First the spoon, now the fork – soon Oscar Jerome will have the men’s table together. Well, it doesn’t get any funnier here; from now on, I promise, it’s all serious. By the way, this is a virtue that has long been abandoned in time-honored jazz – in favor of so-called young people who only know Miles Davis from hearsay and spend their free time doing serious things like programming drum computers or social media marketing. You can do that. Or just move to London. There, jazz is like the villain in Harry Potter: just don’t say it out loud, but secretly love it, because the abysmal is always a little bit cool.
And so it is with Jerome and this record. The Fork is jazz through the very last back door, a conspiracy theory against pop, a Trojan pony that can be performed at Glastonbury or Montreux without angry genre purists chasing him off the stage with – Watch out! – with pitchforks. You have to do that first, don’t you?
The Fork
