Brent Hopkins Hopkins is currently doing
hard time in the Federal Jazz Deprogramming Center in Grand Rapids,
Mich. Send your thoughts to afropic@ucla.edu.
Whenever I used to hear preachers rail about the evils of music,
I used to ignore them as lowbrow simpletons, unschooled and
unappreciative about the power of great art. But now, I am a
changed man ““ I have seen the light at the end of the tunnel.
Or flashing behind me, at least.
You see, all that stuff that they used to say about this
so-called “jazz music” is true. It instills mindless
euphoria, distracts the brain from important thoughts and, worst of
all, it causes otherwise upstanding citizens to recklessly break
the law. Why, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to learn
that “jazz music” has been responsible for the ruin of
America’s youth today.
And believe you me, dear readers, I speak with authority.
I’m not ashamed to admit I once considered myself a fan of
this “jazz music,” an addiction which cost me dearly.
But I have pulled my way out of that pit and learned the error of
my ways. It’s not been an easy road, but with determination
and moral courage, I have managed to throw off the cloak of evil
and trained myself to ignore the siren song of sultry saxophones
and tempting trumpets.
Let me set the scene of this conversion for you, as a cautionary
tale to all those who have not yet gotten their comeuppance. It
happened not too terribly long ago, when I was still young and
carefree, unmindful of the wrongs I was doing.
It was late, 10:51 p.m. on a Monday night, to be exact. I was
driving home from my late shift at work, with Glenn Miller’s
big band playing the “jazz music” that I’ve
learned to loathe through my stereo. Owing to the hour, I was in a
bad mood, upset that I was getting home at a time best reserved for
relaxing over a cup of coffee and a good book.
The light, which I supposed was out to get me as well, turned
red as I pulled up two blocks from my humble apartment. I ground to
a stop, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in frustration
and scowling at the oncoming traffic. This was not cool by any
stretch of the word.
But as I watched traffic stream by, I was struck by an uplifting
thought.
“Brent, my boy,” the little voice in my head told
me, “What you need is a good song.”
I realized that my internal voices were quite correct ““
armed with the right music, I could transform the not-so-fun
evening into something considerably more enjoyable. Seizing this
thought and running with it, I dialed up “Chattanooga Choo
Choo” on the stereo, awaited a green light and kept driving.
Instead of turning to go home, I kept rolling until Glenn’s
horns and reeds lifted me out of my late-night funk. Since
he’s an excellent practitioner of this “jazz
music,” it took very little time indeed to reverse my mood
and bring a smile to my face. Now satisfied, I hung a U-turn and
headed home.
After several minutes of contented driving, I noticed flashing
red lights behind me. Realizing that it must be the police, likely
chasing a hardened criminal, I pulled over to let the squad car
pass. Oddly, it pulled over too. I was struck by the funny
coincidence that the cops were chasing someone who lived right
where I pulled over, until a bright floodlight washed over my
car.
Sooner than you could say “jerk with too much time on his
hands,” the kind officer was taking my license and
registration, citing me for an illegal U-turn in a business
district. I was momentarily stunned, unaware in my music-induced
high that this was a serious offense. Now, $104 later, I know just
how foolish I was.
After the cop wrote out the ticket, he asked me to sign, giving
me the standard line about “this isn’t necessarily an
admission of guilt, just an acknowledgement that you received the
citation.” Feeling the old euphoria creeping up once again, I
told him “Hey, I won’t deny it ““ I’m
guilty.” This was not common sense talking ““ it was the
residual Glenn Miller stuck in my head. He thanked me for my
cooperation (instead of letting me go, as I’d hoped my
cheerful admission would dispose him to do) and I was soon on my
way.
And you know what I did as soon as he drove off?
I turned Glenn back on, smiled broadly and drove home “¦
very carefully.
In spite of the fact that I’d just gotten whacked with a
rather embarrassing ticket, in just about the dumbest possible
fashion, I was soaring high, riding that Chattanooga Choo Choo all
the way down Track 29. Why, you ask? For all those reasons I gave
above. Sure, I was being facetious up there, taking that snotty
perspective that a whole lot of misinformed censors have used over
the years. But everything they say is absolutely true ““ music
is an incredibly powerful art form, one that can make the worst
times bearable, and the best times even better.
So while my fondness for jazz may have run me afoul of the law,
the night wasn’t a total loss. When I crawled out of my suit
that night and fell into bed, I did so with a slightly lighter
wallet and a much happier mind, all thanks to Glenn Miller.