Ohh..to be a jazz guy
by Griffin Frerichs
Illustration by Angus
There’s a group of men that parade around campus like they’re everything, and while I want to hate them, I can’t seem to find it in my heart. These are the dudes that walk around without backpacks, without fear, and without a clue of what they’re going to do after college. I call them the ‘jazz guys.’ Man, what I would do to be one of them. I would debate the ethics of AI with a Philosophy major. I would lead an impromptu contact improv session in my Computer Science class. I would even eat the burnt rice permanently stuck to the bottom of the pans in Harkness—nutritional yeast and all.
Now, let me be clear, I am talking about a specific group—a specific breed. Some of the jazz guys really are just your average joe. Then, there’s the ones who can be regularly caught with a hat swankier than the entirety of my wardrobe, a completely warranted stank face in the middle of a solo, or who can somehow smoke a cigarette without looking performative. They spend half their time serenading anyone with open ears and the other half perusing eBay for oversized sweaters. As one who embarrassingly attends nearly every jazz forum, I am beyond jealous. They’ve got the looks, the groove, and whatever else gets you the girls. Despite my envy, I’ve got to make a case for us laymen who claim to “play guitar” yet can’t seem to learn a single song.
As to hopefully subside their arrogance, I’ve compiled a list of things about them that I find to be most egregious.
To the trumpet player with the moustache, how in the world are you producing so much testosterone?
To the bass player that’s always sticking his tongue out, keep that thing at home.
To the trombone player that’s always wearing the suit, don’t change a single thing you do—I love you.
To the bass player with the gnarly nest of a beard, I believe the nearest Amish community is another 30 miles east.
To the guitar player who always has that stoic look on his face, there’s nothing wrong with letting the audience know how you feel.
To the saxophonist that stole my girlfriend, does she ever talk about me? Are you one of these people with “ambitions” she was always talking about?
To every one of the piano players, may God reserve a spot for you in heaven.
To the drummer with the muscles, you and me, behind Stevie, leave the sticks at home…
