Here is the song.

And onto another Waltz. Another Jazz standard interpreted by a brilliant musician. With only two instruments – a piano and a voice – this song manages to exemplify everything that makes music and art meaningful. Let me explain.

Jitterbug Waltz taps into communal memories. The party is ending, and you want to go home. Have you been there before? Probably. The last dance of the night is a peculiar predicament; on one hand you want to sleep, yet on the other hand you want to keep the magic of the night alive. The lyrics of Jitterbug Waltz bring us right into the story with its use of vivid present tense constructions.

Jitterbug Waltz emulates a range of emotions. In fact the range of emotions the voice and the piano take us through borders on the cinematic. And we are hearing this range via a singer made of the finest substance. Cecile is a robust singer – it doesn’t matter what angle your ear catches her, you still feel her conviction and dedication to the sound. Listen to how she recreates the dynamic feeling of ‘lethargy interspersed with the fits of giddiness you get when you catch your fourth wind on a night that just won’t end’.

Jitterbug Waltz creates grand metaphors. It was not until I was in the act of writing this post that I discovered that Cecile’s rendition is simultaneously dramatising a metaphorical waltz between her ‘voice’ and the ‘piano’! Listen to the way Cecile’s voice interacts with the piano. Is this not a dance of two waltzing partners who are slowly but surely finding each other’s feet? For example, Cecile’s voice starts off slow and lethargic with long drawn out sounds compared to the piano’s preppiness, insistence and goading. But they reach a similar tempo at the end, a harmony, a union.

And in a grander sense, doesn’t this ‘metaphorical waltz’ serve as a larger metaphor for life itself? Perhaps we are all in an intimate jitterbug waltz with life? Life, with its boundless possibility is continually changing, consistently forcing us to shift tempo, to move in a different way, and adapt to a new rhythm. We are usually stubborn toward the change life relentlessly subjects us to – just like Cecile – because really, we would prefer to be in bed sleeping. But Cecile’s parting words of wisdom to us is to resist the urge to quit on life mid-dance, but rather to ‘Let the Waltz play again’. Sound advice, when think about it.

Here is the song (Sarah Vaughn – Spotify link, sorry).

Here is the song (Joe Williams).

I discovered the Jazz Standard Gravy Waltz late last year and I was thoroughly charmed by the playfulness and affable imagery within the lyrics. There’s something ‘humpty-dumpty’ about the song’s progression as it wins your affection. Like all standards, Gravy Waltz has been interpreted by different musicians across the ages. There are two versions of this song that I love because they make me reflect on how truly amazing the gift of interpretation is.

I initially heard Sarah Vaughn’s version. Its Sarah Vaughn. Her voice is always going to be centre stage. Her voice is the fireplace at the centre of the home keeping us warm. All the instruments are drawing us closer to the fire, to feel that warmth, and to get a whiff of the gravy. The architecture of the song reinforces the main theme – The simplistic spirituality of domestic bliss. And this domicile is spacious, at ease with itself, is comfortable with silences and knows what’s important. All the materials are there – light touch organ, agreeable guitar, ‘lazy sunday’ percussion. Sarah is singing about ‘mama in the kitchen’ – an image indelibly etched into most of our archetypal brain along with all the reassurance that it brings.

Joe Williams ain’t singing about his mama, no sir! We can sense a different affection by his tone and his stresses alone – now that’s a singer. We can hear him smiling. And every instrument is a bright shining thing, expressive, full of life, dancing even. Whereas Vaughn’s voice was gesturing us to come closer towards the fireplace, Williams’ voice is gesturing outwards, towards the band and their fireworks. And Clark Terry, Colman Hawkins & co sure don’t disappoint. We may lose the subtlety and understatement of Vaughn’s house, but we gain the genuine joy in William’s anticipation prior to tasting the gravy. Listen at 1:22 as Williams says ‘Well she really ran to get her frying pan…’ it is as if he is telling us a story and that pause right after these words is for us – the listeners – to insert ourselves in the story, brilliant storytelling! And then we get to the moment of truth

‘Mmmmmmn, nice gravy dear’

That genius throwaway line should be on a t-shirt!

On second thoughts, maybe it shouldn’t…

Here is the song

Some people wear power on their sleeve, which is to say they make an ostentatious display of it. It relies on others to see it and give it credence. Others inhabit their power from their gut, it needs no explanation. It only needs one to sense its Ki, as if it were an episode of Dragonball Z. If you ever wanted to understand the meaning of the word Verve, Christian Scott has offered us a musical definition in Ruler Rebel.

I can go further, this song contemplates the consciousness of power, a power aware of its surroundings and its ability to create and destroy. It is like a black hole, who can discern its heart? Malevolence is swirling around the hi-hat. Yet so is responsibility in the questioning flute. Yet so is conceit in the bass. And what of the sagacity in the trumpet?

Further still? Well only because Scott goes further in the outro. Scott doesn’t bring the song to a conclusion, he simply heightens the tension in a creative outburst. The ultimate question at the end of the song is How will we handle the power that has been given to us? Every individual, every social group, every nation and every empire has continually faced this question. Will we exercise our power to bring greater order to the world, or will we rebel and destroy what has been built? Or will we end up doing both these things at the same time. Maybe we need all three flutes playing at the same time.

