Taken From The Pinoy Jazz Mailing List
Just read this from the Pinoy Jazz Mailing List.
If you love music (not necessarily jazz) read it.
I am a listener. I might not be the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but I've a respectable IQ. I actually do understand a bit of this shit. Maybe not the technical parts. But I think I've got a decent ear. I think I know good shit when I hear it.
You jazz musicians have been carping about your experiences, well, sit down boys and listen to my experience as a listener.
I bring a bunch of friends to watch your gig (lest I be misunderstood, this is a generic "you" that I use, referring to all the jazz musicians on this list). On the way, I prime them with glowing accounts of your talent and potential. [You and I might have chatted about stretching out a bit more when you do your solos or including "Caravan" in your playlist instead of just teasing us with a few lines during warm-up.] That's when, the trouble starts.
The trouble with many of you jazz musicians is that you talk the talk but when you are faced with the choice between playing safe and accessible lines that cater to what you perceive to be the bulk of the audience and playing to folks like me, you will usually choose to play to what you percieve to be the bulk of the audience. Safe lines. Predictable lines. Lines that drew applause the last time you played the song. Lines that pander to the crowd.
Fuck!
Were they listening? Were they moving to the beat of what you were playing or were they merely nodding their heads to the cadence of their date's chatter?
Did you take a good look at what the bulk of the audience were consuming? One beer and a dish of peanuts the whole night. I'm the guy who racks up a four-digit bar bill and an equally decent sum in food. That's why I'm the Obese One and I've got the girth and credit card statements to prove it. Ahoy, bar owners on this list!
Why don't you play to the minority in the audience who earnestly want you to explore the limits your potential? Why don't you play to the minority who may not understand what you are trying to do but who are willing to hang on for the ride? Why don't you play to the few fuckers in the joint who are really, truly listening? Why don't you play to me?
Why don't you? Do I not applaud louder than the teeming poseurs? Do I not punctuate your good solos with effusive expressions of approbation? Hey, I even set you up with drinks during and between sets. One table of people like me is worth at least 10 tables of the hoi poloi.
And you wonder why jazz joints fail?
Jazz joints fail because you play to the rabble, the beer-and-peanuts crowd who aren't really listening because they are there to appear sophisticated or because the girls into whose pants they are trying to charm their way mentioned that they like jazz. Jazz? Jazz, like their booze. Aspartame jazz. Jazz like their food. South Beach Diet jazz.
Incomprehensibly self-defeating, isn't it?
And, all this time, I am there. I hang on every note, every crash of the cymbals, every thud and clatter of the drums. I know that music is the most ephemeral of art forms. That perfect note at the perfect time with just the right attack. I live for that moment. Don't you? Well, I am in the minority who live to hear you play it.
Play to the minority. In fact, don't even play to me. Play to the only minority that really counts. Play to yourselves. Me, I just want to be around when you do. Even if I don't know the names of the elements of your improvisation, I know good shit when I hear it. Even if I don't dig it, I trust you enough to work at understanding. And I love it.
I love it to the point that a hearty PUTANGINA! will, from time to time, issue from my lips. An ejaculation of grateful awe. No truer praise will you receive. It is worth a hundred prefunctory "Pare, galing"-with-matching-pats-on-the-back.
I seek only the privilege of hearing you play for yourself and this is no empty assertion. I put my money where my mouth is.
So, call me an arrogant sumbitch, if you wish. Call me an economic imperialist. I'm voting with my wallet. You want my money? Come and fucking get it.
You want a viable venue for good jazz? Play good jazz. Play it every goddamn night that you go on stage. Sure, there'll be off nights. My buddies and I know. But, stop playing to the hoi poloi. Stop playing as if you were auditioning to be ABS-CBN's in-house band. You cheapen yourselves and you waste my time.
Play what's in your soul. We're Pinoys, for Chrissake! With the Africans and the Irish, we've staked out huge chunks of the universe of sadness. We are tapped directly into the tristesse that is the wellspring of jazz.
The late Daniel Moynihan, upon hearing of John F. Kennedy's assasination, is reported to have sighed, "What's the point of being Irish if you don't know that the world is going to break your heart?"
We are the Irish of Asia and, with only the tiniest bit of tweaking, Moynihan's words will work just as well for us.
Play for your bisabuela who was raised by kindly nuns at the behest of her father, the bishop. Play for your abuela who was taken from her convent school to serve as a Japanese officer's comfort woman. Play for your aunt who quit her teaching job to become a DH and then lost her mind after being raped by her employer. Play for your sister whose cocaine-snorting husband beat her within an inch of her life because his adobo was not thrice-cooked, the way his sainted mequeni mother used to cook it.
Until you do that, stop denigrating the intelligence and musical apperciation of the folks like me. And, remember that you reap what you sow. Keep playing to the beer-and-peanuts crowd and see if you can sustain a club on chump change.
On the other hand, if you want to attract people who want you to play your hearts out and are willing to spend the bucks to sustain your art, consider this: If I am going to be red-eyed and incoherent at my ExCom meeting on Wednesday, the least you jazz musicians can do is to give me a Tuesday night performance that will turn my directors green with envy.
I'm tired of hearing excuses that go "Pare, sorry, hindi ko tinugtog ang '(supply name of song)' kasi baka hindi masakyan ng mga tao." Tao rin ako but it isn't my fault that jazz is floundering.
