Music II: Busted by the Jazz Police

If you've spent a lot of time in jazz clubs, which I have over the years, you know that there is a peculiar breed of purists whom I have come to call the Jazz Police. It is not a term of endearment.

The Jazz Police are devoted to jazz, of course, but only on their terms and often at others' expense.

They tell you where you have to sit, not where you want to sit.

They tell you what you can and cannot do with your bodies. Never mind if the guys swinging up on stage make you want to swing. Both hands on the table, sir.

They tell you when you can use the boy's room.

They tell you when you can talk to the artists.

My Jazz Police rap sheet is long.

I've been busted for shouting "yeah" when Phil Woods hit one of his custom alto sax notes, for asking a waitron for a round of drinks during a set, for whispering to a chap at the table next to me, and for telling an especially uppity Jazz Police officer that his club would be a whole lot more enjoyable the more time he spent in the kitchen, which needed a lot more help than the guys up on the stage.