The first time I heard him talk about jazz so emphatically, I was taken aback. I mean he was so hip hop. It may have been after one of his parties. I’m pretty sure I spent the night and helped to clean up the next day. Flyers, napkins, I even seem to remember branded condoms that littered the floor. An interesting promo item I remember thinking.
I watched him move across the massive soundstage, large broom in hand while the sounds of Miles Davis billowed out of the speakers.
“I’m a big jazz head.”
I smiled as he talked some more about playing the saxophone since grade school. He may have named the additional players.
“Kind of Blue,” his voice boomed over the music.
So the first time he played jazz when we made love made the moment sweet. Took me back to the time of learning something brand new about him. It was void of cheesy lyrics and booming 808s and felt more in tune with the rhythm of our bodies. He loved me grown. The sweet mix of cocoa butter and Versace cologne permeated my being. He let it play even after all was done and we laid there taking in the sound.
Now on late nights, driving home, he pauses the trap for us to listen to jazz. We ride, windows cracked with the newness of fall air creeping in. It’s a long trip this time so I do my best to drink him in. The music the perfect backdrop to the vision of us gliding down 76 in the wee hours of the morning. I close my eyes and hear the cello. It’s soothing and also a little sad. Or maybe I am. But the jazz puts my mind at ease. Makes me think of the beginning and that first time he talked about Miles or his story about first hating Coltrane and the realizing his genius.
He doesn’t know it, but jazz feels like our thing. It’s between us and flows through us still in those most intimate moments. Even when the radio is silenced I can hear trumpet and sax, keys and the soft brushes on the drums. It keeps our rhythm. It speaks our language. It will always be between us.