Someone is playing a jazz record in our building.
It’s a quartet.
The sound is coming through the window from across the pool in the courtyard. It is 69 degrees, and I’m not complaining.
I should be ashamed that, as a Berklee student, I cannot identify the artist, era, or even style of jazz.
I don’t care. I just like jazz. I can’t play it, and it is the one kind of music that I don’t have an ache to learn how to do (that and maybe metal) I feel, perhaps, as if I was meant to just listen to the phenomenon of jazz.
I’ve studied it, tried to write it, and understand it, but it remains a mystery to this girl.
I like it that way.
For now, Jazz sits on the shelf in my brain that is reserved for music for me to like… and exist for nothing else.