In this dim and chilly season, as snowbirds migrate south and leaves fall from the trees, I turn from my preoccupation with my own foibles and bellyaches to rail at the harvest of loss each rotation of the earth seems to bring. Even the mellow boon of pumpkin spice in whatever beverage I may choose cannot snap me out of these dire reflections. I begin to wonder: Who will care as much as we do about what we love when we are gone?
I see jazz festivals, jazz clubs, and jazz bands winking out of existence like distant, spent stars. Some are hanging on and even prospering for the time being. Some clubs implore young people to attend, in a last-ditch attempt to get someone to perpetuate what they grew and nurtured. Yes, these clubs were full of young people when they started—fifty years ago. And those young people were us. What now?
Some years ago I deconstructed the term “Our Kind of Music,” which I felt had the effect of a No Admittance sign on the door of the (exclusive) club—though a universally enjoyable sound might be heard within. It is almost as if we wanted to take it with us, to be interred with it like Tutankhamen, to have it cheer us through eternity. I know that isn’t actually so, of course. We’d love to have a new generation take up the music we love. The problem is, how do we take what is ours and help them to make it theirs?
Since immersing myself in old jazz
