Everything Jazz is romantic.

Words By Lucy Kaplan PZ ’28

Graphic By Thea Riley PZ ’28

2024 was the year of the club classics — bumping electronic music in a crowded room and making out with beautiful strangers. We all fell victim, perhaps voluntarily, to Charli XCX’s  sparkly 3am aesthetic and the chaos that came with it. 

Club music provides a deafeningly comfortable atmosphere of romanticism — the casting off of any self-doubt or apprehension in an adrenaline-fueled daze. Now, securely within the new year but still with some lingering urge to take on lofty goals of self-improvement, I propose that we trek towards a different type of comfort. For some, that may look like kicking a bad habit or picking up a new hobby. But personally, I want to spend my free time this year embracing the calmer parts of life. Is there a reason why? Exhaustion? Exasperation? 

Will I stop going to parties? No. Will all of my decisions this year be semblant of those of my church-going grandmother? Most likely not. Do I suddenly hate any music over 100 bpm? No— queue the Doechii. 

However, I believe there to be something beautiful in the romanticization of a life led at the speed of jazz. Think of your life as a meticulously curated Pinterest board: early morning solo walks around Scripps, staring at the assorted posters and trinkets pasted on the walls of your dorm room, a makeshift courtyard dinner party thrown together from the dining hall. Maybe it is just my perceived need to protect my peace this semester, but these days, I am embarrassingly excited at the prospect of spending time with myself and my headphones — and in these moments of quiet, jazz will undoubtedly be playing in the background.

I was raised on the stuff, a stew of far off memories bubbling to the surface when I hear the beginnings of a 12 bar blues or a chorus of brass: the bold instrumentals of Coltrane reverberating from the basement up to my bedroom. I would put down my homework and shuffle carelessly to meet my father in his dark office, resting a moment on the couch in the respite that was this cacophony of sound—the ultimate form of reverie accessible to a 12-year-old with far too much algebra homework. Even further back, in our Manhattan apartment, the inescapable echoes of my father’s piano resonated through the flat—too loud when I needed to focus, and too soft when I was really trying to listen. Perhaps my longing for jazz is simply a manifestation of nostalgia in the second half of my first year away from home. 

I’ll be honest in admitting that I am among jazz music’s more uneducated fans. My musical talents end just before the improvisation required of a jazz musician, and I know only fractions of the extensive jazz repertoire built over the last century. However, like most music, jazz does not discriminate. The difference between an enjoyer and a mere listener lies in the willingness to get lost in the music. That being said, anyone who wishes to call themselves a jazz enthusiast should understand the rich historical context from which it comes. Jazz emerged in New Orleans, Louisiana in the late 19th and early 20th centuries as a staple of the African-American community. With roots in blues, ragtime, rhythmic rituals, spirituals, and more, jazz is considered by many a union of European and African musical traditions. Each sub-genre holds its own, from the funky percussion of acid jazz to my personal favorite: the hypnotically syncopated rhythms of bossa nova. As I am decidedly not the authority on jazz, I might recommend you do some of your own research. But, no matter how much Googling you do from behind your laptop, there is nothing more immersive than watching the spontaneity of a live performance.

It was a cool, cloudy night in Seattle — ideal scarf weather — and I love any excuse to dress up. A black sweater draped over my denim skirt, I sat beside my friend Chris, his button-up wrinkled at the cuffs as he tapped along to the music of The Seattle Jazz Fellowship. Even with a few fashionable twenty-somethings, we were undoubtedly the youngest people in the room. It was not the classic nightlife undertaking you’d imagine for a couple of college students home for break, but there was a palpable joy in the room lacking from any bar we could have snuck into. 

Perhaps this is what maturing looks like: not a rejection of the chaos, but an appreciation for the spaces between the noise. Club music will always be a part of the college experience, thumping in the background of frenzied and regrettable nights. Jazz, however, linger in the stillness, in the lazy mornings, in the walks alone. Maybe the most romantic we can be is in love with the music.