t’s Sunday night at the International Cork Jazz Festival. Cork’s city center alone is hosting an additional 40,000 jazz enthusiasts from all over the world this weekend. For two nights already, jazz has been drumming out of every pub, every theater, every concert hall and even the grocery stores. Every style of jazz is being played, from swing to elevator jazz. It’s Sunday night at one of the biggest music festivals in Europe, and you won’t find me at the Metripole listening to countless talented jazz musicians — you will find me at An Bodhran’s listening to the local traditional band, Porter House.
It’s not that I dislike jazz. Jazz is maybe my favorite music genre. However, by listening to timeless, simple and melodic pub anthems, I am protesting one of the more confusing music developments ever invented: atonal and anarchical jazz. You see, tonight’s event is parading a bunch of elitist jazz musicians who find it pleasurable to bombard the audience with music seemingly designed to not make any sense. In fact, the artists are attempting to achieve quite the opposite.
I almost decided to write a disclaimer so that all you music majors who specialize in jazz, or just love anarchical or atonal music, don’t bludgeon me with your jazz-oriented instruments. Then I decided that I would invite a good bludgeoning. Perhaps in the pain of having one’s skull cracked open, atonal jazz would sound better.
I’m sorry. I am getting ahead of myself. Last night, I attended a concert featuring Bill Frisell. Now, I know that Bill Frisell is supposedly an American genius of the jazz guitar and a major player in the advancement of jazz music, but for all I could hear, sentience was only optional in the music he presented us.
I admit that jazz has always been a music genre of dissonance. Very simply, music theory states that any two notes separated by more than a fifth is dissonant — hence jazz has many sixth and seventh chords. Then musicians take many of the simple rules of dissonance and combine them to form what we would call jazz, swing, Dixie-land, blues and a myriad of other sub-genres. However, there are some jazz musicians who have decided it’s a good idea to take dissonance to an entirely new level by specifically playing anything they want, and then encouraging their band members to play whatever they want at the same time. The result is essentially what I would call “”not-music.””
Regardless, people not only applauded Frisell, but also whooped and hollered when he took a curt bow. As we all shuffled out of the theater, many people could be heard commenting on the ingenuity of the daring jazz they just heard. I contest that atonal jazz is neither ingenuitive nor daring.
First of all, many people are confusing ingenuity with avant garde. When people say that ultra-modern jazz is not being appreciated by the masses, it’s not that the masses are stupid and tone deaf. In fact, there is a reason why most people reject it. I deduce, scientifically, that the reason the masses will reject avant garde music is because it sucks. Very simply, it doesn’t sound good. Specifically, in terms of atonal jazz, because it is so chaotic and directionless, people will get headaches listening to it. Are these atonal musicians ahead of other jazz musicians in progressing jazz’s dissonant qualities? Yes, but does that mean it’s ingenuitive? The only way to consider it ingenuitive is if you cross the line of insanity to genius. Unfortunately, elitist jazz fans have opted for the “”genius”” answer, which absolutely baffles me.
Secondly, it is certainly not daring, especially for a famous jazz musician. In this case: Bill Frisell. A popular jazz musician, or one that has already established an intellectual wavelength with jazz lovers, will have nothing to fear by playing chaotically. His fans and other jazz lovers will still embrace him. Furthermore, any jazz lover who values his intellectual status had better agree that the music was wonderful, ingenious or daring, otherwise the rest of the elite jazz world may decide he or she is fraternizing with the sinners and tax collectors of jazz music. With such a safety net below it, atonal jazz cannot be considered daring.
A perfect parallel to this sort of behavior is the way that art critics view uber-modern art. Most modern art is obviously made so that only a few people could enjoy it, or, more likely, just tolerate it. Obviously, they do this so that they may separate themselves from the masses. When one takes a look at one of the more recent “”masterpieces,”” which consist of a blank room wherein lies a single light turned on and off, you have to ask yourself, “”Huh?”” However, art elitists will rant and rave at the wonderful, daring work of this delicious new artist. Meanwhile, you (the common art lover) are meant to feel left out and stupid. This, of course, explains why layman art lovers had to defend themselves by inventing the phrase, “”I may not know art, but I know what I like.”” In the same sense, proud jazz enthusiasts endure this sort of painful music so that they may separate themselves from us common music lovers, boosting their musical self-confidence.
Now, certainly, one could argue that I have no idea what I am talking about because my major status on Studentlink doesn’t say “”music.”” One could also argue that this sort of jazz is a brilliant form of musical expression and that only the most learned of musicians can understand its sheer genius, which is why my puny brain cannot fathom it. If that is true, then ignorance truly is bliss.
After enduring Bill Frisell’s concoctions, which I stayed for so that at least I can say that I gutted out the whole ordeal, I made a covenant with myself to listen to jazz that had melody or driving point, or not to listen to jazz at all.
Discovering that Sunday night at the concert houses was going to be more of the same discomfort — the blues and swing portion of the festival were over by that point, I suppose — I decided instead to see Porter House play “”Finnigan’s Wake”” and “”Spanish Lady.”” As the humble, time-tested lyrics and steady melodies wafted by the content pub-goers, I decided to leave musical academia and aristocracy behind and let my simple-minded music interests take hold. Instead of working my mind hard to enjoy, or at least understand, the musical extremism, I took pleasure in the common thirds and easy six-eight time signature of the double-jigs. Porter House certainly did not disappoint me.
I cannot say that I am a genius of music enthusiasm when I listen to these songs, but my brain and my eardrums will thank me later.