Every once in a while I pick up a smooth jazz LP by mistake, usually when it’s by a jazz artist whose other work I like. Today it was a used LP by pianist Cedar Walton who I knew from his work with drummer and mentor Art Blakey.
Man, what a bring down! From the moment the needle hit the wax I was washed in a wave of late 1970’s production syrup that distinguishes this stuff precisely by making it undistinguished. It sounds like you just chugged a bottle of NyQuil.
I mean, I get it. Lots of good jazz artists had to record this stuff because they made money and no one was paying them to take risks, or even listening to them anymore. But this is music made for zoning out, smoking a joint while cruising around in Cadillac with tinted windows. It has a Qiana sheen that softens any sharp edges. It is Muzak for moving up to the East Side.
Call me a snob, but I’d rather have something baroque playing if I want background music. Or Philip Glass. Or sitar music. That way I can stop for a moment if I want to listen and think, that’s kinda interesting, instead of thinking, some commercial machine is systematically grinding up a jazz artist soloing over a sea of funky oatmeal.
Oh, well. The days of soft jazz are gone. …they have done their damage and destroyed noble careers. I can return to my geekdom and put some rare Red Norvo and Slam Stewart sides from 1945 on my turntable. And grow a pencil-thin mustache.
tfg 07.18.2025