Jazz?

I’m sure this has been written about endlessly by musicologists, but living here it becomes so obvious that jazz has its roots in the never ending improvisation that is African culture.

Observe Exhibit A: our Congolese houseboys answer to electrical overload; a “multi-plug” surge protector that has had the cord clipped, Romex 18 gauge regular housing wire spliced in, and the ends trimmed to fit into the plug.  Of dubious effectiveness as a surge protector, no?

I like to think that if this configuration were to be put to music, we’d hear something akin to John Coltrane’s “A Love Supreme.”  I don’t think it’s pretty enough to qualify for a Dave Brubeck piece, but certainly a late career fusion of Miles Davis.  It’s a form of living jazz on every corner, in every job, at the invisible traffic lights, in government jobs, at schools, hospitals, airports, and border crossings.  Protocol seems a quaint formality in this culture of a nation of 34 million (smaller than Oregon in size) all flying by the seat of their pants.  The frenetic energy is exhilarating, exhausting.

Needless to say, a different configuration is on tomorrow's to do list, if the house doesn't burn down first.

Certified Electrician Wanted.  Apply within.

            Yet, at the same time there is a pervasive Polynesianesque mentality of “I’ll get to it when I get to it” in the cantor and gait of nearly all Africans.  Let’s be honest, we bleached and puffy westerners, Blacks (African Americans, Africans…) ALL walk cooler than we do.  Once again, a fusion of jazz’s chaos and calm.  Whence this this magical musical art form.