Essay

With the recent passing of Johnny Mandel, I wanted to honor those gifted jazz musicians who, like Mandel, began as just another member of a

Ian Whitcomb was a fun person to be with. I believe it was in 1986 that we first met, at the Sedalia Scott Joplin festival.

Dear Festival Organizer, Covid-19 has led many festivals to take this year off. Now is the chance to analyze how you’ve been doing things and

“[Fud Livingston’s] final decade was a difficult one, and a pernicious addiction to alcohol ultimately took him out ahead of schedule. Until shortly before his

In the spring of 1973, one could not turn on a radio without the voices of Tony Orlando and Dawn emerging from it, singing “Tie

Note: Since this was written we have obviously launched an online edition, you’re reading it… we still think you should get yourself a physical copy,

—Andy Senior (July 20, 1994) Road Raisins—Oh, how I love ’em! Road Raisins—I gotta have ’em! I pick ’em up in the road— I’m not

In looking back to The Syncopated Times of December 2016, it unfavorably impressed a few readers when I assumed and seemed (to them) to luxuriate

When I was about ten years old, I became the proud possessor of an Edison Diamond Disc phonograph. This was under the objection of my

I probably don’t state this often enough, but I am most happy when a subscriber, having finished reading an issue of The Syncopated Times, passes

I was probably the only kid in my grade school who knew about Glen Gray. That precocious enlightenment came about because my father returned one

On being an Editor It must be a form of cosmic retribution—or what the ill-informed call “karma”—or what the sage denizens of my neighborhood mean

eBay once sold me such glories— I placed my bids without care; My house has only three stories And I need to sit down somewhere:

April Fool’s Day came early this year for some of us in the Northeast when every indication of an early Spring was muffled under what

Office Chair Old Office Chair’s got me, Mouse by my side— Fetch me that coffee Or I might get snide; Can’t leave this computer Ain’t

Owing to an interrupted internet connection this past week, I was almost certain that I would have to complete this issue without the crutches of

Making the World Safe for Autocracy (Feb. 16, 1996) There is delight in dismantling a beautiful machine. Each screw unscrewed, never to be rescrewed. Lordy,

A year has passed since I launched (as if by slingshot) the first issue of The Syncopated Times into the world. I may safely say

Sometimes our past lives come back to haunt us in strange ways. I’m not referring to anything paranormal. Reincarnation is a jolly concept but it

I found it on the AM dial. A Hollywood cowboy mimicking the distinctive Alpine sound of the Moser Brothers, a wildly popular touring group of

The other day a rather sad jest occurred to me: What’s the difference between a deadline and the Loch Ness Monster? Nobody believes in deadlines.

I have received many kind compliments since launching The Syncopated Times in February. One deeply gratifying recurring note of praise is that readers have declared

I doubt that it was ever actually true that every five-year-old boy used to want to grow up to be a fireman and that every

One evening, when I was working away on the present issue, the phone rang. When I am struggling against time and gravity, I’m inclined to

From the age of at least five or six I’ve been tormented by what may pass in a dim light for perfectionism. I would toil

I won’t eat in a restaurant. They make me nervous. I eat a lot of spam and tomato soup. I roast weenies on a fork

In addition to being publisher, editor, circulation manager, graphic designer, and advertising director for the paper you are now reading, I am also cook the

When nostalgia sufferers start on the topic of How Much Better Things Used To Be, I am most likely to smile and nod blandly while

What goes around comes around—usually on Thursday. Every advance in technology is just a new way for people to talk dirty to each other. Some

The paper you hold in your hands is a paper you hold in your hands for a reason. I’ve stated a determination to produce an

The soul selects her own society,/Then shuts the door;/On her divine majority/Obtrude no more. –Emily Dickinson Today, of course, anyone reflective enough to read the

Putting together the paper you hold in your hand was no doubt the hardest work I’ve ever done in my life. Added to that, it

As I rocket headlong through my fifties—fifty being an age when one supposedly begins to get all misty-eyed over the lyrics of “September Song”—I find

I have never been particularly fond of getting out of bed in the morning—or in the afternoon, for that matter. My daily dilemma is: do