I don’t mean to get too serious in this column, but I want to begin by saying how grateful I am to readers who have risen to the occasion to support our new nonprofit entity, Syncopated Media, Inc. I am the most self-conscious person I know when it comes to asking for money. I am embarrassed to send out subscription renewal cards and ad invoices and mortified to solicit charitable funds. I wince in retrospect at trick-or-treating. I recoil at the idea of being one of those people who stand at the highway on-ramps, holding cardboard signs. My own sign, were I to display it, would read IMPOSTOR SYNDROME SUFFERER or simply I AM NOT WORTHY. And its words would be written with an extra-fine Sharpie on a dark background.
I can’t muster the bravado that fundraising entails. Which is why I deeply appreciate those who have more than met me halfway with incredibly generous donations. We’re still in the process of setting up the basics of the corporation, but we should have paperwork completed and a separate nonprofit bank account established within a few days of this writing. My accountant informs me that I need to let people know my Syncopated Media EIN (Employer Identification Number) if they wish to deduct their contributions; let it be known here that I can send you that information if I neglected to divulge it to you when you contributed.
The truth is that I have achieved nonprofit status in the nick of time. I expect operating expenses to skyrocket over the next year owing to rumblings about tariffs and privatizing the USPS. Postal expenses have already leapt up exorbitantly in the nine years I’ve been publishing The Syncopated Times. It is no longer possible to mail monthly issues overseas or even up to Canada except at great cost; periodical mailing in the US is expensive enough. But printing and mailing paper copies is integral to my vision for this publication.
Speaking of paper, most of the newsprint used in the US comes from Canada. The idea of a retributive tariff on goods from our neighbor to the north fills me with dread. I am doing my best to keep costs low. In the event of such an action, accepting charitable donations may be the only way I can stay in print without raising the price of The Syncopated Times so that it is no longer easily affordable. I don’t consider this paper a luxury item. For nine years I have prided myself on being able to produce the best jazz publication at the most reasonable cost possible.
The word “retribution” has been in the news a lot lately. It may sound like satisfaction through vindication, and some may relish the thought and even find it fun, but I can’t understand it. It may be due to a psychological condition, a genetic anomaly, or perhaps just bad knees, but I never wanted to dance on anybody’s grave. If someone was treating me in an untoward manner and causing me distress, my first impulse was never to call the police or to shove the malefactor into a wood chipper. I just wanted the abuse or annoyance to stop. It never gave me pleasure to hurt someone else or cause them severe inconvenience. I realize this from the times I have done so unintentionally. I am incapable of feeling schadenfreude.
Another word I’m hearing is “unity.” Suddenly, everybody wants “unity”—on their own terms. I don’t know if that’s even possible as things stand. It has the faint aroma of hostage-taking. I’m not making this observation through a misanthropic lens. I like hugging as much as the next warm-blooded human being. But I’m selective about who I want to get that close to. Do you want to know when the idea of hugging anyone filled me with horror? When I was in junior high school. Hostility radiated off everyone in the Seventh Grade. When you get near someone at that age, they’re just as likely to hit you, knock you down, or call you bad names. At age 13, “unity” is the furthest thing from your mind. And, right now, just about every adult you run into acts like a Seventh Grader. I’m afraid I don’t feel much like embracing those decayed adolescents.
The problem is as I wrote in my column eight years ago, under similar circumstances: “There aren’t sufficient numbers of fans and players for this music to survive a political schism. In spite of their differences of opinion, listeners, dancers, musicians, venues, and festivals all have to work together to keep it going. More than mere neutrality, we require magnanimity and ecumenism to ensure its continuance.” If anything, our musical community is more fragile than ever.
Under current conditions, “unity” is hardly an appealing prospect. What I’d like to do at this juncture is trot out another loaded (and oft discredited) word, “tolerance.” We may not all sing with the same choir, but we can sit in the same venues and enjoy listening to the same musicians, having left our partisan grievances at the door. We remember, for the time being, that keeping the music playing is important to us.
And just because I sit at your table and buy you a beer (or vice versa) doesn’t mean that we agree on a point of contention. We haven’t convinced one another of anything on our list of things that somehow fade into insignificance for the two or three hours we are together. If we agree on the excellence of the jazz at hand, it doesn’t matter who you or I or the trumpet player voted for.
As I wrote in that column eight years ago, “We are all here to help each other.” I mean it.
