You know, a friend of mine told me that instead of watching porn when alone, he listens to jazz music. He does blast jazz music only when alone.
His wife won't dig jazz music, from Bill Evans to - our contemporary - Jeff Parker. No way. 45 secs of it are enough. And, wait, I fully and totally understand her reason why. Jazz is so selfish, even when so elegant, it's jazz-centric even when it's contaminated and tries to hide its orientation, and it's unbearable with all its free outro, the deconstructing wow crescendo, and all those virtuoso/virtuosity, no matters what instrument will go on solo. Narcissist, onanist music? Jazz music. My explanation and my two cents.
Still, when its absurde pretence of self-reference abandones to self-hypnosis of melodius carnality, like with this brilliant work, The Relatives, it totally gets him and makes my friend want to join the band. Still, secretly, - no one else is around. He starts jamming.. with the movement of his head, he even pretends to be properly able to follow the flow with his kranky guitar. He uses preucations: headhones. It grows on him and makes him want to dare this eccentricity of a wrong, oblique music sensuality: When Did You Stop Loving Me, When Did I Stop Loving You, or the cool vibe of Beanstalk. Sounds classic, still it flirts with modern jazz retrofuturism (The Relative). It makes me want to read a book and drink something warm.
Can jazz be modern, today? Like a 40 year man enjoying contemporary jazz. A good work indeed, mr Parker.
His wife won't dig jazz music, from Bill Evans to - our contemporary - Jeff Parker. No way. 45 secs of it are enough. And, wait, I fully and totally understand her reason why. Jazz is so selfish, even when so elegant, it's jazz-centric even when it's contaminated and tries to hide its orientation, and it's unbearable with all its free outro, the deconstructing wow crescendo, and all those virtuoso/virtuosity, no matters what instrument will go on solo. Narcissist, onanist music? Jazz music. My explanation and my two cents.
Still, when its absurde pretence of self-reference abandones to self-hypnosis of melodius carnality, like with this brilliant work, The Relatives, it totally gets him and makes my friend want to join the band. Still, secretly, - no one else is around. He starts jamming.. with the movement of his head, he even pretends to be properly able to follow the flow with his kranky guitar. He uses preucations: headhones. It grows on him and makes him want to dare this eccentricity of a wrong, oblique music sensuality: When Did You Stop Loving Me, When Did I Stop Loving You, or the cool vibe of Beanstalk. Sounds classic, still it flirts with modern jazz retrofuturism (The Relative). It makes me want to read a book and drink something warm.
Can jazz be modern, today? Like a 40 year man enjoying contemporary jazz. A good work indeed, mr Parker.
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