
‘Keep Your Pretty Head Low’
Well, it’s been quite month. Of course, for me, every month is “quite a month”—but this one, if it were a physical rather than an
Well, it’s been quite month. Of course, for me, every month is “quite a month”—but this one, if it were a physical rather than an
I was lucky to grow up in a community that was ethnically (if not racially) diverse. Certain nationalities predominated, and in the cul-de-sac where I
Not that I want to brood on untoward anniversaries, but this month marks two years since everything shut down, but good. I find with some
Since publishing my first issue of The Syncopated Times six years ago this month, the time has just flown. It doesn’t feel like a minute
Over the past two years all of us have had to recalibrate our definition of “normal.” It used to be typical that we would see
I’ve never considered myself one for taking risks. I was always that kid whose knees buckled at the notion of climbing to the highest diving
Let me confess here that I have long had a love of Classic Calypso. I’m referring specifically to the lively and witty Trinidadian music recorded
In every issue of The Syncopated Times, I mean to celebrate the life force; syncopation itself is the pulse of life. The beat of one’s
In my capacity as publisher of The Syncopated Times, one of the duties I must fulfill is that of cheerleader for the music. It’s necessary
It often happens that, when I need to cleanse my palate of the taste of drudgery that this gig engenders, I will browse our local
The reader will note that a rather morbid undercurrent has run through this column over the past two months. In May, I noted the death
By the time you hold this paper in your hand, I will have achieved the grim distinction of being exactly the same age New Yorker
I was reminded of my favorite childhood reading material this past month when I heard that Frank Jacobs, the extraordinary writer of light verse and
I’ve been putting off writing this column until the last minute—almost until I am physically unable to write it. (That would be an excellent method
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
Since the advent of the internet, it seems that every season is Silly Season. That oasis of frivolity used to be limited to the late
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 don’t know if there is a law, axiom, or principle to this effect someplace, but I begin to discover that the best way to
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
During the season in which I write this, it is almost impossible to avoid Charles Dickens’ inky thumbprint on our culture. There is a pervasive
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
“Traveling,” said Mme. de Staël, “is a melancholy pleasure.” I’m inclined to concur, despite the chorus of protest that will rise with discordant variations on
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.