I was born and raised a Baptist south of the Mason-Dixon line. Only organs and pianos were allowed as accompaniment for hymns in our church. There was once a man who sang accompanying himself with a guitar. He was never invited back! The mere idea of jazz renderings of this sacred music must have been sacrilege. That’s pure sacrilege.
I knew very little about jazz. When I was in high school I heard some jazz they called Dixieland. I think it was used at African American funerals in New Orleans. There were some shipmates of mine in the Navy that were fond of jazz. They listened to Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, and other performers I don’t remember. The songs were long and didn’t have any words. Even rap music has words! Jazz always reminded me of film noir and those gumshoes in trench coats of black and white television. I liked those television shows.
On a recent Sunday the Horton School of Music at Charleston Southern University was presenting a jazz concert. The performance had been recommended by a friend and we decided to attend. It was held at East Cooper Baptist Church. We crossed the Cooper River on a rainy night to hear music that I had no particular desire to hear.
The youngish looking bearded man in the gray suit began to play. His instrument was the saxophone. The guttural sounds I remembered from film noir filled the air. Next was the man with the shaved head shining like an eight ball under a pool room light. His trumpet reached those high notes that only the angels reach. The fat man sitting on the stool with hair like steel wool sparkling in the light worked the slide on his instrument with deft precision. The notes from the horn blended with the others. Brassy!
The drummer did not wear a suit. He was attired in a jacket and a red shirt. His shirt tail was out and he had dreadlocks below his waist. The sounds he coaxed from the drums hinted their origin from across the sea. But the rub board he rubbed reminded me of zydeco. There were the low rich notes of the double bass and the tinkling of the piano that added to the music.
Suddenly, I found myself patting my right foot to the music. I reminded myself that I did not like jazz, but my foot did not stop. A few seconds later I found myself humming the tune the Mark Sterbank Group was playing. It was a tune, a hymn really, that I remembered from my childhood; Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus.
I don’t like jazz, but I did!
