Jazz Shootings

You never hear about a shooting at a Jazz Club.  I want this to happen more.  Recently, we had a shooting at some hip-hop club down in the Wharf of San Francisco.  (I was impressed to hear that there were even people out at the Wharf, let alone that enough had gathered to manifest an altercation and subsequent shooting.) All I keep thinking is how terrific it would be if, for once, it wasn’t some typical goddam hip-hop club.

I know a guy in the club industry, and he was saying, “yeah, figures.  That’s what you get with a place like that.”  Apparently, it’s well known in the club industry that if you play hip-hop, especially certain kinds (I guess), you get a more violent crowd: more problems at the door, more at the bar, everywhere.  Clubs, he says, tailor their music to their tolerance for shitty crowds.  Okay, so I guess I get this.  Hip-hop is all about gun-totin muthafuckas and it attracts as much.  But let’s look at how funny this is for a second if you imagine people reacting that way to the passions of other styles of music.

Imagine a world where this happens at jazz clubs.  No lyrics, pure jazz.  Can you see it?  Homies getting all riled up over some sweet licks of the guitar, some smooth line of a sax and the stepping out of the drums?  Jazz is about three things, improvisation, cooperation, and acknowledgement.  This is an agreement between the musicians, and understanding.  But what if some members in the crowd weren’t so cooperative.  What if they each felt different things for different solos.  So I’m picturing two guys getting into an argument over the sax player-

(Sax): Bweeeee-dop, Bweeeee-dop, Bududua-bwee-dop

Thurston says to Samuel, “JShit, Sam, would you listen to that fuckin’ horn!  That’s my fuckin’ dog up there, man.  Ooooohwie that’s sweet sax.”

“Yo, man, fuck your horn.  Bitch ain’t got nothin on my drum-cat,” replies Samuel.

Thurston, taken aback, counters, “Drums? Bo-shit drums! Fucking cave man is what you got there.  That bitch must have one hand on hees dick cause I ain’t hearin’ nothin’ but a lot of stick on rocks.” He mocks the drummer, waving his arms like a monkey banging against rocks.

“Now ain’t that some shit, Big Thurst.  You better watch yo ass tonight!”  And with that, the two men part, embittered.

Minutes later, outside the club, a different sound is heard – it’s the thunderclap of gunfire.

Don’t you wish the world was like this though?  How amazing, how sophisticated it would be if fools (I use the term quite lovingly) were getting into heated, consequential arguments over arpeggios and scales.

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