The Jazz Matrix
The other day, I found myself in an Instagram rabbit hole that had a tremendous effect on me.
Post after post was of a musician I’d never heard of, playing the most amazing music.
I can’t remember the last time I’d felt that inspired to pick up my instrument and play let’s-see-how-far-I-can-chuck-this-POS-off-a-bridge.
It’s like that scene in Clint Eastwood’s Bird where the character Buster, after hearing Charlie Parker shred bebop on stage, dumps his horn in the river.
Side note: Wouldn’t it be funny if the bridge had one of those suicide prevention signs but for musicians?
THERE IS HOPE
Call 251-3625
(bad jazz joke)
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The worst is when you’re on social media and you see one of those eight-year-old prodigies who can play better than you’ll ever be.
Don’t worry.
Most of those kids peak at age 12. Once they hit puberty, that prodigy sheen starts to fade. Eventually, they’ll be just another struggling musician trying to get the jazz brunch gig.
I find the whole prodigy obsession we have in this culture to be annoying. Same with the obsession people have with perfect pitch. If I see one more talk show host test Charlie Puth’s ears, I’m gonna have to call 251-3625.
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Ever notice how you never see any 43-year-old working musicians featured on 60 Minutes? Doesn’t matter if they have excellent relative pitch, virtuosic technique, and pro-level musicality.
No one wants to hear this interview:
Bill Whitaker: “Tell me—have you always been able to play like this?”
Musician: “No. I had to practice four to eight hours a day for 20 years.”
Yuck. That means there’s no excuse for you not to be great at something.
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Over the weekend, I showed my dad my most recent sketchbook. (I’ve gotten heavy into drawing over the past few years.)
He kvelled: “You’re so amazing! I could never draw like that.”
I said, “Stay up until 2 a.m. every night drawing for two years. Then let’s talk!”
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It’s easier to call someone talented or gifted. Doing the work isn’t sexy unless it’s condensed into a 30-second cinematic montage.
But when it’s on us to practice wax-on, wax-off for hours a day...no thanks. It’s more fun to fantasize about The Matrix, where Neo gets a computer snake thrust into the back of his head and suddenly:
“I know kung fu.”
The jazz version of that would be hilarious, by the way. Like, what if robots are trying to take over the world, but the computer snake gizmo only uploads jazz chords to your brain?
Neo sits up from the chair and says, “I know the changes to Dolphin Dance.”
And then Morpheus and the crew devise a plan to defeat the robots by challenging them to a jam session.
Agent Smith and his look-alikes are in the rhythm section playing Cherokee as fast as they can, sweat dripping from their foreheads.
Then Neo cracks the jazz matrix. We’re dropped into his POV, and he’s chillin’—playing Cherokee as a ballad at 56 bpm.
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Of course, there’s no computer snake in real life. You stay up until 2 a.m. for years doing something badly until you can finally do it well. Then you show your dad and he goes, “Wow, you’re so talented.”