JAM Magazine: April/May 1999 Issue: Coda

by Mike Metheny

Peeing Into the Wind for Distance...
When The Star's Timothy Finn called in early February wanting some input for an article on problematic noise in restaurant/jazz clubs, my first reaction was to duck the issue altogether; not for lack of an opinion or two, but because I've learned over the years that no amount of ink about this contentious subject has much of an impact. (For the record, Finn's piece was well written, nicely balanced and an accurate summation of the debate.)

As ever, it's a tricky topic to discuss. If restaurant/jazz club managers put a choke hold on chatty customers, revenues will decline and live jazz will get the ax. But if intrusive talking is allowed to run unchecked, musicians suffer (to varying degrees), and area jazz buffs on hand to support them get bugged and end up avoiding the venues altogether.

To be fair, KC's club managers/owners are mostly innocent victims of this ongoing quagmire. I've had the pleasure of being employed by many of them and can say that they are a hard-working, business-savvy bunch just trying to keep their venues in the black. And the talkers-shouters-laughers, believe it or not, aren't entirely to blame either. They are mostly the product of a culture in which declining sensibilities don't mesh well with an intelligent art form like jazz. A lot of them probably think "jazz" is a basketball team in Utah.

So yes, writing about this Catch-22 is pretty much what the above title implies.

And the beat goes on.

...With Tongue Firmly in Cheek
But that doesn't mean an end to annoyance as a vehicle for satire! Here's an encore of a piece inspired by this discussion that ran here a few years ago. As always, the line between fact and fantasy in the author's warped imagination remains dangerously thin.

How To Tell If a Jazz Club is Too Noisy

In the sonic confusion of the venue du jour, a well-buzzed patron mistakes a whirring blender for the band's tip jar and loses two fingers while asking the bartender to "play something by Erroneous Merkin."
Between tunes, band members can only communicate by walkie-talkie and even then are unable to hear comments like, "Incoming!" or "Dug your solo on 'Happy Birthday,' man."
Ken and Barbie's disruptive mating ritual (at the table directly in front of the band, of course) goes awry when the deafening crowd noise obscures Ken's whispered invitation to "come over to my place and get it on to my new Michael Bolton album."
On a poignant rendition of "Body and Soul," an amorous couple is inspired to jump up and slow-dance to the music. No dance floor? No problem. The itsy-bitsy space between Ken and Barbie's table and the bandleader's microphone will do just fine. As this couple was once a winner of an Arthur Murray Dance Contest, however, they soon become discouraged by the indifference of the bandmembers who fail to acknowledge their grand dips and staggering pirouettes. Returning to their table in a pouty huff, they soul-kiss, order another round of Kamikazes, and shout incoherent requests for "dancething we can some to."
An argument erupts between the bass player and the drummer. A stick bag becomes a club; a bow becomes a sword. Eventually weapons are pulled and shots are exchanged. Oblivious customers do not notice. And do not care.
At the end of the evening, the bandleader's vocal cords are so raw from shouting over the din, he accidentally coughs blood onto the shirt of a well-meaning patron who wants to engage in slurred conversation about the music he, the patron, has talked over most of the night. The bandleader excuses himself, drills a hole in the top of his head and empties an entire fifth of bourbon into the funnel. "I am an artist!" he triumphantly declares to startled onlookers. "Would anyone like to buy a CD?"






	Search our site:		by Mike Metheny Peeing Into the Wind for Distance... When The Star's Timothy Finn called in early February wanting some input for an article on problematic noise in restaurant/jazz clubs, my first reaction was to duck the issue altogether; not for lack of an opinion or two, but because I've learned over the years that no amount of ink about this contentious subject has much of an impact. (For the record, Finn's piece was well written, nicely balanced and an accurate summation of the debate.) As ever, it's a tricky topic to discuss. If restaurant/jazz club managers put a choke hold on chatty customers, revenues will decline and live jazz will get the ax. But if intrusive talking is allowed to run unchecked, musicians suffer (to varying degrees), and area jazz buffs on hand to support them get bugged and end up avoiding the venues altogether. To be fair, KC's club managers/owners are mostly innocent victims of this ongoing quagmire. I've had the pleasure of being employed by many of them and can say that they are a hard-working, business-savvy bunch just trying to keep their venues in the black. And the talkers-shouters-laughers, believe it or not, aren't entirely to blame either. They are mostly the product of a culture in which declining sensibilities don't mesh well with an intelligent art form like jazz. A lot of them probably think "jazz" is a basketball team in Utah. So yes, writing about this Catch-22 is pretty much what the above title implies. And the beat goes on. ...With Tongue Firmly in Cheek But that doesn't mean an end to annoyance as a vehicle for satire! Here's an encore of a piece inspired by this discussion that ran here a few years ago. As always, the line between fact and fantasy in the author's warped imagination remains dangerously thin. How To Tell If a Jazz Club is Too Noisy In the sonic confusion of the venue du jour, a well-buzzed patron mistakes a whirring blender for the band's tip jar and loses two fingers while asking the bartender to "play something by Erroneous Merkin." Between tunes, band members can only communicate by walkie-talkie and even then are unable to hear comments like, "Incoming!" or "Dug your solo on 'Happy Birthday,' man." Ken and Barbie's disruptive mating ritual (at the table directly in front of the band, of course) goes awry when the deafening crowd noise obscures Ken's whispered invitation to "come over to my place and get it on to my new Michael Bolton album." On a poignant rendition of "Body and Soul," an amorous couple is inspired to jump up and slow-dance to the music. No dance floor? No problem. The itsy-bitsy space between Ken and Barbie's table and the bandleader's microphone will do just fine. As this couple was once a winner of an Arthur Murray Dance Contest, however, they soon become discouraged by the indifference of the bandmembers who fail to acknowledge their grand dips and staggering pirouettes. Returning to their table in a pouty huff, they soul-kiss, order another round of Kamikazes, and shout incoherent requests for "dancething we can some to." An argument erupts between the bass player and the drummer. A stick bag becomes a club; a bow becomes a sword. Eventually weapons are pulled and shots are exchanged. Oblivious customers do not notice. And do not care. At the end of the evening, the bandleader's vocal cords are so raw from shouting over the din, he accidentally coughs blood onto the shirt of a well-meaning patron who wants to engage in slurred conversation about the music he, the patron, has talked over most of the night. The bandleader excuses himself, drills a hole in the top of his head and empties an entire fifth of bourbon into the funnel. "I am an artist!" he triumphantly declares to startled onlookers. "Would anyone like to buy a CD?" RETURN TO APRIL/MAY 1999 MAIN INDEX ------------------------------------------------------------------------ © Kansas City Jazz Ambassadors 1996-2001. All rights reserved.