John Coltrane's Giant Steps

God, I love this album.

It makes me wish I could play an instrument—either saxophone or piano. I tried to learn to play piano a couple of years ago and was enjoying it for a while, but couldn't stay motivated to continue practicing.

I heard someone argue once that it's usually not worth the effort for an adult to learn an instrument. It takes lots of practice—hours a week—and at the end of the journey, all that's happened is you've become pretty good at that instrument and maybe once a year can impress your friends at a party.

Like most things in life, the journey is more meaningful than the destination. I wasn't enjoying the journey, so I stopped.

Someone—I'm not sure who—once said that people who prefer film more than television care more about aesthetics than people who prefer TV do. People who prefer TV, on the other hand, prefer writing over aesthetics. When discussing this idea with a co-worker, they theorized that music is similar; some people are drawn more to its sound and texture, while others focus on the lyrics.

I prefer the aesthetic.

To me, jazz and film are similar in this regard. Jazz is pure aesthetic. It stirs my emotions and imagination. In this way, Giant Steps is a masterpiece.

I couldn't tell you anything about its history or the technical nature of its composition, its importance in music history, or the context of its debut.

What I can say is that when I listen to it, I feel alive.