This is so true. Performers already have given so much, and anything we could possibly say about it is pretty superfluous, although as arts writers, we try try try and try . . . .
I have been guilty of it in my jazz life. Many times. It’s an excess of love, not well moderated by impulse control. I write not to accuse myself or my readers, but to enlighten.
We go to a club, a bar, a jazz party where the musicians are on the same level as the audience. The band finishes a rousing set; the musicians grin at each other and have their little amusements, but it’s clear they are exhausted. Music-making for forty-five minutes is hard work, physically, emotionally. Musician A wants to eat something; B is trying to head for the restroom; C wants a beer; D wants to go outside and smoke or check her messages.
No. We stand in front of any or all, eager, beaming, loving, our faces shining with enthusiasm. We want to tell them how much we love them; we want to say, “Wow, that…
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