Here is the song.

To me, this song is about the instinctual prowess of the voice in unleashing spiritual energy. Where rationalisation falls flat on its face in the presence of the unknown, instinct advances like a stealthy jaguar. You see, language achieves certain things, but all languages are a subset of human sound in general. In Jabula we hear a plethora of human sound, some having no linguistic parallel in depth of meaning.

A song like this is the audial equivalent to earthing. Most of us live disconnected from the ground’s natural energy current, just as we live indifferent from our bodies and their natural rhythms. But when we connect back to our natural selves, we feel potential, we feel and hear the blood pumping around our body, like the kick of Jabula’s beat.

It takes real genius to know what is important and what is not. Then it takes real confidence to focus on what is important and ignore everything else. Every sound in Jabula is a work of confident genius. Cici’s voice is the essence of clarity and her piercing sound meets a masterful counterpoint in the bass, synth, and sparse percussion.

And so, from the specific to the universal – ‘Jabula’ means ‘rejoice’ in Zulu. It is near impossible for us not to feel more jubilant, confident and purposeful after listening to this song. Testament to the ability of music to infuse us with emotions and sentiments in a way no other medium can.

Here is the song (from 7:26 onwards).

You’ve heard it said that Greed is Good, but I say unto you a new thing, Grief is Good.

The human soul is relentless when it has something to say. When you hear the deep guttural woes of human despair, try as you may, you can’t shake it off your spirit. In fact, try to shake it off and it just clings on tighter, like a cat. Which brings me to my point – Jazzmeia Horn’s voice is like a cat screeching, and I mean that as the best of compliments. I literally have to stop what I’m doing when I hear her sing “every evening” at 9:35. It drains my energy, and that’s what it feels like to be in the state of Moanin’ every day. Sublime.

And then uh-oh what’s this? Another language? Diddys Bebaps, Sodedes and Sodidis? It doesn’t matter, I know what she means. Call it poetic license. Call it the madness of grief. Call it speaking in tongues. I get it, and that’s what matters. Do you get it?

Perhaps the most incredible thing about Moanin’ is that it turns a desperately negative emotion and situation into an empowering one. Compared to Horn’s relentless vocals, the other instruments seem stand-offish at the beginning, like they’re just saying “yeah man” or “uh huh”. Not so by the end of Horn’s scatting section. During the keyboard solo, the instrument loses all self-composure, it can no longer contain itself and it starts breaking down in tears all over the time signature. Grief, it turns out, is contagious.

Then as we wind up to the crescendo, we tip our hats off to the Art Blakely signature drum sound at 11:22 (duh-duh-duh-duh-dum!). Then Jazzmeia Horn caps it all off, leaving us mystified in awe of the very grief that has caused this melancholic outpouring.

So I say unto you again, Grief is Good, when shared.

Here is the song (radio edit I think) but I am referring to the album version in this post.

“I know that there are bad forces. I know that there are forces out there that bring suffering to others and misery to the world. But I want to be the opposite force. I want to be the force which is truly for good.” – John Coltrane

Let’s be honest, if you are in mortal danger and you want a fictional superhero to save you, who are you going to call? Are you going to call Batman while he works out his existential childhood billionaire angst? Or are you going to call the ever-temperamental Wolverine who would shout at you for bothering him? No, you are going to call Superman – a force who is truly for good. But we don’t like Superman do we? As ‘post-modernists’ we absolutely cannot stand him and want to see his downfall. Anyway, enough! Rant over!

The quote above is by John Coltrane – a man who although one of the greatest musicians of all time, acknowledged that his purpose was greater than his gift. I used to think fictional Superman’s greatest gift was his superhuman abilities, but I have come to the conclusion that this is not so. It is Superman’s character and humility despite his superhuman abilities that are his real strength. Yet it is deeper than this according to this song. Don’t settle for internal smugness of character and humility for character and humilities sake – to do so would make you a ‘Clark Kent’. Be like ‘Superman’ and know that it is when you are at the height of your power and potential that all this humility and character can be put to its greatest use. That is how I listen to this song.

Eric Robertson has this way of giving himself wholeheartedly to his songs. This song literally pulsates on the energy of his vocals, fizzing around like a shaken bottle of Coca-Cola when the cap is partially twisted off. Then, as the song dies down and the instrumentation takes over, with Robertson’s adlib chants – na-na-na-na-na naa-naa-naa naa-naa-naaaaaaaa – on the fourth and final ad-lib, the most majestically timed piano lick sends the bottle cap sky high as if it were the sonic embodiment of Superman taking flight.

There is something about that piano lick that resounds on every level and that makes me very very very happy. Honestly, I live for that piano lick.

Here is the song (36:35 to 40:05)

They say the millennial generation is chronically self-obsessed, that we spend so much time in our heads that we never end up enjoying ourselves – even when surrounded by others.

