Blues, Jeans, and All That Djazz

In Moscow in the early 1960s, the word jazz called up images of the terrifying commotion in a dining-car during a train wreck. Somewhere beyond the tables loaded with caviar and vodka a wounded old engine wailed in despair. Bowls of borshch bounced around; an empty glass began to shake; a drunkard reached for the salt and missed. In a crazy crescendo, shattered metal came pouring down on traveling salesmen and soused officers and their wives, till finally a swooning silence enveloped the scene. That’s what jazz was to us.

Jazz! It lived in murky dens and smoke-filled rooms, and came out late at night—now prancing on a bandstand in the park, now popping up in the middle of a dance. Sometimes it was like a fistfight, or like taking off with another man’s wife. Jazz!

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Aleksandr Dimov

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In Moscow in the early 1960s, the word jazz called up images of the terrifying commotion in a dining-car during a train wreck. Somewhere beyond the tables loaded with caviar and vodka a wounded old engine wailed in despair. Bowls of borshch bounced around; an empty glass began to shake; a drunkard reached for the salt and missed. In a crazy crescendo, shattered metal came pouring down on traveling salesmen and soused officers and their wives, till finally a swooning silence enveloped the scene. That’s what jazz was to us.

Jazz! It lived in murky dens and smoke-filled rooms, and came out late at night—now prancing on a bandstand in the park, now popping up in the middle of a dance. Sometimes it was like a fistfight, or like taking off with another man’s wife. Jazz!