Steaming indignantly back into my lair,
Obese One
If you love music (not necessarily jazz) read it.
I am a listener. I might not be the sharpest arrow in the quiver, but I've a respectable IQ. I actually do understand a bit of this shit. Maybe not the technical parts. But I think I've got a decent ear. I think I know good shit when I hear it.
You jazz musicians have been carping about your experiences, well, sit down boys and listen to my experience as a listener.
I bring a bunch of friends to watch your gig (lest I be misunderstood, this is a generic "you" that I use, referring to all the jazz musicians on this list). On the way, I prime them with glowing accounts of your talent and potential. [You and I might have chatted about stretching out a bit more when you do your solos or including "Caravan" in your playlist instead of just teasing us with a few lines during warm-up.] That's when, the trouble starts.
The trouble with many of you jazz musicians is that you talk the talk but when you are faced with the choice between playing safe and accessible lines that cater to what you perceive to be the bulk of the audience and playing to folks like me, you will usually choose to play to what you percieve to be the bulk of the audience. Safe lines. Predictable lines. Lines that drew applause the last time you played the song. Lines that pander to the crowd.
Fuck!
Were they listening? Were they moving to the beat of what you were playing or were they merely nodding their heads to the cadence of their date's chatter?
Did you take a good look at what the bulk of the audience were consuming? One beer and a dish of peanuts the whole night. I'm the guy who racks up a four-digit bar bill and an equally decent sum in food. That's why I'm the Obese One and I've got the girth and credit card statements to prove it. Ahoy, bar owners on this list!
Why don't you play to the minority in the audience who earnestly want you to explore the limits your potential? Why don't you play to the minority who may not understand what you are trying to do but who are willing to hang on for the ride? Why don't you play to the few fuckers in the joint who are really, truly listening? Why don't you play to me?
Why don't you? Do I not applaud louder than the teeming poseurs? Do I not punctuate your good solos with effusive expressions of approbation? Hey, I even set you up with drinks during and between sets. One table of people like me is worth at least 10 tables of the hoi poloi.
And you wonder why jazz joints fail?
Jazz joints fail because you play to the rabble, the beer-and-peanuts crowd who aren't really listening because they are there to appear sophisticated or because the girls into whose pants they are trying to charm their way mentioned that they like jazz. Jazz? Jazz, like their booze. Aspartame jazz. Jazz like their food. South Beach Diet jazz.
Incomprehensibly self-defeating, isn't it?
And, all this time, I am there. I hang on every note, every crash of the cymbals, every thud and clatter of the drums. I know that music is the most ephemeral of art forms. That perfect note at the perfect time with just the right attack. I live for that moment. Don't you? Well, I am in the minority who live to hear you play it.
Play to the minority. In fact, don't even play to me. Play to the only minority that really counts. Play to yourselves. Me, I just want to be around when you do. Even if I don't know the names of the elements of your improvisation, I know good shit when I hear it. Even if I don't dig it, I trust you enough to work at understanding. And I love it.
I love it to the point that a hearty PUTANGINA! will, from time to time, issue from my lips. An ejaculation of grateful awe. No truer praise will you receive. It is worth a hundred prefunctory "Pare, galing"-with-matching-pats-on-the-back.
I seek only the privilege of hearing you play for yourself and this is no empty assertion. I put my money where my mouth is.
So, call me an arrogant sumbitch, if you wish. Call me an economic imperialist. I'm voting with my wallet. You want my money? Come and fucking get it.
You want a viable venue for good jazz? Play good jazz. Play it every goddamn night that you go on stage. Sure, there'll be off nights. My buddies and I know. But, stop playing to the hoi poloi. Stop playing as if you were auditioning to be ABS-CBN's in-house band. You cheapen yourselves and you waste my time.
Play what's in your soul. We're Pinoys, for Chrissake! With the Africans and the Irish, we've staked out huge chunks of the universe of sadness. We are tapped directly into the tristesse that is the wellspring of jazz.
The late Daniel Moynihan, upon hearing of John F. Kennedy's assasination, is reported to have sighed, "What's the point of being Irish if you don't know that the world is going to break your heart?"
We are the Irish of Asia and, with only the tiniest bit of tweaking, Moynihan's words will work just as well for us.
Play for your bisabuela who was raised by kindly nuns at the behest of her father, the bishop. Play for your abuela who was taken from her convent school to serve as a Japanese officer's comfort woman. Play for your aunt who quit her teaching job to become a DH and then lost her mind after being raped by her employer. Play for your sister whose cocaine-snorting husband beat her within an inch of her life because his adobo was not thrice-cooked, the way his sainted mequeni mother used to cook it.
Until you do that, stop denigrating the intelligence and musical apperciation of the folks like me. And, remember that you reap what you sow. Keep playing to the beer-and-peanuts crowd and see if you can sustain a club on chump change.
On the other hand, if you want to attract people who want you to play your hearts out and are willing to spend the bucks to sustain your art, consider this: If I am going to be red-eyed and incoherent at my ExCom meeting on Wednesday, the least you jazz musicians can do is to give me a Tuesday night performance that will turn my directors green with envy.
I'm tired of hearing excuses that go "Pare, sorry, hindi ko tinugtog ang '(supply name of song)' kasi baka hindi masakyan ng mga tao." Tao rin ako but it isn't my fault that jazz is floundering.
Steaming indignantly back into my lair,
Obese One