I returned to New York. To my surprise, the jazz scene had not collapsed in my absence. Not bad! I gave New York a dose of my charm; in return it gave me a dose of the cowonaviwus. Fair enough.
My June 2024 assessment persists in its accuracy. The squeeze of tax and inflation tightens one notch at a time and the expectations levied against musicians get ridiculouser and ridiculouser. One new thought struck me, though, as a result of my having paused music in order to swim around in the world of education technology. That new thought: musicians, as a group, comprise an undertapped resource of technical skill and executive functioning. These days I get to meet directors-of-this-and-that, entrepreneurs, and ~*gasp*~ investors. They are often rich. They *own* things. But let me declare in no uncertain terms: *these are not impressive people.* Yeah, yeah, a couple of them are. But nothing compared to my friends. My creative, smart, broke friends.
I wish I could fix it. I ain't got enough marbles to fix it, at least not yet. Hey, billionaires: 1) start reading my blog — it'll be good for you; 2) here's your new scheme: dump ten million doubloons into a hedge fund. Don't hire economists — I know you're not that stupid — *or* physics PhDs, either. They are expensive! Hire musicians. Jazz musicians might just be the ultimate pick here! They can learn the ins-and-outs of an arcane, technical language. They can show up on time and think on their feet. You can get 'em for a quarter of the usual quant trader salary, I promise. In three months they'll be as good as any Caltech-dweeb-turned-quant-dweeb. I will help you pick them! We just need like, six, man...that'd inject enough of the ol' Kapital to buy out a couple sweet-ass venues. Some studio time. A new dojo to rival those stupid schools.
I promise you the Python you need to build a trading app or to do a little ML pales in comparison, complexity-wise, to the rigors of harmony and voice leading. It's easier to talk to an investor than to one of the brainfriend bookers who dangle our fates in front of us. The zillionaire who figures this out is gonna smile at their preposterous returns while picking up a legitimate mitzvah along the way. Not my quest — I'm about $9.9999 Million short — but the idea's free. You're welcome. If you're feeling generous, cut me a check for the cost of an old Buescher.
No zillionaires out there? Too bad. What can we do right now? IDK. Maybe learn some Python anyway, or at least some Excel. Work 16 hours a week thinking circles around some donut-munching normies. You'll still have time to shed. To what end? The million-dollar question indeed.
Truncating this post before it drips into the sadness that tempts me every time.
One highlight in NYC: walking through Sunnyside, then Astoria, then to the northern tip of Queens where industrial equipment slumbers and the wind whips the smell of wastewater treatment away from your nostrils. Double back to Abuqir and finish with a coffee at the arch-Variety by McGolrick.
A lowlight: the worst opera production I have ever seen. It reeked of money, perversion, depravity...and yet, the chardonnay-addled yentae of the UWS cackled it right up. Sigh. My sense of superiority over these people compels me to brandish two YouTube links with no further comment:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_B1kv4v4o9I
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gMY3Ou9L5xE
Until next time.
Next time: spill a bean or two about my next record? Fukubukuro of game reviews? The once-and-for-all treatise on video game music? Grandpappy’s writing tips? Whatever,