In the days following 9/11/01, I took a break from the news. I couldn't stand the horror of it, and as grieving began to be tinged with jingoism, that got pretty hard to take too. NPR's Scott Simon was especially caught up; it was about a year before I could enjoy listening to him again.
Instead, I discovered KMHD, Portland's listener-supported jazz station--sort of the way Columbus "discovered" America: it was there all along, but . . . well, you know. After rock music went on without me (many years ago), I'd moved to classical, and from there to jazz. I started with Dave Brubeck, but soon was wandering everywhere: Miles Davis, Thelonius Monk, Gene Krupa, Herbie Mann, Jan Garbarek, Fats Waller, Charlie Hayden--on and on. The fact that there was no apparent pattern to my tastes kind of heightened my enjoyment. No apparent pattern, but a common feeling:
Somewhere along the line, jazz became the music I listened to when there was healing to be done. In the last year I lost a couple of friends, sweet friends, to quick and nasty varieties of cancer. I couldn't be with them while they struggled, so at work I would put on Coleman Hawkins' otherworldly "Body and Soul," crank it up, and dare the people in the next office to say anything about it.
Today I flipped on the radio, and there it was: Satchmo himself crooning "Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans?"
Jazz is the most life-affirming music there is. If you've got some time today, on the anniversary of 9/11, and in the wake of the terrible loss in New Orleans, give a listen.
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