But self-reflection is a good thing right? Well at what point does self-reflection stop being a good thing and morph into some form of neurosis? This is a difficult question that requires (ironically) self-reflection, some inner dialogue that gets to the bottom of what it is we really want, what it is that we’re searching for, or more often than not, what is the source of the pain that’s hurting us right now but that we are wilfully ignoring.

Waiting Outside is one rappers dramatisation of the feeling that the deeper part of us is desperately trying to converse with the exterior part of us, the part that is busy interacting with the world. Through this dramatisation a fundamental truth is communicated – that the nature of human existence is relational because look, we even have a relationship with ourselves.

Think of the musical layers of Waiting Outside as the metaphorical soundtrack playing in the psychologist’s room (just like a generation before might have had Bruce Springsteen’s Dancing In The Dark playing as it’s soundtrack). The intro signifying the entry into the shrink’s mystical chair where the subconscious meets the conscious, where it feels kind of weird yet familiar. Then the chorus where Oddisee’s singing communicates an angst, some deep yearning. And then the drums in the final chorus are like the deep anger and confusion that surrounds the pain we harbour. Indeed, we all tend to do some form of mental or emotional thrashing about in preparation for real healing to begin.

But just as the patient gets over this hurdle, the next journey begins with the mind finding some other cunning and elaborate way to deceive itself, as if life was following some different rhythm entirely…

Here is the song.

You’re sitting back in the cinema with your missus and you get closer and she leans back into your arms – you know the scene. But it’s very hard to portray what it feels like to occupy a human body when this sort of human contact occurs – like magic, your pulse begins to slow down, but not in any straightforward linear fashion, no, your pulse slows down like the first autumn leaf falling from a tree in slow motion; it takes detours, it picks up speed, it stays suspended in the air, a bit like this song! Listen in to how every instrument pursues the task of recreating the experience of feeling the appreciation of being loved;

The drums keeping your pulse low and steady,

The bass providing the understated funk,

The violin providing the raw drama of romance,

The harp doing je ne sais quoi to your heart,

And the vocalists providing the fine detail and rendering of emotion in real-time.

There is real gratefulness in the lyrics, a plainness that is, ironically, the most meaningful expression of thankfulness you could ask for. Perhaps there comes a point where elaborate articulation can betray the genuine. But this song is a glorious reminder of the need for simple and direct expressions of love.

How good does it feel to be loved by someone? As good as it is listening to the outro when the song seems like it’s running out of space in its lungs but then it finds an extra store of oxygen from deep in its gut. When it’s true love, some would say that this store has an unlimited supply.

Here is the song.

Perhaps loved ones who have died really do remain a part of us through our memories. Memories that form crucial parts of our identity over time. And what happens when these memories take on a life of their own, when we inhabit them, when we can still smell, hear and touch the people that have passed away? I guess a song like this happens. I have found myself humming the chorus to Every Part – it has the ability to cheer me up and transport me closer to ‘the light’ as I walk the city streets at night.

“You’re with me all the time, everything I do, you’re always on my mind, you’re in every part of me”

And the vocalist of the song means it. Listen to bass and the keys on the 1/4 and the off-2/4 all throughout the song – perfect sync. Listen carefully to the melody in the chorus – dual vocals. Listen to the oboes in the bridge – as if at opposite sides of the same double-dutch ropes. Almost haunting the vocalist through every transition within the song. But I’ve never thought that there could be such comfort in haunting sounds, yet there it is in the echo of the vocals and the reverb in the chorus.

In movie soundtracks, key characters often have themes that represent the essence of their personalities. I’ve often wondered what mine might be if I was a character in an epic drama; would it be as sincere as the image painted of Linda in this song? Would it leave people feeling as serene as it’s silky instrumentation? And would it still resonate days later, long after the song is over?

Here is the song.

You’re late. You’ve missed two trains and now you are on the third train that doesn’t go exactly where you need to go. Not only are you late, it’s also raining, and it’s the kind of rain that makes it look as though the sky is dying – a morbid grey at 8am on a Monday morning. And to top it all off, you’re somewhere between Leicester and Derby – the centre of England – where industrial apparatus peppers the sky and then and then and then you play this song. You close your eyes. Suddenly you’re somewhere else as tides of joy come rushing in. You are where the beach and the sun are, where you don’t have to rush. Here, living is about the rhythm. All other worldly concerns are somewhere past the horizon.

This is the very antithesis of your current situation – two juxtaposing moments of apotheosis collide. Temporarily, in your mind at least, you abdicate all responsibility and decide – do you know what? I’m going to the beach. I choose Joy, Relaxation, Happiness, Fun, Gladness. This is the power of the song. We have all heard versions of this genre of music, we know what it’s about, what it’s intention is, even if we don’t speak Spanish. But the vocals of Ms Gongora communicate a resoluteness, a repetition and a purpose that is as irresistible as the beach itself.

Isn’t it something special that we know what E Ye Ye means without knowing exactly what it means? Like how the inflexions of Ms Gongora’s voice speak to the parts of us that feel? Like the feeling of the sand on your feet? Like the sun warming your bones? Like the sound of the sea? Like the instrumentation at 4:22 where the Rhodes and the Flute take over? Bravo!