ARE YOU READY FOR SOME BIG BAND?

I had a philosophy professor who once told our class that when he was young (in the twenties or something) his parents hated that he listened to jazz because it was too "radical." Can you ever imagine such a time? I cannot.
Tonight, my dad and I went to see a jazz concert. He'd gotten tickets from a friend and asked if I wanted to go; I was like "yeah, whatevs." I wasn't doing much else (i.e. anything) and this seemed like something I could wear heels and lipstick to, which I like to do once a year and seemed appropriate since I haven't been showering regularly for the past five weeks or so. Plus, jazz is one of those things, like gardening, pilates and waking up before noon that I've been meaning to "get into" to prove to myself and the world that I am a legitimate human being worthy of consuming the planet's finite natural resources. (I did attempt, and fail at, an appreciation of jazz in college at a local cafe's jazz night every week, but that was purely for the purposes of touching enlightened butts. I weep for the Wednesday nights I will never get back).
We had just settled into our seats as the lights dimmed and the conductor, sporting the most hilarious haircut I've seen in person since 1984 (a very full straightened mullet), shouted "ARE YOU READY FOR SOME BIG BAND?" I, for one, was not then, or ever "ready for some big band." The rest of the crowd, however, was nothing if not ready for some big band. I should note that the average age of the crowd was about one hundred and twenty. I had been planning on a night of reefer and beat poetry and here are 20 college kids in tuxes rocking the hell out to "I Got Rhythm" or whatever it is that has meant TOTALLY LAME since it came out at the beginning of time.
The jazz singing group came on stage and if there is one thing that makes me more uncomfortable than a bunch of adults singing the theme to "Barefoot in the Park" while strictly adhering to their direction of "SMILE-- WITH TEETH" and literally doing "jazz hands," I would have grounds to sue someone. Along with experiencing extreme discomfort, I am frankly embarrassed for them and wish for nothing more than the immediate end to their insane joviality that has no place this side of 1963.
Headlining the show was Kurt Something who is basically the Mick Jagger of jazz vocals. And he taught me the most important lesson of the night: along with farting, scat singing will always be funny. It's initially horrifying, as it seems like speaking in tongues but only more nefarious since it was actually once considered by some to be cool rather than just fucking crazy like its jesus-y cousin. However, watching a grown man in a satin suit and hair plugs sing "boodoobeebopbop" etc, ad nauseum, into a microphone in front of hundreds of adoring fans was worth the thirty-three dollar ticket that I didn't pay for, as I lolled my head off through the entire thing.
I also realized why I've never gotten into this whole jazz/big band/Sinatra thing. The lyrics. I know the primary focus is on the instruments, but good god. Most of the songs sound like they were written by a second grader just learning English. The lyrics rarely stray from wanting to maybe kiss this pretty lady and how it would be just divine, and how "you've gotten under my skin". This makes me not sad that no one will be playing this music in forty years.
One highlight: the jazz drumming professor just playing the shit out of that kit. Wow. All of his students on stage were just rocking out (politely) and when it was over I wanted to stand up and be all like "AWWWW YIHHH!"
But the real intrigue of the evening lay withing the jazz band themselves. This group of barely post-pubescent trumpeters and tromboners is actually the highest ranked college jazz band in the country. They've played in London, in New York, and all other things that are supposed to sound wildly impressive. But. They play instruments, they've risen to the top of their field, they've got bright futures in a non-boring field, and yet these guys (all the players were men aside from one trombone player) almost definitely get SO much less action than guys in the worst rock bands or even the third string forwards on the club hockey team. Why is this? Is the issue the inherent nerdiness of the clarinet or are girls unable to appreciate the nuanced world of big band jazz? I'm voting for a bit of both. But just seeing the singing ladies and their jazz hands made me feel a little better about the tromboners' prospects.