Static From My Attic

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.