Let’s Talk About Jazz

I’m going to be honest with you.

I don’t know much about jazz – its past nor its present.

So I’m not going to put on a façade and pretend I know all of these jazz artists and musical jargons, or assume omniscience in this genre.

I’d be lying to both myself and to you.
In extreme situations, it may even cause offence to some.

All I know is that when I encountered a saxophone busker the other day or when I entered my first jazz club last night, I felt vulnerable.

It’s a sentiment I’ve only recently endured in this form, but it’s the warm kind of vulnerability.

One that makes you stop, both physically and mentally, in order to feel a general sense of appreciation.

To appreciate the music.

To appreciate your existence.

To appreciate the people around you.

As I sat on the right side of the Maddermarket Theatre, obstructing the fire exit (oops), I couldn’t help but observe.

All of these individuals, mostly around 60+ years of age, possessing varying degrees of experiences and backgrounds. Some were with their lifelong partners; some were with their friends; some were with their children; and some were by themselves.

The four of us, all university students, were undoubtedly the youngest amongst the audience.

Regardless of who we were, we had all united into one small room to indulge in two hours of live music.

A lonesome man before me, with his eyes shut and a permanent smile stitched onto his face, tapped his foot and nodded his head in time with the beat.

The next thing I knew, I was mimicking his actions.

It was contagious. He was lonesome no more.

I could ramble on about my experience, which may seem insignificant and trivial to many.

For me, it was a moment of discovering what truly makes me happy and what makes me feel present.

(Also, if you’ve never seen Whiplashed, I highly recommend it)


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