kind with a wooden handle).
It was only until the last song that the glass cases seemed to be lifted and they began to play music together so that everone in the crowd could tap their feet, clap their hands, and follow some sort of flow. Up until then I had a general sense of anxiety, which I could only liken to that period of time you experience when you need to use the only bathroom facility available, with an urgency only the most violent of foods can create, and the person in the driver’s seat has no intentions of moving along any faster to help you and your situation. Their announcement that they had completed the evenings cochlear offenses only brought that sort of relief you can experience when that other person has gone, the door closes, and you’re in the driver’s seat and feel sweet release.
Special thanks to a local Hamburg icon for coming all that way to show up in sweatpants rolled to his mid calf, a button down windbreaker unzipped to the naval so everyone had no doubt he was not wearing an undershirt, the flip flops with poor pedicure maintenance, and the hat pulled down so incredibly low that I am still not sure he posseses more than ungroomed facial hair and a mouth.
P.S.- Again, my apologies to the jazz fans and musicians. I am not trying to offend. I now know that there are only two types of people on this planet. Those who love jazz, and those who hate it.