In general, I like to know where I’m going, be it a drive, a project, or a piece of music. Jazz fills me with agita. I don’t know when it’s going to end, I don’t know what the squirrelly fucker is going to pull next.
I have to say, I’m kind of blue about this. Unlike PT Cruisers and mimes, I want to like jazz. I want to don a beret and sit in a dark club, nodding my head and saying things like, “Yeah, man” and “Dig that smooth groove.” I used to think I wasn’t smart enough to get jazz. Now I feel as if all the cool kids know the secret Herbie Hand(cock)shake and left me out of the Felonious Monk Memorial Clubhouse.
This only fuels my anger, which is swelling to the point where I want to give the David Brubeck Quartet a serious time out and inflict some damage on David Sanborn’s reed. Scat needs to scram. You dig, Dizzy?