None more jazz

The title of this post is a nod to Nigel Tufnel in This is Spinal Tap, when he asks and answers the question (about the black album),

“It’s like, how much more black could this be? And the answer is none. None more black.”


I don’t like jazz.

Saying I don’t like jazz is not the same as admitting that I don’t understand jazz. I don’t, but that’s not the point. Jazz afficianados (and yes, they actually call themselves that, need I say more) will snobbily say to anyone who doesn’t like it, “You just don’t get it.”

I can appreciate it as having “given birth” to many other musical genres (although I would argue that’s the blues, and I happen to love the blues) but that doesn’t mean I have to like it or listen to it. I appreciate that my ex sister-in-law gave birth to my lovely nieces, but I certainly don’t like her or want to listen to her.

I realize there are many different types of jazz; I’m talking about the schizophrenic kind. The scattered, chaotic kind that makes you want to stab yourself in the ear with a screwdriver. That and smooth jazz, but there’s only maybe three people total who like that.

I want music to mean something to me – evoke a fond memory, move me to laugh, smile, or tear up, entice me to sing along at the top of my lungs in the car – and while this can happen through the music alone, it usually involves both music and lyrics. Use your words.

Jazz evokes strong emotions in me, but not in the good way. It makes me feel agitated. When I hear it I am tense, annoyed, frustrated, anxious, and yet bored, all at the same time. It sometimes makes me angry. I cannot tell where one song ends and another begins. It’s as if someone took all the chords available, mixed them up, and then projectile vomited them. For a really long time.


The “sentence” above is how I feel about jazz.

So, how much more jazz should there be? The answer is none.

None more jazz.