All That Jazz

I tip my hat to my cousin, Todd. I'm quite the novice jazz man fan. The aura surrounding the smoky jazz club, the iced beers foaming over the tops of frosty pint glasses, the movement and arrangement of the notes is enough to evoke a time and place only visible in crystal balls, only visible in dreams, only visible on a wave through the wire, like watching a dimly lit room with logs on the fire and Miles Davis on a transistor radio. Six PM to Six AM, when I'm on the road, my radio is tuned to WRTI.org, jazz through the nite. The nite train is lit with the hum of horns, the bristle brush against the snare, the singer's sultry songs. I find my niche when I'm listening, it feels like familiar places, being spoken to by familiar faces, like family around the table, like stories I've heard far ago. I'm blessed to have a kinship with my favorite Jazz Man, my cousin. Arrangements and timelessness give me goosebumps. Our family relation gives me deja vus when I hear him play the trumpet. The notes bring my nostalgic leanings to life. The sound is a familiarity that lasts long ago and long into the evening, like sitting in the kitchen at my Nan's house, surrounded by the stories that unwind time and crack open bottles. His talents and extraordinary gifts are displayed at each performance and provide my soundtrack to the family. I never stop enjoying him play and continue his cool through the venues near and far. Play on cousin, play on. The music game needs you, so do I.