Hi, it’s me, Jonah, the baritone saxophonist. Remember?
Once at the end of a solo saxophone concert, a friendly musician approached me to say, “that was a really beautiful set of music, but definitely not experimental”. I think they were probably using the word experimental more as a verb than a genre, and in that sense, I think they were right. But experimental is also a genre, and in NYC, I would even say you could call it a scene. To that end, this musician’s offhanded comment returned me to a frequent subject of rumination, anxiety, and sometimes despair: when it comes to Jonah who is a musician, I don’t really belong.
Now, let’s not be too simple in our interpretation of the above statement. I’ve lived in Brooklyn for nearly 20 years, and over that time I’ve connected with dozens of lovely and engaging musicians. Some of us are old friends now. We play gigs together, I see them at shows, we get coffee, sometimes I record horns for their solo albums. Not to mention the handful of collaborations I’ve mentioned frequently, including my duo with Berke Can Özcan, which is playing at Festival Jazz Vic in Spain this Friday.
All to say, I’m not going for a loneliness discussion here. More like a reflection on finding the right seat in the cafeteria at lunch. Or, to put it another way: If you were to to tell me that when I woke up today, the universe had transformed into a place where all the musicians in New York had lunch together in one giant cafeteria and I had to pick a table, it would be the end of me.
It would be the end of me, because:
- I’ve never felt like I deserved to be part of something. I was a white kid who grew up on the South Side of Chicago playing saxophone. I am an American uncomfortable with patriotism. I’m extroverted but I constantly choose to make things by myself. I am obsessed with the idea of building community with strangers, but almost incapable of caring for my longterm friendships. Intellectually, I know that nobody is as consistent as they may seem from the outside, but despite that, I resent myself for existing in a constant state of contradiction. I feel like an interloper. If I can’t commit to a way of being, why should anyone want me around? I opt out.
- I’m not from where I’m from or where I ended up. When I first moved to New York City in 2006, from Chicago, I was determined to be a person from Chicago who lived in New York. In my young mind this meant taking NYC by storm with all of the fiery creativity Chicago had fostered in my little 18 year old mind. On my first night, I brought my saxophone to Lincoln Center for a Sonny Rollins concert. Just in case. Two decades later, I have no choice but to admit that my creative world has been shaped by New York, a place I’ve now lived longer than my 18 childhood years in Chicago. But somehow, my heart will not allow me to be a person from this city, even as I have felt my early roots in Chicago melt away from lack of seasonal renewal. I don’t call any city mine.
- I have no direction for my fantasy of belonging.Since I’ve already committed to the high school cafeteria metaphor, let’s stick with it: I don’t have a dream clique. When I see a scene of talented and congenial musicians emerge from the NYC musician churn and solidify into a lattice of community, I sometimes panic. Not because I wish I was part of it, but rather because I resent myself for never having wanted it. It makes me wonder if there is something wrong with me. I can’t find it in me to want to be at the center of something, and I can’t stop imagining that I am supposed to.
Anyway, these are not super organized or complete thoughts. Maybe this is all an anxiety induced spin-out. Perhaps it’s a rationalization meant to obscure intense jealousy. Or, more optimistically, it could be an exercise in self acceptance.
What do you think? Is it ok?
Talk soon,
Jonah