This is some kind of jazz music - The Chaff with Scott Stephenson
All at once, the alto sax of unnecessary parentheticals (which, despite being widely regarded as a woodwind instrument, is made of brass, raising the question of whether its classification is a matter of sound production, material, or an arbitrary decision that no one is willing to challenge, much like how Pluto is sometimes a planet and sometimes not, depending on which astronomer is loudest that year) lets out a meandering, directionless wail. It stretches across several lines, weaving through unrelated anecdotes before finally resolving in a long, breathy note that adds nothing to the conversation. Haaaaaaaaaaa!
The trumpet of needlessly overwritten sentences chimes in, loudly proclaiming: “One might suggest that the very essence of this piece - nay, its entire raison d’être - is a labyrinthine, anfractuous attempt to construct a composition so utterly devoid of narrative momentum that, should any poor soul attempt to summarize it, they would find themselves ensnared in an ouroboros of their own making, a literary Möbius strip, an ever-repeating….”
It cuts off, not because the idea has reached its natural conclusion, but because the trumpeter has run out of air. The double bass of comically unusual analogies rumbles beneath it all, an undertow dragging the reader out to sea, like a confused jellyfish caught in the bureaucracy of an underwater tax audit. The metaphor does not hold up, but the double bassist insists, nodding as if it makes sense. The audience nods back in silent, confused agreement.
Then, disaster.
The trombone of indulgent self-revisions enters, sliding between half-thoughts. It begins a phrase, stops, adjusts, tries again. It changes direction mid sentence, realizing only afterward that this ruins the entire structure. It then attempts to justify the mistake as “intentional” before giving up entirely.
The pianist, whose job was once to provide structure, has now abandoned their original purpose and is working on something that can only be described as “ornate floundering.” The right hand is performing a delicate waltz while the left hand hammers out a rhythm that is either in 7/8 time or completely unintentional. It is the equivalent of typing an e-mail, rewriting it three times, deleting the whole thing, and then sending “Looks good!”
The xylophone of utterly useless lists takes over, hammering out a steady rhythm as the band rattles off every synonym for “confusing”: perplexing, befuddling, enigmatic, bamboozling, downright mystifying. Meanwhile, the double bassist, seemingly inspired, begins listing types of chairs: Windsor, Adirondack, Eames, folding, high, barstool, chaise lounge, throne, loveseat (which, arguably, is more of a bench), and papasan (which is just a bowl that humans sit in).
The tenor saxophonist, eager to contribute, attempts a list of their own, but instead of sticking to a single category, they oscillate wildly between unrelated concepts. The resulting improvisation touches on breeds of cattle, types of precipitation, and at one point, the ISBN number of a book they once meant to read but never did.
The audience shifts. They glance at their watches. One man leans over to his friend and whispers, “I think this is about late-stage capitalism.” His friend nods solemnly, though neither of them is quite sure why.
The band does not care.
The clarinet of pretentious conclusions takes centre stage, swaying like a person who has just discovered philosophy and espresso in the same afternoon. It offers a single, airy note, pauses dramatically, and then attempts to explain what has just transpired.
“Thus, one might argue that this piece, in all its illogical grandeur, mirrors the very essence of human existence….”
And then, without warning, the sousaphone of abrupt endings cuts the performance short. The final note dangles; unfinished, unresolved. The silence stretches just long enough to make everyone uncomfortable.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … …
The audience sits in stunned silence. Someone coughs. Someone else snores.
… … … … … … … … … … … … … …
The Chaff jazz band bows.
***
Review:
The Chaff, in its purest jazz form, is less a composition than an endurance test; an unrelenting spiral of self-consuming absurdity. The alto sax of unnecessary parentheticals and the double bass of comically overused analogies engage in a duet so circuitous that coherence becomes collateral damage. Structure is teased, mocked, abandoned. Meaning flickers briefly before being drowned in a deluge of utterly useless lists. To read is not to enjoy, but to submit. One does not critique The Chaff as jazz; one merely survives it, forever stranded on the final, unresolved… … … … ... ... ...