Negotiating the Dense and Boorish Clots, Or Shopping for Music

• Jiggy country (formerly adult contemporary)
• Jiggy jazz (formerly R&B) 
• Jiggy R&B (formerly hip-hop) 
• Jiggy hip-hop (formerly gangsta rap) 
• Jiggy punk (formerly rock ‘n’ roll) 
• Jiggy rock ‘n’ roll (formerly pop) 
• Jiggy pop (Ironically enough, formerly new jack swing)

Adult contemporary as a genre has vanished, since there’s nothing you can jiggify to become adult contemporary. The only less-jiggy genre would involve lutes and wassailing. All of the big stars have gone the way of the 8-track. Celine Dion has left for Las Vegas. Michael Bolton is waiting tables in Malibu. Phil Collins is now officially a Disney character.

I never liked jazz growing up, but then again, jazz never sounded like Norah Jones, Anita Baker, or Will Downing when I was a kid. Maybe I was a jazz fan all along. I grew up listening to R&B crooners like Regina Belle, Phil Perry, Vesta, Glenn Jones, and Randy Crawford, only to find them now signed to jazz labels. If I wanted to find Anita Baker in the ‘80s and ‘90s, I’d go to the R&B section of the store. Now, although her music hasn’t changed a lick, she’s on Blue Note. I’m suddenly a jazz fan, and I never knew it. Shouldn’t I get to choose my own favorite genres? Or at least shouldn’t someone inform me of my shift in taste? A newsletter would be nice.

It’s gotten to point where anything slow that doesn’t have a jiggy beat is considered jazz. There are no more gentle “quiet storm” jams anymore. I want my Peabo! Today’s ballads have more sexual innuendo than a Kinsey report, usually rapped by someone whose first name is Lil’. If I want to hear something mellow on the radio, I have to tune to a “smooth jazz” station and subject myself to Muzak versions of Peaches and Herb’s “Reunited.”

Labels are largely to blame for the confusion. It works in their favor to corner to the “confused listener” market. Case in point: I recently got my hands on a pre-release copy of Brenda “Piano in the Dark” Russell’s new CD. It was released on the Narada Jazz label and contains a song called “It’s a Jazz Day”, yet the back cover states in stark, capital letters, “FILE UNDER: R&B.”

It’s this sort of muddlement that leads records stores to shrug their shoulders and shove everything into a vague “black music” section. They insure themselves against musical shifts by grouping the music in the broadest categories possible. Like race. If you’ve ever flipped through the CD shelves and found Michael Jackson next to Mahalia Jackson or Ray Charles next to Chingy, you know what I mean.

And God help you if you listen to reggae. Ponce de Leon had more luck looking for the Fountain of Youth. Depending on the store, you could find a Bob Marley CD in World, Pop/Rock, R&B, Rap, Latin, or when all else fails, Reggae. And even then you’ll have to sift through dreadlocked non-reggae acts like Lenny Kravitz, Living Colour, Tracy Chapman, or the soundtrack to Whoopi Goldberg’s latest movie.

When I go to the music store now, I allot a good eight hours. When security makes me check my backpack at the door, it turns into a big scene. Like they’ve never seen someone bring in a can of Sterno, a Bowie knife, a flashlight radio, an inflatable mattress, a spare generator, and a mini fridge. Maybe the Sherpa was too much. Next time, I’ll hide in a bathroom stall around closing. That way, I’ll have all night to browse at my leisure without someone asking, “Can I help you?” or “If you don’t buy something soon, I’m gonna call the cops.” Who am I kidding? Music store employees are too cool to ask if they can help you find something. Besides, they know what a can of worms they’d be opening if you actually took them up on the offer.