Creepy, Squirming Larvae

So this relationship I have with jazz is a love/hate thing. I can put on Armstrong's Hot Five sides and be moved to believe that life is indeed a gift of pleasure. I can meditate behind Coltrane's A Love Supreme or Miles Davis' Bitch's Brew and be transported to uncharted planets in the nether reaches of the universe, an experience not unlike that offered by psychedelic drugs. Conversely, I can play Wynton Marsalis's Blue Interlude and form a picture in my mind of some guy reading music off a chart through thick bifocals, even as I have to admire the technical proficiency. Worse, I can attempt to brave a Kenny G record until I'm put right off food for a week.

Jazz is up against a wall, with a pack of rottweilers gnawing on its legs. Whether it heroically produces a billy club and kicks some canine ass or submits to what appears to be a certain and ugly demise will determine whether America's greatest cultural achievement is a glorious part of history or a living, breathing entity.

Unfortunately, the way things seem to be going, I'd give you real solid odds on the rottweilers.