My friend, the philosopher and soon-to-be-married Heidi P. Cruz, once said that the ability to appreciate jazz music is a distinguishing characteristic of highly evolved persons. While I demurred outwardly when she said this, I was secretly pleased with her comment. You see, I love jazz. Just don’t ask me why. I can’t read music and am a complete ignoramus when it comes to musical techniques. I can’t even identify the various sub-genres of jazz or name all prominent artists that a jazz lover is supposed to be familiar with. I just know that I feel good when I listen to this kind of music. I get lost in it. And in those times when I feel troubled—as I do today—I take solace in it.
I associate jazz with that simple, uncomplicated stage of everybody’s life: childhood. I was born in a small town in a remote part of the country. There was neither electricity nor running water when I was growing up. People went to bed early and rose early. And in a mish-mash of Greek mythology, Christian belief, and popular culture, the town had, and continues to have, a tradition called “Diana,” where a band went around the town playing beautiful melodies before the break of dawn. A Diana was considered de rigueur in feast day celebrations for an important saint, particularly the town’s patron saint, St. Michael the Archangel. But the music was not always decidedly religious. In fact, I discovered jazz through a Diana.
The first time I heard Chuck Mangione’s “Feels So Good,” it was being played not on a flugelhorn as the original artist did but on a trumpet. It took decades before I would learn the title of this song, and it was, of course, courtesy of philosopher Heidi when we were in law school. But that morning when I first heard it, I was entranced. Imagine yourself as a young child waking up on a woven mat spread over a hard wooden floor, safely cocooned in layers of blankets between your sleeping parents, glimpsing through sleepy eyes the pinkish sky at the break of dawn, and listening to a moving rendition of “Feels So Good.” You could hear the music faintly as the band starts playing at the other end of the town—it was a small town after all and the only noises you could hear at night were sounds made by nocturnal creatures. And then the sound gets louder, the music fuller as the band comes nearer your house. It was a magical moment; I was captivated for life. I suppose I decided then and there, albeit unconsciously, that this will be the song of my life.
Today, my musical tastes may have become more diversified. A sampling of the genres in my iPod would show the range: jazz, pop, reggae, rock, and R&B. There even are smatterings of hip-hop and classical music. But judging from the play count in my iTunes, there is no denying my preference for jazz. I’m increasingly finding solace in the music of Louis Armstrong, John Coltrane, Ella Fitzgerald, Al Jarreau, Spyro Gyra, Dave Koz, Antonio Carlos Jobim, and of newer artists like Rick Braun, Diana Krall, Chris Botti, and even Michael Bublé. I doubt very much if this growing preference for jazz is a manifestation of what Heidi calls “higher evolution.” More probably, it just means that my troubles are increasing exponentially as I grow older. Whatever the case may be, I’m just so thankful for jazz, and praise heavens for all those wonderful artists who make me feel so good with their music.
