Be-bop—do stop

by RAF KATIGBAK

To whom it may concern,

If you are reading this, know that as I write this, I have been a prisoner in my own home for exactly six days, seven hours and 92 minutes. I’m under siege and I’m concerned about my health, both physical and mental. I am trapped and things are looking bleaker by the moment. But that wasn’t always the case.

You see, six days, seven hours and 93 minutes ago, things were quiet, or at least as quiet as any downtown apartment could get. Every now and then, a delivery truck might come rumbling down the hill shaking the apartment, or a drunken Bostonian steakface would obnoxiously be asking people if they “speak American.” How I wish that were the case now. How I beg for a sloshed gang of date-rapey bachelors to be chanting “U-S-A! U-S-A!” outside my window. But no. It’s just bad jazz. Nothing but bad jazz. Day and night. Over and over. Forever.

Actually, if it was just bad jazz, it would be great. It would be easy to dismiss. After all, most bad jazz sounds the same. There is a basic theme, and a bunch of solos after which everyone is supposed to clap, even though most aren’t sure why they’re clapping or what they’re clapping for. It’s a simple formula that, if repeated enough, becomes ignorable, like getting a million mosquito bites or when your baby is crying after you lock it in the closet for crying too much. But it’s not easy to Zen out because it’s not just bad jazz. It’s bad blues, bad pop, bad disco, bad ska, bad everything.

Of course, it didn’t start out like that. In fact, the first night with Mr. Stevie Wonder was absolute magic. There were solid hits, teary Michael Jackson tributes and amazing fireworks finales (which had the double duty of dispersing the crowd when clouds of noxious post-fireworks chemicals began to rain down on them). I even had a monster living room karaoke jam until 4 a.m. that kicked off with nothing but Michael Jackson bombs after Mr. Wonder left the stage. That was amazing.

But now, it’s just bad. What happened to jazz anyway? That music genre was once a wellspring of creativity and innovation. And most of the greats were actually pretty fucked up. At one point, it was anti-establishment, it was wild, it was almost even dangerous. It was sex music. Drug music. Now it seems like only nerds play jazz and the most popular drug you’d find in the crowd is probably for hyper-cholesterol or heart disease. Sometimes I wonder how many visitors to the Jazz Fest actually enjoy listening to jazz. Maybe because music affects me so much that I can’t understand how people could sit all day listening to music that didn’t really move them. Do people really just need something to do? Isn’t something more fun than going to watch bad versions of pop songs done in a swing style?

Oh God. Make it stop. Make it stop! Oh God, no… is that “Summer Lovin’” from Grease done with a big band?! That should be illegal. Now I know how Noriega felt when those American troops blasted rock ’n’ roll to get him out in the ’89 invasion of Panama. But wait, that gives me an idea. Maybe it’s time I fought back! Maybe I can fight fire with fire!

Maybe I can schedule some band practices with my Black Sabbath cover band, Back Stabbathhh, to try to counteract the shitty jazz. After all, Black Sabbath did appear three times on the Noriega offensive playlist (“Iron Man,” “Paranoid” and “War Pigs”—the latter we won’t be doing because it’s super long and has so many parts that learning it would be like learning six new songs).

Alas, I don’t think that would even work. The sheer force of corniness is too strong on the outside. It would be a losing battle. No, I am trapped inside for fear of facing the tubby Floridian couples, the flamboyant, awkward, pony-tailed Queb jazz enthusiasts, the guy on his second date looking around to see if anyone he knows will catch him dancing to jazz…

But there is a light at the end of the tunnel. Sunday, things will be over. And life will go back to normal. The trucks will come rumbling down the hill, the thick-necked drunken American chiefs will be roving in packs outside my door, and I will sit back listening to the screams of drunken emo kids and the Honda Civics blaring crappy euro-dance and it will all be music to my ears…

Until the Francofolies start.

RIFF-RAFF@SYMPATICO.CA