There is a certain expectation one has when moving to Spain. Sun-drenched afternoons, long lazy lunches, the gentle hum of a cultured people going about their day, perhaps even the distant wail of a saxophone drifting through an open window.
Not here. Here, in our little corner of the south, music exists in two forms: 1) the relentless, looping dirge of reggaeton bleeding from passing cars, and 2) a man named Miguel, who appears to own the only guitar in town and plays exactly three chords with the confidence of a deity.
Jazz? Jazz is a foreign concept. It might as well be astrophysics.
I realized the extent of the crisis last Thursday. I had woken up optimistic, as one occasionally does before the world intervenes. I had a plan: find a jazz bar. Not an outrageous plan, in theory. Cádiz is not a small place. It has history. It has culture. It has a deep-rooted tradition of music. But what it does not have, apparently, is a single establishment where a man can drink something strong and listen to a bit of Thelonious Monk without having to explain himself.
The first place I tried was a stylish little bar near the port.
“Música en vivo?” I asked hopefully.
The barman, a man whose entire aesthetic suggested he had not known joy since 1984, nodded. “Sí. Flamenco.”
Now, I have nothing against flamenco. It is powerful. It is expressive. It is full of raw emotion and masterful technique. It is, however, not jazz.
“Solo flamenco?” I asked, trying to give him an out.
He shrugged in a way that suggested that even asking such a question was deeply offensive. “Claro.”
Strike one.
The second place was worse. It had a sign outside boasting “Live Music Every Night!” which I now realize was a lie, or at the very least, an ambitious interpretation of the phrase. Inside, a man was playing something that could have been music, but only in the way that a cat walking across a keyboard could be considered a composer.
“Es jazz?” I asked, because I am nothing if not hopeful.
The waitress stared at me like I had requested a full roast dinner at a vegan café. “No. Es…música.”
Strike two.
By the time I reached the third place, my expectations were low. It was a tiny bar wedged between two much louder bars, the kind of place where nobody under 50 dared to enter. I considered this a positive sign.
“Tienen jazz?” I asked the bartender, a woman who looked like she had seen everything and been unimpressed by most of it.
She paused, then nodded. “Sí. Un momento.”
Finally. Victory.
She disappeared into the back, and I sat back in my chair, basking in the warm glow of success. This, I thought, was why we had moved here. The simple joys. The unexpected discoveries. The thrill of finding something when you least expect it.
Then she returned and handed me a menu.
Jazz, as it turns out, was the name of a cocktail. A deeply offensive concoction involving cheap vodka, something fluorescent, and—if my taste buds are to be believed—at least a tablespoon of sugar per sip.
I drank it anyway. It felt like an appropriate end to the evening.
Welcome to the Great Andalusian Jazz Famine. I will not give up. But I may have to start a jazz club myself.
