Crescent moon looming over and I’m listening to Miles Davis. In his prime, the guy ruled. I’ve read somewhere that Miles played differently when he was recording than when he performed live. But what do I know? I’m an idiot savant when it comes to the history of jazz. Ask me anything about rock and roll and I’ll give you a quick one and two but jazz – it just smells a bit too fishy to know how it got there. People call it progress. Personally, I like the older style. I once told my sister that I listened to jazz and she asked if I ever tuned in to KWAVE FM radio.
“Yuch. No, excuse me - I don’t think that Kenny G is jazz. Just because he plays the sax doesn’t qualify him to be jazz.”
But she goes, “it’s smooth jazz.” Forget it, jazz is never about being smooth. At least the way I remember it. I think I’m old enough to remember unfiltered jazz. After all I’m only 105 years old. I seem to recall jazz was more about being cool.
Rose is perusing on new recipes on the Costco Cookbook. I’m still listening to Miles. And I’m still rambling. I’m jamming.
Jazz can be a philosophy. Imagine a bunch of musicians each going in his own direction. Yet amidst the chaos they are trying to blend in. It’s the ying yang … a perfect irony if there was ever one. There is no definition. Just the melodic sense that something was going on. It’s brilliant.
“Why are you crying?” Rose noticed me.
“Because Miles is dead and he will never play again,” I answered.