JAZZ

Our arrival at the Jazz cafe seemed more an intrusion, yet the awkwardness of the moment gave way to the power of the music as we secured the only seats available - at the base of the stage. A jazz trio played; sax, xylophone and drums. I watched, enraptured by the music, simultaneously lost in both the wholeness of the sound and the intricacies of its components. The drummer's solo. It was like everything in him was trying to express itself at once, immediately, NOW! It had to come out, must be communicated. Crazy. His pace was maddening, but he played on. He seemed to cross a point where it wasn't about him anymore. It was out of his control and yet it was his will. He was controlled by the music, yet happily. In one sense, it seemed almost as if he were unconscious, no longer the manipulator of the music but now he himself the instrument. Yet another look revealed that he was indeed aware; if fact every fiber of his being resonated with the pleasure he received from the music flowing freely through his hands and extemporaneously down the sticks to the awaiting drums.

Switching to brushes, the drummer played on, contacting the snare drum with the innocence of a child drawing in the sand completely mystified by the pattern he has created. Yet this child's play was the intentional work of a master craftsman.

Music is good to my soul. Live, Loud. The kind that blocks out the rest of everything so that only beauty remains.