There isn't a hell of a lot that can inspire me to stand around in one place for 2 hours, packed like a sardine into a small bar area, starved, parched (no alcohol for those of us currently on antibiotics for lyme disease, goddamn it), waiting for a table that never comes, watching plate after plate of mouthwatering bar cuisine being delivered to the gluttonous, table-hogging cretins smart enough to get there early enough to snag a seat. There are even fewer things that can inspire me to do so happily, the last-ever concert of the Federal Jazz Commission being one of them.
[An aside: what exactly are the rules for keeping a table throughout an entire 3-hour concert, when it's exceedingly obvious that many, many people are waiting for said table? I'd argue that if it's strictly a bar, you can sit there as long as you like, but when we veer into restaurant territory, the practice becomes questionable. Is it OK to eat dinner, pay your bill, then just sit there at your table for another 2 hours? I say no. My companion disagrees.]
Anyway, the Federal Jazz Commission is exactly what DC needs more of: an authentic cultural experience which succeeds entirely on its own merits, and which is inextricably linked to its own place and time. Yes, the FJC specializes in New Orleans jazz, but it doesn't come off as a watered down version of something that exists better someplace else (as most things in DC tend to). I'm no jazz aficionado by any stretch of the imagination (in fact, I don't think I even like jazz), but to my mind the FJC lacks any semblance of a tribute to something else from someplace else. These guys are the real deal. Their audience is the real deal. They have, over 26 years of regular Tuesday night gigs, forged a cultural entity as legitimate as that of the music they play. They are real. And they are real good.
So of course the whole thing stopped last night, leaving a gaping hole in what might generously be referred to as the DC social calendar. A coworker of my girlfriend's, also in attendance last night, remarked that "nothing lasts forever," a comment which was indeed the theme of the evening. The FJC is old, no two ways around it. Two members, including their leader, are about to leave this earthly plane for that fabled elderly panacea known as Florida. And with them goes the group. Think about it. 26 years. Every Tuesday. The same bar. The same small stage. The same devoted following. Even their fans are old, most teetering on the verge of their 9th decade. I was fortunate enough to discover the FJC about a year ago, and to see them 4 or 5 times. I admit last night I felt like something of a voyeur, as if perhaps I hadn't quite earned the right to be there, that this was hallowed ground, a ceremony and a celebration for the truly faithful. It was sad. There was an actual sense of witnessing the passing of an era, a turning of the page. I couldn't help but imagine, as the band wound down their final song, to a standing ovation and prolonged applause, that this was probably the last hurrah for many in the audience, one last escape from reality, one final moment basking in the old-time tunes, one last visitation from their youth. Is this how I'll feel, 50 years from now, listening to Nirvana one last time?
But I'm being melodramatic. What really mattered last night was the music. As I say, I don't know much about jazz, don't know the history, the culture, much less the complicated minutia of what's actually taking place on stage. All I know is that it sounded fucking great. These guys are so on, so in command of their talents, so connected to each other and to the room, that even if you hate New Orleans jazz you can't escape the sheer thrill of watching artistry unfold. There should be an aging exemption for people this good at something that brings such joy. I recently visited the new Newseum down here in DC, and had a chance to take in the stellar Pulitzer photography exhibit. Of all the shots of carnage, despair, heartbreak, the heights and depths of humanity, the photo that stuck out for me was a simple image of an aged Babe Ruth, outfitted in the Yankees uniform of his prime, stooped over, leaning on a bat for support, the throngs of Yankee stadium encircling the solitary old man, paying their last respects. The great Babe is shot from behind. All we see is the number 3 on his back, his shock of black hair, his enfeebled posture. An old man standing alone at home plate, tipping his cap. It's a portrait of our most devastating self-realization: that all of us (even me!), if we're lucky, get to grow old and wither away. And this is the best we can hope for.
Even the Babe gets old. And last night, even the FJC. Nothing lasts forever. Not last night's concert. Not the band. Not the music. Eventually the bar will shut down. The crowds will gather someplace else. We'll all be gone. Last night was both a chance to forget all this, to bask in a momentary, celebratory respite from what's real, and a nagging reminder of what truly awaits us all. The Federal Jazz Commission should get to stay young, keep playing. But they don't. And neither do we.
