On sharks and jazz [June 24]
I heard a scientist on the radio saying that sharks like jazz music. Apparently if you play them jazz the sharks will come for the food. Play them classical music, though, and they don’t know what to do with themselves. Note to self, I thought: don’t go near the sea when you’re listening to jazz.
A decade and a half ago I played a jazz album to a three-year-old boy who I loved. When Louis Jordan And His Timpany Fivesang ‘Jack, You’re Dead’, the boy lay down on the floor. He put his head right up against the speakers and listened with his whole body. When the song finished he asked me to play it again. And again, and again.
A few years later that boy started learning guitar. He quickly mastered the instrument, probably because he spent every spare minute of his life playing music. Then he learnt how to play the drums. He also sings and he’s pretty handy on the piano. If only he could do all those things simultaneously, he’d give Louis Jordan And His Timpany Fivea run for their money.
That boy is eighteen now and he’s in a bunch of different bands. Last week he played a guitar gig in a Footscray bar. He was due to fly out of the country two days later for his first big solo travel adventure. The set began with a jazz tune.
As I listened to the melody noodling out from under his fingers I thought about that little boy with his ear pressed to the speaker. I thought about all the new music he would hear on his travels. The trains he would catch, or miss. The strangers he would befriend, or avoid. The foreign languages he would be immersed in, or befuddled by. The freedom he would embrace, and the homesickness that would embrace him. As the first tune came to an end I clapped and whistled louder than was necessary.
The second song was one he’d written himself. In the chorus he sang: ‘And then, piece by piece, everything pushes you into unease’.
Suddenly I wanted to tell him what I’d learnt about the sharks. I wanted to warn him not to go near the sea if he was playing jazz. But he’s gone now and it’s too late.
Safe travels, boyo.
(This column was first published by Fairfax in June 2018)