at least there's jazz

finding meaning in the chaos

Hello! Just your friendly neighborhood pessimist checking in. I told myself (and probably you all, at some point or another) that I would stop writing about endings and focus on beginnings — bright, glossy subjects that don’t leave us pensive and despondent and weirdly guilty about things out of our control. And I tried, really.

Autumn is gearing up for her next appearance and I’m always quite glad when she comes around. On Friday evening I took a walk, marveled at the imminent ochre and bronze, scrunched my sweater (!) up past my elbows, relished in the crispy crunch of the late leaves. At some point I passed by an older couple on their porch, whispering about how warm of a September it was, musing on what future seasons would look and feel like. That, of course, sent me into a (climate change-induced) spiral and I shuffled home, the browns and yellows of the trees suddenly no more than hints at an impending demise.

A large box awaited me on the porch: a sandstone sofa that I had ordered in a feng shui frenzy a week before. I gathered my tools — screwdriver, Vermentino, boxcutter, remote control — psyched for the zen that this couch would undoubtably bring to our bedroom. Midway through the assembly, my eyes — instigators that they are — glanced down at the fine print on the manual: MADE IN CHINA and my brain — pessimist that she is — ruminated on factory working conditions, deforestation, consumption.

When the couch was done, I fiddled with an itinerary for an upcoming trip to Mexico City, but I, almost immediately, thought of the family that was (probably) priced out of the Roma Norte studio — cozy! chic! — that I booked for the month. Then I thought of the family that was (definitely) priced out of the home that I now rent, and because I have no sense of self-preservation, mentally extrapolated that across the grid of my entire neighborhood. Math is not my strong suit, but if my calculations are correct, that’s approximately… a lot of people displaced.

The night continued much in that same vein, and ended with a sleepytime edible and a longing for the quiet bliss of ignorance.

My wife took a liking to vinyl this year and our living room is now littered — she said lovingly — with a spectrum of records; I’ve gotten into the habit of popping one onto the turntable when the silence of our (too big for two people) house overwhelms me. This morning I opted for Sarah Vaughn: mellow and gutsy and perfect for belting into a broom handle when the urge arises. As I swept and tidied and dusted, my eyes, traitors, darted to the vase full of cotton that lives on my bookshelf. And like clockwork —

I thought of Sarah Vaughn and her ethereal voice and the colorism she so often encountered and spoke about over the course of her career. The back doors she was forced to enter, the tiny-minded audiences for whom she spilled her soul. Jim Crow, plantations, cotton, ships.

Rather than attempting to shove my brain back into its eggshell of a box, I let it go feral, my fingers burrowing into my palms as it zagged through the good and the bad, the yin and the yang, the mussy nuance of existing in an indifferent world. I swayed back and forth, voluntary or not, to the jazz of it all.

My bloodline is that of a people who are experts at whittling ache into beauty. There is perhaps no better evidence of this than the birth of jazz. When robbed of our instruments, we bruised the soles of our feet and the skin of our chests for the wonted thump, stomp of a beat. We risked whips and welts for song. We called and responded, called and responded, called and responded, with our voices at first, and then with our sweat, our tears, and when all else failed, our blood. It makes sense then, that jazz doesn’t always make sense.

There’s a weird comfort, validation even, in its chaos. It confidently utters that which cannot be put into words, and lord knows that I am so often, too often, left speechless these days. It is a chameleon and a translator, an ally and a friend. The drums say, what the fuck? and I bop my head in urgent agreement. The horns moan with an ancestral sorrow and my throat swells with understanding.

Jazz gives us permission to feel, both apart and together. Each player is encouraged to embark on an independent sonic journey, while the group is encouraged to pile on where called to. The emphasis is placed on rhythm rather than harmony, which is not always pleasant (in the traditional sense), but is always honest. There are times when I find myself annoyed with its volatility — it’s difficult to dance to the sound of traffic, after all — but buried in there is a not-so-subtle metaphor about individual suffering and collective grief that I very much appreciate.

In some ways, it seems like jazz has been demoted to elevator music; ambient sound that fills the space and not necessarily the heart. But if I spilled my thoughts out onto disc — the heartbreak, the ecstasy, the rage — it would, at any given moment, play out in an erratic caterwaul of trombone, bass and piano.

In a way then, jazz is everything.

Jazz is both a full bladder and an emptying of bowels. It’s anxiety. It’s distraction. It’s a mirror. Drama. Pessimism and optimism and nihilism. It’s body language. A question mark. An interrobang. A gift It’s defiance. Rebellion.

When the seasons change and the planet boils and America destroys and people suffer. When children’s sobs fall upon deaf ears and crops shrivel and another billionaire pops up. When nothing else makes sense and the void itself grows weary of your cries — at least there’s jazz.