Jazz For People Who Hate Jazz

"Jazz is not dead; it just smells funny."

Photo by Konstantin Aal

I just did a podcast with Staci Layne Wilson, a megawatt writer/director/producer whose “Rock ‘n’ Roll Nightmares” is something you should definitely check out. She’s indefatigable and whip-smart, a beautiful ginger whirlwind. And one of the questions she asked me on the podcast was what it was like being the child of musicians.

My dad was a musician, my mother was a musician, my brother is the famous tenor jazz saxophonist Ellery Eskelin, and my boyfriend is the brilliant jazz drummer, composer, and electronic musician, John B. Arnold. He’s also the grandson of American songwriting legend Hoagy Carmichael. So, there’s lots of music there, most of it jazz.

In the interest of full confession, I didn’t grow up loving jazz. I was a weird kid, preferring to listen to classical, Gregorian chants, and madrigals. There might have been some Alice Cooper and early Elton John, too, but definitely not jazz.

And I was hardly alone in my abhorrence. I wanted to like it. Liking jazz seemed hip and sophisticated and decadently continental, like smoking Gauloises cigarettes or enjoying obscure French wines. But it just felt … masturbatory and self-indulgent to me. These were musicians trying to one-up each other, not commune with us, their audience. Nevertheless, years ago when my brother, Ellery, asked me come to Bavaria with him where he was playing a jazz festival, I eagerly said yes.

It was my first time in Germany and I was admittedly freaked. The whole WWII thing. Not sure I’m ever going to get over it. In some of the local squares, there are antique stores that carry furniture with swastikas on it. If I’d had more money, I would have probably bought every piece I could find and then burned it publicly.

Photo by Tolga Ahmetler

The jazz festival was in Vilshofen. There are few places on earth more German than Vilshofen. While standing in line to use an ATM, this old woman kept yanking on my braided hair, maybe to see if it came off. The only thing I could stomach, as a lifelong vegetarian, was the Spätzle, a type of dumpling made with eggs. Trust me when I tell you that after two meals of Spätzle, you never want to see it again. And it was brutally cold. I’m not even sure this Southern California girl owned a winter coat back then.

In any event, I was ill-prepared when Ellery came bounding up to me after his performance with a band called Four Horns and What? It was, as you might imagine, four horns and a drum kit. Think for a minute how that must have sounded to my bourgeois ears.

“So, what did you think?” he asked.

I burst into tears. “I hated it!”

To his credit, Ellery understood. He’s too good a person to hold that against a sister who was wholly uninitiated in the ways of jazz. Ellery’s jazz, especially, is of a very particular kind called “Free jazz,” an experimental approach to jazz improvisation that developed in the late 1950s and early 1960s when musicians attempted to break down traditional jazz tropes, such as regular tempos, tones, and chord changes.

You gotta be pretty hardcore to like it. And I wasn’t even close.

Years went by. I had kids. Two of them. Anyone who has kids will tell you that your culture, your mind, your time, and your music are not your own anymore. They belong to Barney, Dora, and King Friday from the Mr. Rogers’ show. The only time I was able to play “my” music was on the way to school to pick up the little crumb snatchers. Only I wasn’t listening to madrigals any more. As my marriage unraveled and my frustration mounted, I went for the hardest of hard rock. Music of the groin—and aggression.

So, no jazz.

Photo by Florencia Viadana

When Dane was eighteen and Kate fourteen, I made the jump to Italy. Being in a romantic relationship with a jazz musician pretty much guarantees that you’re going to brush up against the stuff, like pollen on bee fur. John introduced me to musicians previously unknown to me (Sun Ra, Chick Corea, Wayne Shorter, Ornette Coleman, Lee Morgan), or works by famous musicians that I’d never heard. Through John, I was able to understand the music far better—and most importantly, to have faith that his love of jazz was genuine. No one was masturbating. I wasn’t being made a fool of. I wasn’t being taken for the proverbial ride.

I confess all this to let you know that I’m no poser. When I tell you that jazz can be amazing, I’m coming from a place of complete authenticity. There’s no snobbery here, no holier-than-thou culture vulturing meant to make you feel small. I’m going to offer some recommendations for those of you who are interested in listening to a Starter-Pak of jazz, and I’m giving a presumptive out to those of you who are not. Jazz isn’t for everyone. It doesn’t have to be. Hey, I’m no fan of anime, but there are millions of people who are wild about it.

When jazz first came about in the early 20th century, it was purely dance music. Only later did the music morph into something for people to mostly listen to. New Orleans was its unofficial birthplace, likely because the city’s population was more diverse than anywhere else in the South. As a mix of ragtime, marches, blues, and even European court music, jazz owes a huge debt of gratitude to the contributions Black Americans have made to our nation’s musical culture. American culture is Black culture.

Jazz is important because it’s one of America’s greatest exports to the world. It has evolved over time. From traditional jazz, it became swing music; from swing to bebop; from bebop to cool jazz; from cool jazz to hybrid forms, such as jazz-rock, jazz-easy listening, and jazz-funk.

The trick to enjoying jazz is avoiding the harder-to-love, non-rhythmic forms at first, and then working up to them gradually. Rhythm is everything. It pulls you up and hypnotizes you. Look for the beat.

Here then are my recommendations for people like you, perhaps, who think they hate jazz. I don’t believe that you do. What’s more likely is that you, like me, weren’t exposed to the more palatable forms of jazz.

Let’s see what we can do to remedy that.

Kind of Blue by American jazz trumpeter Miles Davis, 1959, recorded at Columbia’s 30th Street Studio, New York City. Also on sax is John Coltrane and Cannonball Adderley, pianist Bill Evans, bassist Paul Chambers, and drummer Jimmy Cobb. Kind of Blue is regarded by many critics as the greatest jazz record of all time, which, considering the competition, is no small thing.

Another classic album is Nat King Cole Sings/George Shearing Plays, a 1982 album by Nat King Cole that was released by Capitol Records and featured the pianist George Shearing. It’s bluesy and accessible and definitely swings.

As a rebuttal to those free jazzers who couldn’t swing a cat over their heads, I give you the ultimate swing album, Ellington ‘55, recorded in 1953 and released in 1955. Play it loud. The album features the Ellington Orchestra’s most popular big band compositions, and it will get your toes tappin’.

Under a Blanket of Blue featuring the great Ella Fitzgerald and famed trumpeter and singer Louis Armstrong is the ultimate feel-good song. It was released in 1956 on Verve Records, and I actually defy you not to fall in love with it.

If you’re more of a vocalist stylings kind of listener, let me introduce you to Nancy Wilson and Cannonball Adderley’s Save Your Love For Me. As a 1961 Blue Note, it saw both artists at the top of their game. Nancy Wilson was the real deal. You can learn more about her remarkable life here.

When you’re ready to aim for more esoteric (but mind-blowing) fare, I give you an actual video of Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers, 1958, Live in Belgium. You’re looking at five geniuses on one stage. One tune in particular has real estate in my heart. You will find it at 7:40 in this 54-minute video. I stand in awe.

So, what do you think? Do you still hate jazz? Good, bad, or indifferent, I want to hear your opinion. Pipe up in the comments section below.