Chapter 9: And All That Jazz

As you can imagine, New york and its surrounding burroughs have deep musical roots. Wikipedia says, "Beginning in the 1940s, New York City was the center for a roots revival of American folk music. In Greenwich Village, many of these people gathered; the area became a hotbed of American folk music as well as leftist political activism." Do I care? Absolutely not. Apart from the "leftist political activism"-a fun phrase to use at parties or bus stops, I hate folk music. Many people have threatened to burn me at the stake for not possessing a single Dylan album. Last year I refered to him as a wheezing, rotting husk of a man that should be propped up in the neighbor's farm to ward off the crows. Sacrilege, I know. And I'm pretty sure after hearing my declaration, the frumpy-looking woman sitting next to me wanted to shank me with her hair chopsticks. By the way, the food utensil in your hair pretending to be a hair accessory-it confuses me. When I see it, I get hungry, then ashamed. I hope you're happy. Your chopstick hair ruins lives.

Ok, getting back to music. One of the reasons I love New York probably has something to do with its Jazz and Blues history. In this city, you can't throw a rat without hitting a Jazz club. And you might think Jazz is something old people listen to during dinner at the "home". I suppose some of the artists definitely serve that purpose. The old people love Tony Bennett and Glenn Miller. And I guess it might be confusing for some to hear a tune with more complexity than the usual four chord progression i.e. most pop songs. Don't believe me? Check this funny business out: Axis of Awesome.

I've been to just about all of the good clubs (and bad ones too) in Manhattan. I've even made an ass of myself at a few. The Cotton Club, Blue Note, Birdland, Village Vanguard, 55 Bar, The Supper Club, Apollo. I'm fairly accident prone, but not in the usual way. I tend toward the spectacular kind of humiliation. Let me sing you a beautiful ballad...oops, I just fell on your table. What's that you're eating? Yes, it's now stuck on my bosom. Note to self: the Jambalaya is delicious here. Hmm, don't get to close to the bassist. Last time your ring got stuck in his hair. How was I to know he has Alopecia and that chunk I just ripped out has exacerbated his condition? 

I happen to be a big fan of bebop and hard bop. The name comes from the gibberish sung during a scat. How great is that? If only I could incorporate more gibberish into my vocabulary. And yes, it's the form of Jazz that you can't dance to. Improvisation wrapped inside a shell of a familiar standard. It's a little like me: frantic, nervous, probably fragmented, spontaneous, and occasionally brilliant. Ok...maybe I should qualify that brilliant statement. In retrospect, it wasn't a stroke a brilliance to attempt to super glue the hole in my tights.  

Aside from many of the musicians being virtuosos-like Charles Mingus, the musicians are tragic figures; I'm a sucker for unhappy endings. Many died young from drug overdoses or were straight up crazy, in the case of one of my favorites, Thelonious Monk. Poor guy probably had Schizophrenia, but he wasn't afraid to accessorize with some crazy hats. One recording features John Coltrane being suddenly woken up (clearing after being on the nod) by Miles Davis and then producing the most amazing improvisation. I mean, intoxication usually presents some coordination issues. I'm just sayin'. 

But don't get me wrong, I have many guilty pleasures. Just the other night, my daughter and I were doing a booty shake to "Womanizer". Yes, there's room in this elitist heart for train wreck pop stars whose chi-chis point toward true north and whose weave is desperately trying to escape. Whatever, that song's hook is infectious.