And although it exhausted me, I found it meditative. Curving the wheel at back road bends and shuffling through new songs with just a left thumb’s pressure. I prefer female voices, I have learned. Female artists that I can picture in an indie band with a strong bass rhythm that steadily hums behind their vocal track. I dunno, maybe I am just projecting because I once saw myself there. These days, I find leading a jazz quartet would be far more glamorous and delightful. Toying with the sultry and alluring sophistication it warrants while hitting a range of notes in different growls. It is an entire different ball game than the heartbreak ballads of the indie world that lend themselves to punk and defiance. I like those too, of course. But like anyone, I have my select list of tolerable musicians. The funny thing is I probably couldn’t name five jazz artists, much less bands. The appeal of jazz to me is seeing the cohesion unfold live, how many of them seamlessly freestyle and sync with but a glance. Sitting, watching these unnamed faces craft while your chosen vices blanket you with warmth and your inhibitions release in present time.
I went to Belgium last summer for a little weekend trip from the Netherlands and rented a moped for the week. It was lime green and had an impressive engine pick up for how modest it was in stature. After dilly dallying around the city, zipping through little European cars and propping myself up at stoplights all day, my face had become wind burnt and I decided I needed a good sit and a glass of something.
Immediately upon entering my ears were flooded with smooth sax and a steady drum beat with the sound of whisks hitting the snare head and brushing off the ends. The cool part about jazz is that is seldom monotonous. The intangible patterns of light and fuzzies are ever changing and I always find myself awe struck by how many chord progressions are possible. All new, all melodic, all produced with such nonchalance and confidence. The place was packed, the lofted upstairs equally noisy above as patrons swivel between conversation and the entertainment. After navigating the crowd, I found a spot at the end of the bar to slither into, closest to the stage. The couple next to me were both wearing black leather jackets with silver zippers on each side of the chest, she had paired the statement piece with matte black boots while he sported a casual white slip on. I felt convicted she was the mastermind behind the double feature leather.
I reorient to the bar, perusing the menu card, which is just a silly charade I play. If not red wine, I will opt for bubbly of any kind. I don’t bother speaking my broken Dutch here. There is always a 50/50 shot they speak Dutch or French in Belgium so I shyly keep the banter short and ask in English. After a minute, I snag someone’s attention. “Just a Prosecco, please” , I say to the bartender. He lends a me a nod and reaches below the counter to grab the bottle, leaving his left hand to rest on the counter closest to me as he supports himself. His sleeve cuffs are just below his elbow and his arm hair is dark and course. The trail of hair ends just past his wrists and I see how vascular his hands are. Seconds later, he pops up from the lower shelf and pours the golden liquid and I quickly avert my eyes from his pour to his face and smile politely. I have my glass in hand and I allow the music to envelop me again.
The band is a four piece, all men and a singular lone microphone that nobody claims as their own. Of the far stand a tall, thin saxophonist, his physique mimicking the structure of my Prosecco flute. Beside him is a burlier man holding a standing bass that exceeds his height by nearly half a foot. A focused drummer, fair skinned and light eyed, commanded the back of the stage, and a charming guitarist with a confident grin stood stage left, bobbling his head as he ascended in octave.
Ah, the perfect solo date. Jazz doesn’t demand much commentary or audience interaction, so lucky for me, I wasn’t expected to be anywhere else except in my melodic bubble. The band paused and took five, I leaned over to the svelte saxophonist and asked how long they’d been together, he fumbled to understand me and beckoned for the guitarist to come over. After the guitarist shuffled over, the saxophonist, who is later revealed to be French speaking, made a gesture to his band mate inferring that I ought to repeat what I said for him to translate. In a Swedish accent, the guitarist answered for the both of them. “This is our first gig!”, he exclaimed with equal parts fear and excitement. The Frenchman nodded agreeably, with more parts excitement than his colleague.
“No way”, I respond, “Do you guys need a singer for the latter half of the show?” I was painfully serious. There are almost zero stakes traveling abroad as far as risk taking go. The Swede looked at me with amazement but then his face fell flat seconds after. “Oh such a good idea, but our set list very rehearsed. This sounds like next time idea!”. Deflated, I lament that I understood. B We traded phone numbers and we clinked our drinks together, my glass bone dry. The Frenchman lingered nearby after his quartet counterpart fled, and an awkwardness absorbed the air. I laid some euros down on the condensation-stained coaster that my flute sat atop, gathered my purse, and silently wished the leather jackets farewell.
As I rode home, my chapped knuckles pierced the cold evening air. I took the long route, knowing these zippy moped privileges were fleeting. I shoved my earbuds into both sides of my head and scrolled through the In Utero album to find a tune.
I think I’ll try a punk bar tomorrow, I thought to myself.
And I did… but that is another story.
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