…but I don’t get jazz either. Tonight, I saw a lovely concert full of, according to those who know, virtuosic piano and saxophone musicianship. Excellent. Too bad I don’t know what I’m supposed to be hearing that is so amazing.
I’ve found most jazz concerts to be full of sagely nodding intellectuals, bopping along to a beat that I will swear DOES NOT EXIST. Tonight, I enjoyed a piece called Chrysalis (I think it was called that – there wasn’t a program to tell us so we had to rely on the musicians to tell us what they were playing), but only because I knew it was called Chrysalis and I could try to paint the image of butterflies and cocoons in my head. I enjoyed when piano and sax would chase each other up and down the scales, or toss a note back and forth like it was a ping pong ball. The audience clapped after those sections. Ok, I get it. That was cool.
But I know I missed the point. I spent most of my intellectual power wondering why I liked the sound of the soprano sax so much. Aren’t you impressed that I knew it was a soprano sax? I only knew it because we asked someone who knows these things. But I did like that instrument; it’s pitch and tone hit my ears just right.
Anyway, the nice thing is I’m not going to lose any sleep over this. I don’t get jazz. That’s ok. I’m still worthy of life. Even my jazz loving friends say so.
Everything and a Racehorse 