Jazz is an unforgiving art. It does not tolerate hesitation. A bad note, played with conviction, is still part of the conversation. A good note, played timidly, is a wasted breath. This is what I tell students when they ask about improvisation. “You commit,” I say. “Or you get off the stage.”
This is not a philosophy widely shared in my new surroundings.
A few nights ago, in what I can only assume was divine intervention, I finally stumbled upon something resembling a jazz bar. I say “jazz bar,” but this is generous. It had a saxophone on the wall, which I took as a promising sign. It also had a chalkboard that read Noche de Música, which, given my recent experiences, could have meant anything from a live quartet to a man playing MP3s off his phone while the bartender shouted drink orders over it. But I was desperate.
I took a seat. Ordered a whiskey. Waited.
And then, the musicians appeared. A trio. Piano, upright bass, and—well. A flamenco guitarist. Not a jazz guitarist. A flamenco guitarist.
Now, don’t misunderstand me. Flamenco is magnificent. It is furious and raw and dripping with centuries of history. But flamenco guitar in a jazz trio? This was a bad marriage from the start.
The pianist, a gaunt man with the weary expression of someone who had spent too much time explaining music theory to people who didn’t care, counted in a medium swing. The bassist, a wiry kid who looked like he might also be the dishwasher, followed suit.
And then, the guitarist.
I do not know his name. I do not know his credentials. But I do know this: he did not believe in syncopation. He was a man in a race against himself, his fingers a blur of percussive attack, filling every possible space with sixteenth-note runs that seemed determined to murder swing where it sat.
The pianist looked at him. The bassist looked at him. The guitarist did not look at anyone. He played as if he were alone in his bedroom, as if jazz were merely an obstacle he needed to overcome with sheer force of will.
It was carnage.
The bassist, to his credit, tried to reel him in. He locked into the pulse, held down the structure like a man anchoring a house in a hurricane. But the guitarist would not be tamed. He sped up. Then slowed down. Then launched into a run that had nothing to do with the changes whatsoever. I saw the pianist mouth something, possibly a curse or possibly a desperate plea to a higher power.
And then, as suddenly as it had started, it was over. The guitarist hit his final note with the force of a man stabbing an ex-lover’s name into a tree. Silence.
A pause. The guitarist beamed. He had conquered the tune, though the tune, in my opinion, had not survived the battle.
The pianist sighed. The bassist took a long drink. The bartender, who had not looked up once, continued cleaning glasses.
The guitarist stood, bowed, and left. Just walked out. No explanation. No discussion. As if he had delivered a sermon and now his work here was done.
I finished my whiskey and sat for a moment. It was not jazz. Not really. Not in the way I understood it. But it had been something.
I will return next week. Just in case.
