Why don’t we talk much about sex in jazz? For many reasons, of course. One of them is what can happen when we do.
My first time writing about sex in jazz brought so much flak that it’s taken me a couple decades to return to the subject. Now, finally, I’m working on a reported long-form piece that involves themes of eroticism for both jazz listeners and artists. It’s coming soon.
Back in February 2002, Jazziz magazine published my essay “The Fire Down Below” (not my title). The magazine’s final page “Refrain” was a good venue for a short essay on sensuality in jazz. The Refrain functioned as a kind of free improv space for writing of particular lyricism, introspection, or provocation.
In 2002, hookup culture’s general casualness around sex was light years away. Not that the early aughts were a prudish time. I was a twenty-something woman raised on second and third-wave feminism who bicycled to shows in skirts, drank double scotches (Laphroaig, then) and expected to be taken seriously as a writer. I dated as I pleased and aimed to write what I wanted, too. Being one of only a couple women who wrote about jazz at the time drew attention and scrutiny. Most important to our subject at hand, I wanted to address a false dichotomy between intellect and rapture that I saw afflicting jazz culture.
So here’s what happened. My “Fire Down Below” essay closed with a brief scene from a downtown jazz show in which I recalled eroticism playing a part. Shortly after publication, I opened an email discussion list to find people I hung with at Tonic, The Knitting Factory, and other music haunts mocking my depiction of that evening. To the list’s credit, an admin or moderator soon contacted me requesting a comment on the piece. “What about it?” I remember asking. It finally dawned on me that they wanted an explanation of why I’d written the essay at all.
“Why would you sabotage your career by writing that sex thing?” asked a colleague my next night out on the scene. “You’re in the Times, on NPR. Jesus.” It was a theme I heard again and again, with little variation.
I tried to shrug off the response as the very attitude that had made me want to write the piece in the first place. Still, I felt shamed by my peers, so much so that the Jazziz essay was my first and last discussion of the topic in print.
Almost. Many years later, I criticized a male jazz musician for his comments on female fans’ eroticism, for his portrayal of women as creatures of pure instinct who didn’t like long solos. But in that same piece, I also thanked him for bringing up eroticism in jazz at all, because “jazz fans too often cede bodily pleasure to more popular music, when jazz can also arouse the mind, body and soul.” Essentially this was the topic of my 2002 essay.
Here it is now, for paid subscribers. The short Jazziz essay that didn’t exactly scandalize the downtown jazz scene, but had its panties in a twist for a couple days. Again, a much longer, broader, and new reported piece coming soon.
(It took all my willpower to resist editing this thing, by the way. Compassion for one’s younger self can be hard to muster, especially for so much self-conscious coolness on the page.)
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