Federal Jazz Commission

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.

Lullabye of Suburbia

It's Day 9 of the great Lyme Disease Marathon, and as with days 1 - 8, I'm spending day 9 at the ancestral home in Barnegat, NJ. I would have assumed, had someone told me I was about to embark on an 9 day visit to mom and dad's house after only packing for 3 days, that I'd be clawing my eyes out with boredom and frustration right about now. But the fact is I feel rather soothed into submission. Unlike DC, where most of the time my brain is going, "You know, there really should be a good restaurant around here," in Barnegat, well, there really shouldn't be a good restaurant around here. The old hometown is what it is. And while I don't think I could live here full-time, this removal of expectations makes for a quite a relaxing visit. Especially being sick, it's real easy to just sit back, read my book, wait for 6pm, turn the computer off, watch some TV, read some more, take my horse pills, and hit the sack. Sometimes there's a bit of excitement, like when my mom brings home the leftover Salt and Vinegar chips from a classroom party, or when my dad decides he's going out to the garage for a root beer and wonders whether I'd like one (yes, please). But otherwise I'm just going with the flow, chillin' in my recliner, padding over to the dinner table for barbecue. I can kinda see why people hit the burbs. I haven't had to walk five feet in a week. There's no sense that you're missing something if you stay inside (you're totally not). The hardest decision you ever face is whether to shop at BJs or Costco. I like it!

And Then There Was Blogging

Yes, I quit my blog for 3 or 4 months there. Just wasn't feeling it anymore. Wasn't doing it for me. Spring time was here again and it was time to go outdoors and rejoin humanity. Blogging started counterproductive and antisocial and even (if this is possible) kind of retro. Like, are people still doing that? Am I one of those people? Come to think of it, my sideburns might be a little too long, too. Uh oh. I'm stuck in the late 90s/early 00s, aren't I? (I've never been a blog reader. I'm still not. So having a blog has always felt a little off to me anyway.)

Then lately I've found myself wishing I had some forum in which to sound off on ridiculous, meaningless things. Hmmm, if only someone would invent some form of thoroughly self-centered communications so that a person might a) sound of on issues he knows practically nothing about, b) trumpet his own mediocre comings and goings, c) pretend he did some "writing" today, and d) save friends and family from having to actually listen to this garbage over drinks or dinner. Aha! My blog! Oh how I missed you.

But here's what really brought me back. Me, an avid indoorsman of the highest degree, managed to acquire Lyme Disease. Perhaps I passed a tree on my walk to happy hour, I don't know. But somehow I got the classic bulls eye red mark on my leg (a real whopper, by the way, about the size of the top of a soup can) and the atrocious flu-like symptoms to match. Plus, to make it even more fun, I happened to be visiting my parents when I took ill, so I'm currently in day number 7 of lying sick in my old high school bedroom, at home with my parents, away from all my stuff (oh, sweet Netflix, why hast thou forsaken me?), feeling slightly better now, but not better enough to actually do anything, much less drive all the way back to DC, oh, and taking medication with one major side effect: I can't go in the sun while on it. That's right: I'm literally stuck in my parents' house. Until nightfall, at least. There are many creature comforts, to be sure, and it's kinda nice being doted on...but, again, this is day 7. How much Law and Order can a person watch?

On the other hand, I'm probably losing some weight from lack of appetite. And I haven't reached for my wallet in over a week. And I'm reading a lot. And...uh, I showered today. But, yeah, it's really come to this. I'm blogging again. Hallelujah.