Jazz ruined my life electricity 1800s

I’m a photographer that shoots jazz musicians. There is a very distinct difference between photographing a jazz musician vs any other kind of musician. I can’t quite explain it, all I can say is that it’s a very-very different story. A visual story that mesmerizes me.

I’m not a wanna-be musician really. I’d certainly love to have the talent to play an instrument. But I have the truest utmost respect for jazz musicians. And another higher respect for people who are so passionate about their passion that they continue to try and make a career out of it.

Fear and not believing in myself settled me into the corporate world and big paychecks. For 16 years all I wanted was out. I wanted to express myself through my photography. Suffocating in corporate meetings and corporate attire daydreaming about a career I wanted. Feeling like I was wearing a costume and living a life that wasn’t supposed to be mine.

I don’t have musician career advice to lend you but all I can say is find a way to be thankful for following your dream and your God given talents, and know that when you’re playing a gig…there just might be that special someone in the crowd living in the moment finding great joy in what you’re creating. Because not everyone can do it.

A few people have sent nasty emails, although that one was the best, or worst depending on how you look at it. There are people out there who send that stuff to try to bring you down and make you feel bad. They probably feel bad about themselves too. I don’t think a person who is happy with their life would ever fire off an email like that to someone.

You make a great point about the corporate world. I’m glad I’m not stuck in a vacuous job that I hate. The corporate world might be right for some people, but I know it’s not right for me. I’m glad that you escaped. Are you doing photography full time now?

We were in a huge sports complex. The kind of place where they play ice hockey or soccer. Just a duo tonight: keyboard and sax. I’m playing left-hand bass. I barely got a chance to warm up because we started early. My arms feel like slabs of lead.

I’m working with my friend Steve, a great dude, who I’ve played with for over 20 years. We’re supposed to play an hour, but there’s always vagueness about the start and end time on his gigs. When he hires you, he usually says stuff like, “we start playing around 5:30 or 6 and we’re done by 8 or 8:30…8:45 at the latest.” Nothing is ever concrete.

I reach into my jacket pocket, pull out a mini bottle of bourbon, and take a pull. I feel a little better. They sell these airplane size bottles at the liquor store near my house for a dollar. Lately I’ve been stuffing my pockets with them before gigs, or “packing a lunch” as an old musician friend used to say.

A dark-haired, olive complected woman comes up and asks me if I can play The Way It Is by Bruce Hornsby. She’s got tattoos on her arms, but they’re classy and she’s really pretty and friendly. I play a half-assed version with the hook but I don’t know the melody or the intro.