Listening to jazz has to be the freest feeling in the world.
It’s a playground of cautious affirmations.
Where you can place yourself on top of the highest mountain.
Where you can get way down and dirty into your feelings,
and still stand.
You stand tall and proud for the part you’ve played,
no matter how subtle.
It’s where passion and realism collide. Where the same notes that bring you up can get you way low down.
An amalgamation of expression, perception, hard truths, devotion, and raw emotion.
It’s an unspoken and universal beauty that captures the magnificent and anthemizes the mundane, eloquent and brash.
It’s tenderness and courage. Combustion, companionship, and compassion all wrapped up together.
It’s a hat-tip to the coulda, woulda, shoulda-beens.
And a reserved defiance from those who refuse to give in.
It’s your ticket to dreaming hard and dreaming big.
For all those who choose to hope.
For those with intent.
For those who have it all and need nothing,
and those who need nothing,
and therefore have it all.
Jazz music is more than a smoky bar off 52nd street—more than just notes on a page. More than just a soulful performance—It’s life. And it infects us with what it really is to be human.
And for that, I rejoice.
A Poet’s Qualm 