Ever since a long-time reader told me my column was “depressing,” I’m hesitant to be sincere about anything at all. Maybe somebody else’s static would be more diverting than that which buzzes around my own attic—which, I will admit, is at times ominous. (Either that, or I need to look into a way to get rid of the carpenter bees before my joists rot.)
Ideally, this column should be all about Cheerleading. I took on this paper in February 2016 with the intention of being a relentless motivator of all things and people syncopated. There is too little Rah-Rah stuff going on here; introspection, sarcasm, and subtle pessimism have taken its place. I have fallen into the delusion that how I feel is somehow important. It’s not. What matters is that this space should be an unremitting Pep Rally for Jazz. I have fallen down on the job and I can’t get up.
Never mind that I am a cheerleader in an empty stadium, enthusiastic for the settling of dust. We are all dust and we all need encouragement before we have finished settling. I’m here to raise the spirits of those who have stayed with me on this voyage as well as the spirits of the spirits of subscribers who have gone to join the Saints with no forwarding address. In addition to our print and internet offerings, I’m considering a Ouija Board edition to communicate the tidings of the jazz world to those beyond. In exchange, perhaps they could let us know how Bix and Louis are getting on.
My exhortations to syncopate might be taken more seriously if I were a more serious person. Everyone today has found an Identity that they like and they inhabit it like a hermit crab dwells in a congenial tomato can. That can is who they are, and they will defend it with their lives. My plight is that the only thing that I identify as is a dilettante. At the ripe age of 62 I still haven’t found anything that I really want to be or to do, though much of it is momentarily diverting. I like jazz except when I listen to classical; I’m crazy about cryptic crossword puzzles unless I’d prefer to doze off. I’ve been a poet and a musician, but not lately. I know a lot of things but I don’t particularly care about any of them.
It’s devilishly hard to lead a cheer when all these mixed feelings and distractions chase all the jazz out of my head. Perhaps I am the one who needs a cheerleader, though I’d probably just tell that pest to knock it off. And that’s when I’m feeling okay. On other days I could make Prozac curl up on the floor in a fetal position. “One would think you’re not happy,” said the long-time reader referenced above. “I’m not,” I replied. “But I’m honest and sometimes I’m funny.”
The obligation I assumed in 2016 to provide a high-quality monthly publication for fans, musicians, and venue and event promoters—that would keep them informed and entertained—is of utmost importance. Regarding the efficacy of this column, it may be that I truly suck at motivational speaking. The singer Jon Bon Jovi recently talked a woman out of jumping off a bridge. I can’t say I would have had similar success. My clumsy luck has been in burning my bridges before I have a chance to jump off them.
Then there’s the Elephant in the Room—and the Jackass. It’s been a more than a chore to shake my pom-poms with those beasts dominating the gymnasium this year. I envy my friends who have so far removed themselves from caring about the absurd rough-and-tumble of public discourse that they can view it dispassionately, even with amusement. Yes, it’s hilarious—but there is no neutral home planet I can return to. I have to live with the incessant trumpeting and braying. It might as well be jazz—without the melody or rhythm. (I wouldn’t call it Free Jazz since I have to pay for it quarterly.)
The irony is that I care here about something that I personally cannot control. I see many injustices that both parties directly encourage. That which is preposterous and outrageous frequently goes unchallenged. I have moments of terrible clarity when I wonder what I did to get sentenced to life without parole on this Bizarro World. I’m here to write about jazz, yet the interference on this station is deafening.
Jazz will go on—and this paper will go on—no matter what happens this year. I’m determined to see things through. I won’t get apoplectic over matters potentially apocalyptic. Nor am I apologetic. Sometimes I get so depressed that I eventually have to laugh about it. When the absurdity reaches a certain intensity, I rather enjoy it. It’s not all bad.
What I would ask you to do now is renew your subscription—which would greatly add to my happiness and ensure the continued success of this publication. If you can stand the Editor enough to have read this far, then I’m counting on you.
