I need to not listen to music that tells me that “daddy likes rubbing up against little boys on the bus” right before going to sleep. “Daddy likes ten dollar whores and that’s why mommy left us” Especially not as it’s a lullabye. Very quiet and slight and irish. I’d forgotten it was on my playlist and had to pull myself out of bed to make it stop. To replace it, I’ve put on what I have to say is possibly the perkiest jazz I may have ever heard. This jazz tweaks nipples and gets the tail waving. You know it’s good when you catch yourself typing to the snare.

I had someone ask me a few weeks ago why I liked jazz. It’s too weird, they said, no-one actually likes it. They only say that to look good, to seem sophisticated. What can you say to that? To me it’s thrilling. Play of piano against tick tick shuck of the drumkit. Unique arrangements complex and hideously catchy. Plink, bang, horn swell here. I admit, passion’s not my deal. None of it in me. I like the warmth of it beside me maybe and I love to taste the idea, but oh! Music. Layer it on. Ice the damned cake and savour every rich bite. Get the hips swaying in circles, get those hands up and moving. Your head will sway, keeping time if they get it right. Ever notice how different musicians have the different groove? DJ’s coming in low in the shoulders, guitar players anointing the notes with their chins. Might just be me, but I think it’s indicative to see how someone responds to music. That woman there, she taps only her toe, she’s been in classical before, but that fellow on the right? He plays bass. Jams with his buddies in the space beside the garage. It’s in the way he stands, do you see? Clear as spotting the dancers in the crowd, clear as crystal. As simple to see as this melody, bending in the middle to let the other section in. Punctuate. Every. Last. Bar. Twirling music, long skirted down the steps with a modern Astaire. This has mix to it, this has scratch. Sinuous, solid, set.