Jam session

A couple of days ago, someone asked me what type of music I listen to the most. I told her hip-hop. A couple of hours ago, someone asked me what type of music I could listen to forever. I told him jazz.

I must’ve been about 13 years old when my dad took me to see Chuck Mangione. It was December of 2007 in Greenwich Village, New York and the line outside of the Blue Note looped around West 3rd street. I’d grown up listening to jazz—my childhood a blur of Scooby Doo on TV and Miles Davis on surround sound. “Five minutes! Just five minutes! Come listen to this song,” my dad would always yell as he barged into my room. He’d quickly turn around, race back to the living room and push a CD into our Bose. Whether it was Armstrong, Ellington, Ella, Ray or Coltrane, my dad would sit me down on the couch, press play, point to his ear and tell me to “listen.” At first, I never knew what I was listening for. I appreciated the music of course—smiled and bobbed my head as he studied my reaction. “Lo oiste?” he wondered out loud, fixing his crooked glasses as he spoke Spanish. “Yes, Pa. I heard it.” It wasn’t until that night in New York, however, that I truly listened. It wasn’t until that jam session that I understood why jazz had always brought my dad to life.

The small venue was packed with more people than it was tables. Adults crowded around the bar—ordering their scotch on the rocks and cups of red wines—as I searched for anyone my age. No such luck. Dad and I made our way to a couple empty chairs around the stage and watched as Chuck Mangione wiped his flugelhorn clean. The close-knit band behind him set up their guitar, bass and piano—“Mic check. Mic check 1, 2. All set.” The electric bass intro to “Feels So Good” hushed the loud audience to a whisper, and Chuck Mangione quickly followed with his instrumental lead in. No one cared about personal space or elbow room. There was no shoving, no fighting—just appreciation. I sat, wide-eyed, in my chair and overwhelmed. That night, I witnessed magic—a creative, beautiful dialogue between electric, brass and woodwind instruments. I witnessed a band’s process and its listener’s participation. The musicians played the original melody, soon after taking turns improvising their own variations, lifting each other to explore their boundaries, showcasing their musical vitality to a 13 year old girl who would walk out of the Blue Note forever changed.

Their passion, intuition, respect and admiration for the talented musicians beside them helped me understand why jazz is and always will be so successful. It’s a type of music that appreciates both the individual and the collective talent. And that’s the thing about jazz. It will always keep you on the tips of your toes, teasing you with one chord progression and surprising you with another. It is improvisation and self-expression at its finest, unconfined to any meter, style or people—an art of the moment. Today, though often underappreciated, jazz continues to be music’s most timeless genre. It continues to be a safe space—one easily enjoyed by the individual or by a crowd. It connects us to people around the world and right beside us. Jazz is, and always will be, very much alive in this world. My dad passed it down to me. I will pass it down to others. And others will do the same.

Francis Curiel is a Trinity sophomore. Her column runs every other Monday.