The Soundtrack of a Life
How Jazz (and a Few Others) Shaped My Ears
Two things happened in high school that shaped my music taste forever. The first was getting tickets to Jazz at the Philharmonic, where I was introduced to the explosive brilliance of Dizzy Gillespie and the pure vocal magic of Ella Fitzgerald. The second was listening to the Benny Goodman 1938–39 Carnegie Hall Concert album (a gift)—a gateway to big band swing and greats like Lionel Hampton, Ray Anthony, and of course, Goodman himself. That was the beginning of a lifelong habit: collecting jazz albums and immersing myself in a musical tradition that thrived on spontaneity and skill.
In college, the world of jazz got bigger and more intimate. A friend invited me to The Black Hawk, a jazz club in San Francisco, where I got up close with the artistry of Miles Davis, Coleman Hawkins, Herbie Mann, and others. I returned whenever I could (not often enough), eventually adding stops at The Purple Onion, another legendary venue. Back in the day, these venues were free with a drink minimum, which a college student with a passable fake ID could afford. Both are gone now, but places like Yoshi’s try to carry the torch—although, as with everything nowadays, seats are expensive.
Then came a moment I’ll never forget. A group of us attended an Erroll Garner concert. After the show ended, we stayed behind. Most of the crowd had cleared out. About 30 or 40 minutes later, Garner came back on stage—jacket off, tie gone—with just his bassist. No words, just music. He played for another hour or more, improvising freely, relaxed, exploratory. Eventually, he started chatting with us, asking what we liked and why. It was spontaneous, unscripted, and unforgettable.
For a few years, life got in the way. I worked through two advanced degrees and stuck mostly to the popular music of the day. And it was a good time for it: 1965 to the early 70s gave us an incredible range of artists and styles. I contend that was the best period for music ever, with many of the songs from then still played and covered today. Even jazz made it to the top of the pop charts—Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” (1959) stood tall beside the Beatles and Motown.
Still, jazz never left me. My collection grew—vinyl first, then CDs. At its peak, I had over 400 albums and nearly as many CDs, more than two-thirds of which were jazz. Around 2008, I gave the majority of my records to a friend who promised to digitize them and return the files. Twelve years later, we gave up, and he sold them. I still have around 300 CDs, though they rarely get played now.
Life on the Southern California coast (Manhattan Beach) brought its own soundtrack. I got into surf and beach music—The Ventures, Beach Boys, and that breezy, feel-good sound I still enjoy today. But I also reconnected with live jazz at the Lighthouse Café in Hermosa Beach, where marquee artists would drop by to workshop material before big shows. My wife and I had season tickets to the Greek Theatre and were frequent guests at the Hollywood Bowl, where legends played under the stars. One memorable event was the Hot August Nights concert with Neil Diamond which turned into Platinum record.
In the car, it was always jazz radio—KJAZ in SoCal, and later, KCSM in Northern California. These stations didn’t just play jazz; they promoted it. KJAZ promoted the Jazz Festival at the Hollywood Bowl. KCSM even hosted a jazz festival in San Mateo that featured both big-name artists and top-tier local talent.
Moving to Nevada changed things. Jazz radio here is scarce—a brief six-hour window on Saturday evenings. So, we adapted. In the car, we turned to SiriusXM. At home, Spotify, Pandora, and Prime Music filled the gap with Echo Dots in every room. I can now summon any artist I want at any time. And I often do. I joke that I mostly listen to dead people: Dizzy, Ella, Miles, Shearing, Getz, Garner, etc. But lately, I’ve started seeking out newer voices—musicians blending jazz with fusion, global rhythms, and digital innovation.
There were other musical diversions along the way. A fraternity brother introduced me to bluegrass via Flatt and Scruggs, opening a whole new genre I hadn’t appreciated before. Around the same time, I discovered Ray Charles and Willie Nelson, which led me to a real respect for good country music—the kind with soul and storytelling. While jazz has remained my foundation, these side paths added flavor and depth to how I listen.
And what about today’s popular music? It doesn’t do much for me. I know that makes me sound old. Maybe I am. But I’m not interested in a concert tour that grossed a billion dollars or who a pop star is dating. And what gets hundreds or thousands of girls screaming is of no interest. I want music that moves, surprises, and evolves. Jazz still does that.
Music may not define a life, but it sure punctuates it. And for me, jazz has been the through line—not always loud, but always there, steady and improvisational, like the best parts of life itself.
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