You Can’t Give Up

Last night I went to meet a friend.  He has wonderful taste in music, and we can share from a rich place, of mutual respect, for hours.  He was at a restaurant with his daughters when I arrived.  The older one was more quite and the younger daughter loquacious.  I sat down on a stool next to the older one about BTS.  And I hit pay dirt.  All those hours I’ve put in listening to the K-Pop phenomenon with my daughter was suddenly a currency of great power.  Who’s your favorite?  Jay Hope.  For my daughter its Suga.  Did she know Black Pink?  Of course.  How about Mamamoo?  Are you a Hwasa fan?  “Yeah, but I don’t know them as well . . .”

My friend said he’d “given up” on trying to get them into his music.  Involuntarily I suggested: “you can’t “give up.” And, unsolicited I began to suggest our family’s tradition of music sharing.   I get to play one song, and then you play one song, and that way you get to legitimately play your children Mingus and expect them to pay attention.  But you must, of course, return the favor. 

I connected this young lady with my daughter on we chat, suggesting the talk.  I had to nudge a bit but my daughter reached out.  “Who’s your bias?”  This, the proper way to ask, who’s your favorite member.  I’m not sure where this will lead to.  We didn’t have wechat, but I would have at least been polite and intrigued enough to respond if someone introduced me to some other Jam fan at that time. 

Their mom showed.  It was time to head home for the ladies.  My friend suggested we make our way over to the at subterranean Found 158 mall, over beyond the Yan’an Lu Road overpass.  It was packed with young people who were milling about heading here and there.  He didn’t seem to have a suggestion on where to go, so I offered up the place I knew from two weeks back when I was last wandering around here,  the Brazilian place Boteco with the Image result for Brazilian caipirinhas.  I normally haver have anything to do with Rum but these somehow evoke sweaty samba in Rio in a way that feels timely just now.  Across from us sat a young lady who was all alone. She had a big head of curly black hair and pleasant if sad look in her face, looking vaguely Brazilian, as she sat there staring off at the crowd

My chum was wistfully eyeing the whiz-bang club that hoards of young people were streaming into across the way.  I could safely say I had less than zero interest in going into some loud club with people my daughter’s age, listing to thundering nonsense music.  Fortunately, my chums only made wistful comments and instead suggest we see some live music.  There was a place called Shake that he was interested in.  And then again, across the way was the new, improved JZ Jazz club which had moved here from the decidedly more cool location a few blocks from here.  We were told there would be a German techno band.  I see.  

That could mean many things.  The cover was not insignificant, and the drinks were a fortune but we got in and went and stood by a pole and sipped our twelve dollar beers and considered this collection of young people fresh off the boat from Munich.  I like the drummer.  He had me nodding.  The bass player my friend and I agreed, kept playing the same note, over and over: “Spread out Jack, spread out.”  The singer made vague, whale-like sounds and never really sang.  The trombonist was similarly more interested in texture than melody.  Another guy had a synth and cow bell.  I kept waiting for it to take off. And when it didn’t, I just listened to the drummer and when my beer was gone we both agreed it was time to go home.

Saturday, 6/15/19