Jazz just makes it all feel so comfortable inside. The cool tiskta taska from drums with a fluttering bassist ironed out by the mellow mixes of brass. The warm arms of its thick vibrations and incomprehensible rhythms. The beauty of jazz is that its players are all a part of the whole while being apart from the whole. Each man twisting his interpretation of mood and melody and letting his fingers do the dancin’. The hazy light of the dim club and the tapping of the toes from the bystanders. We bask in their glory and smile with their freedom. Their notes float like the smoke from their waiting cigarettes. Music is their blessing and their curse.
A trumpet or a sax or any brass can be a crying eye, a joyful gut, or an earnest friend. Their sometimes fat and sometimes brittle sounds depict the raw simplicity of our lives. Why we whistle, why we frown, why we laugh. I swear to god I can literally feel my blood cells relaxing in my veins. Slow down and rest along the highway to my soul. They kick up their tired feet and absorb the pulse of my surroundings. A deep breath for all.
Never has a wave felt so good. Better than a cool ocean tide on a day too hot for jeans, or the warm coziness of a coffee shop on a wet and gray afternoon. Reflections of a city tremble in the street side ponds and twinkle with each drizzle of addition. My jazz is best served sunny side up. I like it when you can hear the band sweat. It chills me out.
That’s a lie, I like my jazz in nights with chocolate skies. The ones that ached with heat during the sun’s shift and teem with doom as it clocks out. You know, just screaming for rain. Jazz is served up best on those nights. The anticipation, the wait, the glory of the uncontrollable, the untamed. I sit on a couch and watch the chaos open is chest and pour out its heart. Jazz takes it all in stride and dances with the beast. Never missing a step. Dancing with uncertainty, we do it everyday. Jazz is the only one who knows it.