Enjoying Jazz Under Fascism

In the midst of the darkening gloom that attends the season, I’ve had the pleasure of attending (or at least listening in on) some marvelous jazz performances this past month—all despite my disinclination to put on hot music at home for my own enjoyment. Most days, I can’t bring myself to play a record. The innocent jollity of 1920s dance music feels forced and abrasive in contrast to my mood. I’ve long loved and reveled in its rhythm and beauty, its charm, cleverness, and variety that have always led me to prefer it over the dull throb of swing. But lately it doesn’t soothe my savage breast, it hits my raw nerves as an astringent.

There are two delightful and transcendent exceptions to this self-imposed (and acidly ironic) syncopation ban. One is my weekly (virtual) visit to Birdland via YouTube, where on Tuesday evenings around my dinner time I hear Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks, a select band of the finest jazz musicians on Earth, play 75 minutes of the hottest, stompingest music ever. For that hour-and-a-quarter the interdict is happily suspended. I lower the drawbridge and raise the portcullis, and the gates to my emotions are unbarred. Vince’s music makes me happy, and I return to it at the appointed time.

Then, on October 11, the magnificent Tuba Skinny landed at the Munson here in Utica. My wife and I arrived early and took seats front and center. For over two hours we forgot about our troubles and those of the outside world. That is the effect good jazz is supposed to have. Being in a dedicated auditorium with all distractions removed is essential for enjoying such a rhythmic feast. There was no glancing at headlines nor hearkening to the news summary at the top of the hour. An old friend of mine appeared and said that dancing would have made the evening perfect. I said that my knees would not permit it, and that this was as close to Heaven as I’m bound to get.

Let me say here that both Vince Giordano and Tuba Skinny washboard wizard Robin Rapuzzi have mentioned this publication from their respective bandstands, and I am deeply grateful for their kind support.

Aside from those two sublime and isolated examples, how can I expect to navigate through the daily gauntlet of bad news and worse news to enjoy music again? I can live in denial about as long as I can hold my breath; your experience may vary.

I’ve sometimes said, “Why be a political junkie when you can be a musical alcoholic?” I’ve distanced myself from politics, having lived with it in my childhood. But politics has always found a way to bring itself to my attention, jeering and shouting at me over what I’d rather focus on. And I don’t believe it’s going to get better anytime soon.

In the event that your preferred news channel hasn’t broken it to you, we’re in the throes of fascism right now. You may not feel it yet, but I picked it up on my radar a while ago. And fascism, like glitter, gets into everything. It’s intruded itself into music and the arts. I know I shouldn’t say this; some will deem me the enemy, even un-American, just for mentioning it. However, I am not your enemy. I must love America since it breaks my heart every day.

Now that National Guard troops have been sent to Chicago to protect the Federal agents rounding up people of color (and ostensibly putting ketchup on hot dogs), may we expect any of those worthies to stop in at the Green Mill? When the armed road-show lodges in Memphis and NOLA, will its legions partake of the local music culture? Can we expect them to be polite? More than that, will Fascist Jazz ever be a thing? Assuming so, one might serenade the interlopers with this (which may be sung to the tune of “Cakewalkin’ Babies”):

Goose steppers may come, goose steppers may go
And here are some fascist thugs that you ought to know;
They’re big and white—ultra right,
When they come to get you best not put up a fight;

Here they come, they see you demonstrating,
On your skulls, batons are syncopating;
Sweeping the town for the brown,
Cuffing ’em up and locking ’em down;
MAGA tools hate your remonstrating,
They’re a law of their own;
Now the only way to win is outrun ’em;
You may outfox ’em but not outgun ’em;
Hide your kids, shoot some vids,
They’re taking brown babies from home.

Now that work has begun in earnest on the Big Beautiful Ballroom (aka The Beast Wing), now might be the time to begin lobbying for a MAGA Jazz Festival to be held there, where I imagine forbidden words like “Dixieland” will be used with impunity. Anyone with a spare billion or two willing to offer a platinum handshake might hold some sway with the man in charge.

As for myself, I am content to supply special lyrics to old favorites for my usual fee—which is nothing.