What is called jazz is a never-ending conversation across impossible distances often undermined by those who refuse to listen for stray notes, only seeking to hear familiar riffs and changes they’ve been assured are safe to like and notice. You can’t trust those who listen for trends, their nervous social opportunism dampens the fire and life force of the songs they encounter, leans on the hook or melody which it hopes makes them look good, hip. They long to be flattered by their own flaccid approach to taste-making and go about inventing counterfeit palates. We are often too lenient on this mode of listening, and encourage its shameless cannibalism. Sun Ra and Monk and I rebuke this. Here are some extraneous notes tangled in the bonfire at the core of black music. Ra and Monk in the same room, swinging, not swooning, winning at life. Sun Ra’s perfect diction matches the intonation of his meticulous memory as he describes their fleeting afternoon, withholding so much to savor privately. This was April 1987, Monk had left the planet by then but somehow we get to witness a council of immortals speaking in code, a shared cheshire grin between black angels. If you don’t listen closely, you’ll miss it and meet that bad infinity of yearning that comes with missing love notes.
© 2024 Harmony Holiday
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