Jazz has always had a unique sound and soul that only those who love it can understand. When some of the old greats stepped to the stage, their whole body became the tune. The instrumental beats that floated over the smoke filled room was the only sound you heard as hushed voices bowed to the gold toned, ivory and wooden instruments that brought life to even the saddest soul.
Rising on the air a beat or a single note would touch the tip of a glass filled with scotch on the rocks, or gin straight. It would ring. Yeah, that glass would ring. It would ring a soft note that echoed the sentiments of the saxophone’s sultry song, or the deep down melancholy of the double bass. Folks would sip. Yes. They would sip, not realizing that everything in the room wanted to dance; the chairs, the walls, the tables and floor. They all wanted to dance. Everything wanted to gently sway to the beat, limber and wild, easily swinging hips to the seductive sounds of “Sentimental Mood” or “Bitches Brew.”
When “Summertime” rendered by Sil Austin hit the still air, even the smoke stopped billowing to listen. His sax talked to you like it was sitting next to you sipping a round of Jack Daniels and reminiscing about the good old days. Austin would hold your hand with his notes, gently taking you to a place where only you and the music exist, causing you to forget that the room isn’t empty.
And even when the tunes are done, the applause is dim, not in disrespect, but in reverence to the music and the music makers. The applause is almost insulting, since it cannot begin to adequately express the love for the work, for the art. But it is the only way. So they clap, softly, hoping that through their hands, they can show their love, the same love the artist showed through the instrument, and through their tunes.
Jazz is a filling genre. Yet, no matter how full you get, you can always have more. More jazz please. Send me the notes that float on the tip of my tongue and hang off the edge of my ear. Send the tunes that speak to everything I am, and all I could ever want to be. Send me some jazz.
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Pittershawn:
You captured the essence of “pure” jazz00whatever that means. I always linked it to the more earthy sound of of Charlie Parker, Miles, et al. Wynton Marsalis once said that what Grover Washington plays isn’t jaxx. I disagree. Like all forms of musiv, jazz has morphed, branched out, veered away and whatnot. It has blended with other styles and genred. So while Boney James and Charlie Parker may play a different “sound,” they are noth jazz mu8sicians–at least in my book and they both channel a particular spirit that your essay referred to.
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I feel you. Yeah
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Wow…What do you know about Sil Austin? I haven’t heard anybody bring up his name. In fact your the first…lol I remember when I was a kid, I played on 199th Street in Jamaica Queens with his two son’s Tyrone and Sil Jr, as the sweet sound of their dad’s sax ozzed it’s way outside and onto the streets. I can still hear him playing to this day.
Now really surprise me…What do you know about another neighbor of mine named Aurthur Prysock who sang some jazz?
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Your opening line says it all as jazz instrumentals leave me dizzy, confused, at times weak. My jazz preference is of vocals that stir at the heart.
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Pittershawn, I have loved jazz for over 20 years. At 16, when I heard Phyllis Hyman, I fell in love with jazz. It is poetry to my soul. It opens you up and reminds you of peace and how you got past the pain and experienced joy. Experiencing all the emotions and moments is what jazz does to me. It even inspires me to write.
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