The Green Mill didn’t ask you what time it is. “Oh geez,” you say, as you emerge from it’s ancient timbers and shield your eyes from the sun. Is it 2015 already?
The bass player mouths his parts and savors his solo. He sings a song that only exists right now in front of us. By the way; who am I to quantify jazz anyways? Let’s let it happen.
The bass player mouths his moment and sings a song that’s never been written. The chorus almost feels like a cop-out, but there has to be a gravitational center to even this universe. The Green Mill didn’t ask you what time it is, and 5 AM comes quickly when you lose gravity.
Take the sign out front and the one behind the stage. Did you know they don’t teach cursive to kids anymore? Sidebar; it’s called ‘script’ in the Western-World-proper now. But at The-Green-Mill-proper it is flow. It’s the writing of love letters never delivered. Locked up inside your mind and summoned now by the saxophone. It’s the discourse of the dead, and you’re surprised it’s passed. But in green neon cursive has lived until 5 AM every morning since… since cursive was the language of love letters never delivered. And who asked you anyways? The Green Mill didn’t ask you what time it is.
If it has a reed, he can play it. Versatility is no luxury at the Mill. It’s what you have to do. There aren’t really words that can describe the suffrage locked up in jazz. And who am I to define jazz anyways?
Chicago is 77 official planets/countries/cities/neighborhoods, and one is ever really from where they are at this moment. The Mill is the new American melting pot as far as you or I are concerned. It is bread basket and mother and secret lover of all creativity. It is music written right in front of us and never played again. It’s a love letter never delivered. And it’s time immemorial. The Green Mill didn’t ask you what time it is.
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