I’ve been thinking about Uncle Gerry and the way he related to music.
He was a teacher, and a musician, and he built up this deep jazz collection over time. I suspect he probably did know and think a lot about the music in a detailed way—maybe even listened with a player’s ear, listening for ideas he could use himself. That feels likely.
But I also think he kept most of it to himself.
He didn’t really talk to me about music. Not because there wasn’t anything there, but because that just may not have been how he related to it. More inward than outward. Experience it, think about it, move on.
In a way, I understand that. I’m like that too in some respects. I tend to listen alone, read alone, contemplate alone. I just also like the second step—talking about it afterward, even if it’s just over a beer or in writing.
That’s part of what Vinyl Hour and Uncle Gerry’s Jazz has become for me. Not just listening, but continuing the listening in another form.
I sometimes wish I could have had those conversations with him. The kind you have after hearing something great—did you hear what Miles Davis or Charlie Parker did there? What were your favourite albums? What did you listen for most when you put a record on?
But even without the conversations, the records are still a kind of conversation—one carried through the music itself, shaped by a shared sense of beauty, felt rather than spoken.