An old jazz bassist is busking on the street. He’s totally seasoned, been around, and he’s just playing one note. Just one note over and over, and he’s feeling that one note, finding different ways to say something with that one note. A young guy, just out of college, comes up and says, “Hey, man, you know, I play bass, too. Just got my jazz performance degree. Can I play your bass?” The old man gives him his bass and says, “Sure.” So the kid takes the bass, and he starts shredding, playing as fast as he can, as many notes as he can, a total showoff. When the guy finally stops, the old man looks at him and says, “Still searching, huh?”
This joke, passed on to me by my friend Jacqueline Ultan, a superlative cellist, helped crystallize an aggravation about the misuse of jazz that has pestered me for some time. Jazz, the music of freedom and liberation, offers players a unique opportunity to express their feelings, their personal point of view, with no holds barred, but too often, it seems to me, this freedom becomes a platform not for self-expression, but for self-indulgence, for self-congratulation, for showing off.
