Page 11 - Jazz

tortured by its forced exile, a real neurosis of mediocrity. Music brought with it an idealised image of the West,
the mirage of free countries that inhabited the aspirations of all young people. This “beyond the window” had
become an obsession that formed the foundation for the exodus of a whole generation. “Escape/Flight” to the
West was the subject of lengthy, tenacious study and was often paid for with the would-be escapee’s life.
Because the free world that could be glimpsed between the window bars had the appearance of a fairyland
and the desire to get to know it directly and to be part of it was more powerful than the whistle of the frontier
guards’ bullets, more powerful than the spectre of death by drowning if one swam across the Danube in summer
or winter, more powerful than the prospect of suffocating in a sealed container on a train or, in less dramatic
cases, the savage beating one would receive from border guards and Securitate men and then the years in prison
among thieves and murderers, stigmatised as a person who had tried to cross the border, a pariah in the society of
the “ new man”.
And this whole epic about the dream of living in freedom was wreathed in music, and we made our way
through that era wreathed in music, with the celebrated reprobates of that time - Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim
Morrison - as our standard-bearers and with the image of the great festivals at Woodstock and the Isle of Wight
imprinted on our minds.
We were spiritually close to music-lovers everywhere, in a brotherhood which, perhaps, we shall never
experience again...
Jazz insinuated itself little by little, penetrated indistinctly and enticingly, opening up proteically to occupy
the entire stage, one night when I was listening to Radio Paris just before dropping off and suddenly came upon
a concert by a group who did not belong to the area I was familiar with. I remember that all feeling of sleepiness
left me and that I was purely and simply amazed by what I was hearing for the first time in a totally different
emotional register, the long-drawn-out sounds produced by the wind players and the richness of the orchestral
arrangement, the subtleties and stupefying energy of this way of making music. It was a jazz concert.
I had taken my first real dose and was already addicted. This dependence was accentuated by a crisis provoked
by the onset of a commercial period characterised by the proliferation of mediocre, superficial disco music from
groups like Middle of the Road and Boney M, a period which helped me to grasp that my time as an “animator”
had reached its natural end since the majority of those who came to the club were not coming there to listen to
music but to dance and to meet each other in a way that was perfectly simple, natural and devoid of any idealism
that was based on my criteria of value. I came to understand that each one of us had their own choices to make
and that it was time to leave behind the disco DJ’s stand at the Students’ Centre, the “Lyre” Club and sometimes
the T Club and to step down on to the floor to experience a time as a simple devotee of music, one, however, who
followed his preferences and accordingly frequented one club or another.
There then followed my experience at the Central (a hotel that had a restaurant on the top floor, the only one
where jazz was played), and this came with a new world of friendship and there I was, a regular (once a week)
coming in to have a glass of wine and listen to Banica Bratu’s group. Because what was played here was
definitely Jazz, with a condescending nod towards my immature rock generation...

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