Power To the Listener

I am listening to purely instrumental jazz. Without lyrics to act as the magnetized needle of the emotional-response compass, I am merely left with a circle marked with cardinal directions. Machete in hand, I begin to blindly hack my way through this jungle of screeching trumpets, slithering saxophones, pulsating basses, dancing drums, cascading pianos. The jungle is nature pure and lush, abounding with spontaneity and life, untouched by man (well, let's pretend that THIS particular jungle is). There are no signs leading my instincts forward, no tour guides to grab me by the hand. There is nothing, save myself and my senses (and sensibilities) and my past experiences and, of course, the jungle that I'm being swallowed by. How do I make sense of this whole thing?

This is a question I often find myself wrestling with. After all, jazz is all about being in the moment and being spontaneous, true to yourself, and genuine. As a listener, how am I supposed to replicate exactly what the performer's emotions and impulses were at the particular moment in which his fingers breathed sweet life into dead space? I have come to the conclusion after many cumulative hours of thought that it is not necessary for me to replicate a performer's emotions and impulses. Instead, I should just surrender to whatever I feel. People often talk about an improvised solo as "a story." I completely agree with this analysis. However, this story is not a concrete story. It is not as cut-and-dry as "I went to the store, bought some ham, and ate it at home." Rather, imagine a story with a plot line that progresses like this:

Sparse. Soft. Sudden. Dissonance. Tension. Dense. Release. Sparse.

This plot line is created spontaneously by the author reflecting his fluctuating impulses. Within this plot line are woven words that also reflect the author's fluctuating impulses. The only problem is that these words are full of double-meanings, connotations, allegory, figurative langugage, grammatical liberties. They are wide open to interpretation. How does one interpret this abstract language? By relating it to his own experience, his own sensibilities, his own thoughts, desires, and impulses. A good improviser can communicate emotion so pure and genuine that it transcends the absolute state of being "happy" or "nostalgic" or "melancholy." It simply materializes as "emotion," with no predicative strings attached. How many times have we heard a recording where we subsequently categorize the artist as "putting a lot of emotion into his/her playing?" What specific emotion? It doesn't matter. When the artist's emotion floats through the air and envelopes us, it stimulates our own emotions. It is not necessarily important what exactly the artist was thinking or feeling at the time. What is most important is that it has aroused our emotional faculties. Once this has happened, we will be able to interpret the flood of emotion in the manner most appropriate to ourselves. A line that may remind one listener of a heartbreak may cause another to pine for a long-since-passed childhood without cares and worries.

Of course, because of our Western aural conditioning, we may be predisposed to think of certain music as conveying certain emotions. But these emotions are often superficial. Major sounds "happy," minor sounds "sad." A fanfare sounds "heroic" or "glorious." But does culture have a predefined sound for "the time that I spent hiking in the Alps" or "the period in my life where I was uncertain of what to do with myself?" I think not. These experiences are personal examples, and each person has a different set of personal experiences. Thus, just as we all see the world differently, we may all interpret the raw emotion emanating from improvisation differently. We must not let cultural norms limit our listening pleasure.