We side-step at an unusual moment and find we’re in a smoke filled room where sounds have taken over the usual medium for thought conveyance.
The main messages are presented from an instrument that is easily heard. It seems that the player of that instrument is at an edge, and will not cease until his plea to be heard and understood has been accomplished.
No notes are played in error. There are no ‘wrong’ notes, but the ones heard are not usual. There is a subtle difficulty in understanding the underlying reason those sounds were played – and in the particular order in which they were produced.
There was a beat, a rhythm, a format as such . . . but it was not immediately understood. The notes continued, sometimes forcefully, as if the master was teaching us love for something we knew nothing about. The love – was the melody on which everything else hung.
A brilliant little riff by the performer – stating that out of all the possibilities present he was blessing us with this one – brought the first chapter to a close.
We weren’t watching jazz being performed, we were watching love happen.
A more perfect form of conveyance doesn’t exist.