Static From My Attic

I’m going to veer wildly off-format here in order to fulfill a promise I made in this column last month. Last year, a subscriber named

I was deeply honored this month to receive a message from the legendary jazz writer, editor, archivist, and producer Dan Morgenstern, who offered his kind

I begin to think I should rename this column “The Crisis of the Month.” A crisis is not necessarily a bad thing, but it demands

As I begin this column, it approaches six o’clock in the morning of my printer’s deadline. If I was able last month to glide to

This month’s paper, late though you may receive it, is something of a miracle. One week before this writing I was in a state of

I realize that most readers turn to this column with the expectation of somewhat light-hearted commentary, so I am reluctant to unpack this month’s stock

When I published my first issue of The Syncopated Times, I worked to compensate for the variables and uncertainties involved in getting started. Not the

If anything is musically analogous to this historical fermata, it must be the chorus-length note held by Carmen Lombardo on the Royal Canadians’ classic (and

Each month, it seems, represents a newer normal. Normal wants to update itself relentlessly, much like my Windows operating system—usually at no small inconvenience and

For the first 52 issues of this paper, page three has contained a column of my mental regurgitations which many readers, unaccountably, look forward to

In the second month of our siege against an implacable and impersonal enemy, I am a bundle of conflicting and untidy emotions. It really is

There is no point in attempting my usual meandering approach to the topic that preoccupies all of us at the moment. Just as unnecessary travel

I wasn’t going to write the column I’m about to write. It’s going to cause me more of the trouble I’ve lately been experiencing, but

Last December, after wrapping up the layout of my January issue and launching it into the world, I was privileged to revisit what had been

I was deeply moved—and somewhat embarrassed—to read Larry Melton’s encomium for The Syncopated Times (and its hapless publisher). I do acknowledge that the survival of

Sometimes I forget to breathe. That’s not literally so, but it might as well be. In editing and publishing The Syncopated Times for four years

I am never quite sure, when I sit down to write this column each month, whether it’s going to be a jeremiad or an exercise

I find myself at the end of a long and harrowing layout process (which may be characterized as the maraschino cherry perched atop my annual

It is my (probably naive) assumption that the vast majority of us muddle through our days not intending to hurt anyone’s feelings. The more sensitive

When I was in high school, I began a book report sixty-four times. I finished none of those sixty-four drafts, and I took an F

Aside from the mere act of dragging myself out of bed and facing a computer screen every day, the most challenging aspect of editing The

I look back with no special fondness on a publication that used to be ubiquitous in waiting rooms, Highlights for Children. I somehow acquired a

I admit an aversion—if not an antipathy—to change. Change is at times necessary, at a certain point it is inevitable, but I wince when I

If, upon leafing through this month’s edition of The Syncopated Times, you notice a few differences from how the paper has appeared in previous issues,

Sometimes we need to be gently but firmly reminded that life is not of infinite length. I’ve been chugging along in my syncopated rut for

Three years ago this month, I set forth on a journey of perpetual astonishment with the first issue of The Syncopated Times. “How did I

As part and parcel of taking on the publication of The Syncopated Times, I find that I’ve acquired a community. I wouldn’t describe us as

I had to reflect, this month, on the passing of JazzTimes publisher Ira Sabin at age 90. In reading his Washington Post obituary I was

 Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer in a Screenshot from the trailer of Gaslight (1944) (Public Domain) Having spent my childhood and an unconscionable portion of my

Certain matters of local pride in a community invariably become annoyances to particular members of that community. Twenty years ago we bought a delightful Victorian

(Related Story: Hot Jazz Saturday Night Cancelled) Most of my life I have been fascinated with radio. My childhood, of course, was dominated by television—because

It may indicate a distinctly unbusinesslike attitude, but I regard picking up the telephone receiver to make a call with the same enthusiasm I’d muster

Perhaps it is just my Inner Reactionary talking, but some days I find very little that is delightful about the internet, or (as I am

There is a song, whose title I dare not quote lest I incur the wrath of the copyright holders, that states something to the effect

When I began publishing The Syncopated Times in February 2016, I stated my determination to reach out beyond the arbitrary borders of this country to

Each month when I begin work on the following month’s issue of The Syncopated Times I often think of Sisyphus, king of Ephyra, condemned for

I am old enough to remember when the prospect of having one’s mouth washed out with soap was a credible threat. Not that such a

I don’t find anything especially remarkable about coincidences, except that they seem to happen all the time. Mostly, they occur, are briefly noted, and then

When I think of some of the acts that are chosen to perform at certain jazz festivals, I cannot help but hear the persistent voice

On Dancing Bears, Sarcasm, and the Imperfect Reliability of Electronic Mail At certain times I begin to loathe the internet, resent my computer, and nurse

It occurred to me as I was microwaving my (very) late breakfast of a bean, cheese, and jalapeño burrito, that much offense is taken these

One of the unforeseen side effects of the internet is that everything is made contemporary. For those seeking to commune with the past, one need

In January 2016, when I launched The Syncopated Times as Publisher and Editor, I had not gauged the full import of assuming responsibility for every

There persists a somewhat stereotyped image of The Editor, bolstered by media archetypes Perry White (Superman) and Walter Burns (The Front Page): a cigar-chomping, coffee-swilling

I’m down on heroes at the moment. And by “heroes,” I’m not referring to those genuinely heroic people who rush into burning buildings to save

One of the little-noted casualties of the Social Media revolution is our fluency in composing a simple and heartfelt message of condolence. The Victorians were

A Kind of Immortality There’s something exquisitely ironic about publishing and editing a paper dedicated to joyous and lively syncopated music and not finding the

I face the task of writing this essay with more than a little dread. Last month’s “Static” expressed my views concisely and effectively, and if

Unless you’ve been in a medically-induced coma for a year or two, you will have noted that the times are, as the supposed Chinese curse

My wife and I were fortunate this past month to hear a program of Spanish and Latin American piano music, with commentary, offered as part

When I launched The Syncopated Times this past February, I made it my policy never to apologize to readers for anything except publishing information that

Even when writing about a topic as delightful and congenial as early jazz, it’s quite impossible to avoid controversy. To be fair, just about everyone

From the time I was a mere child until the present day, people have felt that they could say anything at all to me. Sometimes

I have previously written in this space about “dread.” I then referred to a more general foreboding—which still occasionally visits me, in spite of my

On April 9, my wife Sue and I were delighted to attend a performance by Vince Giordano and the Nighthawks in Upper Nyack, New York.

Let me confess: I am mentally unequipped to adjust to the real possibility of joy. Before taking on my new life as publisher of this

I have been allowed to live on this planet (by virtue of not being worth the energy to throttle) for fifty-three years. It’s a lovely

It was a dream: my wife and I were in a large old auditorium which, instead of theater seating, had a polished hardwood dance floor.