Jazz Is the Music of Failure: A Prescription for Civil Discourse

Rude Chicken has opinions about music. Who knew this rabbit hole had stairs?

Photo by Adrian Swancar on Unsplash

Jazz is trash. If ADHD was a music that got smothered by an ambiguously stained pillow within an inch of its stupid life; just shy of permanent damage and forced to exist. That’s jazz. So damned irrational I was forced to use a semi colon in describing it. I’m not even sure if I’m using it right, but no one else does either so we’re going to run with it.

Who even listens to this garbage anyway? Oh I know, the excessively pretentious cardigan and snazzy hat wearing, limited edition magazine reading bastards who probably enjoy brunch. Okay so I already recognize that hating on brunch is unnecessary, but my indignation demands at least a little collateral damage, so if eggs benedict has to pay the toll then so be it.

You got pianos, trumpets, cellos, and all sorts of cool instruments that would make an absolutely monster of a ska band. Without even having to flirt with a bassoon. Look at the bassoon, an instrument as stupid looking as the oboe but somehow dumber because it looks like you’re blowing into mortar tube, launching 81mm high explosive auditory violence against an audience too inflated with their own self importance to realize the years of their lives being torn away. Without even the snazzy fashion trends of the 1920s like pinstripes, fur stoles, and cloche hats. I’m not championing fur stoles here, I’m just saying. Settle down PETA, no one is afraid of your tofu batons and seitan fueled enragement, Christ.

I just don’t see the appeal, you got a whole orchestra of instruments playing in a discordant procession. Rambling on and on for hours, while people look on in some kind of clearly masochistic appreciation. Then having the gall to applaud! I bet these are the people who also applaud when the plane lands, then take their time getting off the plane as if other people don’t have places to be. I already had to smell your feet for the past 5 hours of this flight. Now I get to now stare at your insufferably oblong shaped head in the aisle while empires are rising and falling around me waiting for you to get your one piece of way too big carry on out of the overhead compartment.

Maybe I’m looking at jazz all wrong though, maybe its one of those things where you have two ugly as sin parents somehow creating good looking progeny through the double negative = positive paradox that plagues mathematics and language. Jazz gave us a lot of cool blues dialects, trip hop, and rap right? But why does it still have to exist? Like thank you, that’ll be all, please go back in time where you belong, or at least do a better job of hiding yourself like the moonshine runners did. I’m just saying that maybe prohibition didn’t have to go all the way away. It could have tactically pivoted to sending jazz to the underground. Deep underground. Think like Moria and the Balrog level underground.

“You Shall Not Pass!” Ever.

I do like Biscoff cookies though. They’re kinda like gingersnaps but without the ginger, just more of a carmel like flavor. I think that’s the main reason I like to fly Delta when I do fly at all. I wonder if I can get those outside of an airport, I’ll have to look that up. Delicious cookies aside though, jazz sucks. Brunch is great, but sucked while I wrote this. Eggs benedict is fairly mid depending on how good the kitchen is at poaching an egg successfully. Ska is great, and I miss the Mighty Might Bosstones.

Thankfully, Pepperidge Farms remembers.

-RC