Jazz night

We feel like we're entering an alien world. Far from the harried and overly-scheduled life that we inhabit out in the suburbs.  As busy parents to four school-aged children, and as medical doctors to 20,000 patients - this sojourn into the cool nocturnal world of music and the arts is a delicious and refreshing escape.

We step into the dark interior of an open doorway, and we climb a poorly-lit and narrow staircase. At the top of the stairs we walk down a short corridor into a room which is ready and waiting for the start of the concert.

The room is large and cold. It smells musty and, like the staircase, it is dimly lit.  The space feels like it would rarely be touched by sunshine, or inhabited, during the daylight hours.

The ambiance is cool and retrospective.  The room appears to exist in an era long forgotten by the rest of the city:  Specifically the 1930's - when jazz ruled.  Louis Armstrong is playing on the hi-fi system as we enter.  Antique chandeliers hang from the lofty ceilings. The walls are covered in faded cream wallpaper and  decorated with large, framed black and white photographs.  Four long rectangular windows look down into the alley-way - from whence we have just come.  Warm golden light  filters into the room, from the streetlights below, glinting off dust on the grubby panes.  The floor is cold grey polished concrete.  A low, polished-oak stage is positioned at the front of the room - partially covered by a faded burgundy oriental rug. Dark polished-oak furniture is scattered throughout:  an eclectic assortment of rectangular and square tables, long benches, chairs and, in a back corner, sits a long polished-oak bar with bar-stools positioned along it.  Large mirrors, and wooden shelves filled with liquor, cover the wall behind.

My first impression of the room is one of genteel poverty.  Although, with this,  there is also a lovely exotic feeling of art and passion and bohemian chic . 

The measly  $5 entrance fee is enough to explain the situation of the relatively shabby room. However, we are also aware that most  artists barely scrape together any sort of living from their craft - no matter how talented and hard-working they are - and no matter what the nature of their art:  writing, painting, dancing, or music.

The musicians tonight will play for their art and their love of what they do - rather than play for money. I know this, but, just out of interest, I scan the room and judge that the audience numbers around 40 or 50 people.  I calculate that that would result in a grand total of $250 door-takings for the four member jazz quartet playing 2 sets over 90 minutes. Plus, add to that the time required for them to rehearse, the petrol required for them to travel here, the venue rental, advertising for their show, and parking …

I estimate that the musicians would be lucky to simply break even.

So, the jazz musicians will play for their art, and their passion, and their love of music.  And for little else.  Maybe a beer or two from the bar.
 
Yet, I understand that their art is something which they need to do in their life. And like most artists they must share their creations with others.  That is the nature of art.  And the joy so derived is worth all of the work. I know that without their artistic craft their lives would be a pale existence.  Their souls would be unable to truly live. 

And so they must accept the price required for the opportunity to engage in their craft.  Their music.  Their gifts to share with us - their audience.  Their music adds depth and excitement and joy  to our lives as well.

Their art unites us.

My husband and I find a seat,  at the front of the room, on an old wooden bench.  We are seated directly in front of the band - who are almost ready to begin.  Yellow lights are projected onto them from the floor, near to the front of the stage. I notice that their ages range from  late 30's to mid 50's.

Their jazz quartet comprises: guitar, saxophone, drums, and double-bass.  They're all casually dressed, as if afterwards they will do their weekly grocery shop, or clean out the shed.  Or, maybe, on their meagre incomes as artists, this is all that they can afford to wear - even when performing. They're dressed in jeans, track-pants, sandshoes, and casual open-necked cotton shirts. 

My husband, a lover of jazz guitar - tells me that the guitarist playing tonight is world-class and he points to his black guitar.   He tells me the name of the guitar … at which time I completely zone out and stop listening … as it all means nothing to me. I find the 'names' of things unimportant to my enjoyment of them. He then informs me that the guitar would cost over $10,000.  Now, I  zone right back in!  That amount of money registers and I will remember that  information-gem forever. Wow!

We inspect the other instruments in the band.  They all appear to be extremely high quality and terribly expensive.  I imagine that these instruments are the most valued possessions in the musician's lives.  Their portals to another world in which creativity and music are all that exist.  A world in which they become one with their music. I imagine that their instruments, once they begin to play, will become appendages to their  bodies.  Extensions of themselves - body and soul.

Before the quartet begin my gaze shifts briefly to the audience.  They crowd around  small tables and chat and laugh softly between themselves.  They drink wine from tall glasses, or designer beers from stylish dark bottles - which also litter every surface. The room is warmed and brought to life by their cheerful presence.

The audience are an integral part of the cool ambiance. Young women with short black hair wear short black dresses, or chic slim line pants and crop jumpers.  The young men are dressed in stylish black or grey linen pants with sleek black jackets or open neck shirts.  Many of the young crowd appear to know each other.  And, they all seem to know the young doorman taking the $5 from newcomers as they enter.

 The older set are aged from their mid 30's to late 60's.  They look cool, as well, wearing mostly black.  Some appear to be channeling the beatnik era of the 1960's.  They wear berets (seriously), and slim-line black crop slacks and crop jumpers.  One older gentleman has his long grey hair pulled up into a neat bun on the top of his head.  If smoking were permitted I'm sure that I would see long line cigarettes and a haze of smoke would intensify the whole 'cool' experience.

Suddenly, music explodes from the amplifiers:  A primitive and powerful rhythm from the drums and the double bass.  I can physically feel the vibration of the sound waves pulsating through my skin and my body. My ears rapidly adjust to the abrupt change in sound intensity.  The blast from the amps is a shock - like jumping into an icy pool.  Invigorating - but still a jolt.

The guitar now storms into the mix:  powerful, melodic, beautiful, soaring.  It takes us to another place.  Another world beyond this stuffy room.  A passionate world somewhere lovely and timeless. Our souls dance in this musical place.  We soar and sway and let ourselves become carried away with the music. The saxophone joins in - raspy, commanding, melodic  … lovely.

The different musical numbers begin with a clear melody and, once that melody is understood and anticipated, the different musicians leap away into their individual improvisations and only a faint reflection of the original tune remains.  Each solo is followed by an appreciative clap from the audience.  Our admiration at the skill, and the passion, and the dedication of these musicians - who we know earn close to nothing for all of their work and amazing abilities - is expressed, we hope, in our clapping.  And our silence.  We are captives of their music.  Their skill.  Their world.

And, finally, the last number is rock.  And I love that the most.  My heart feels like it will burst as the music sweeps over me and through me and … I am far away … with the music.  One with the rhythm and the soaring guitar and the ebb and flow and movement of these beautiful notes.

And then it is over.  We clap one last time.  We have paid a measly $5 to attend this evening.  The musicians sold one CD, for $20, and gave another one away.

Such is the life of an artist.

The thrill of the night and the music and the artistic world lingers with me still.  The next day.  A glimpse of another side to life. An artistic place.  Wonderful.


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