I once heard an author talk about jazz music. He said that the first generation out of slavery invented it, and it is free form expression. He said it comes from the soul, and is true.
I remember once going to this little jazz club in central Phoenix. It was a very bohemian spot – an old Victorian-style house, hung with Christmas lights in the middle of July. The living room had been cleared and a jazz band had set up where the dining room table had been; a bartender with a curled mustache and rolled sleeves stood behind a makeshift bar, slowly smoking a cigarette, then rolling it between his fingers as he exhaled, his eyes moving from guest to guest as we settled in our seats.
Sipping on my Manhattan, I watched as the jazz group began their music, began swaying from side to side, oozing rhythm, culture, feeling, emotion – inviting me to experience, to know what they knew. And my roommate at the time – this was a favorite spot of his – closed his eyes and began to sway along with the music, began to tap his feet and snap his fingers in time.
And I watched him, and I wondered at how someone could become so immersed in something, so completely lost in something I didn’t understand – something like jazz. But as the musicians played their melancholy tune, as they swayed and moved, I began to understand, I began to relate, I began to accept what was being communicated, the story that was being told. I understood that they were asking me to listen, to understand, to appreciate, to feel – so I closed my eyes and did just that.
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