First published in 2014. In his latest column Melodious Crunk finds waiting around creative, if exasperating.

Waiting. It’s one of the things jazz musicians are both very good at, and completely hopeless at. The life of everyone either on their first gig or their thousandth revolves around a lot of hanging about. For the novice, wide eyed and innocent to the ways of the gig, the waiting is usually filled with terror. Do I have the right set picked? Does the horn player know where the key change is? You can usually spot them at a gig because they’ll be looking over charts or practising a tricky lick without making a sound. They simultaneously can’t wait for the gig to start and dread the start of the gig. At least when the gig is happening you’ll be closer to the end.

For the more seasoned (read: cynical) jazz musician, waiting is managed. The waiting around is filled with complete disassociation from the gig, in the same way that an athlete will sit around before the start of a race telling jokes or listening to some music. Anything to while away the time before the event. Usually it’ll be a case of catching up with other musicians or the week’s events, something in the news. Watercooler talk…and anything apart from the music about to occur.

Then, at the very top, there’s still waiting but this time in hotel rooms, quiet bars, or in the car being transported to the gig. Musicians of this calibre on tour will have a minder or manager who’ll look after their schedules and insist that the venue works to the musicians’ schedule, not the other way around. But still, there’s waiting.

During the tune, the wait continues. It’s not your solo yet, so just keep waiting, and keep comping. But you’re still waiting for the previous solo to finish so that you can wind your way through the same changes as everyone else in a completely different way. Or perhaps you’re waiting for your turn to call the tunes, or your own composition.

‘What could be better than getting paid to play this music you’ve heard on all those Miles records you have?’

This is, of course, a microcosm of the very nature of a career in jazz. You spend your formative years working away at your craft, taking on every gig you can because you love the music and want to learn. I mean, what could be better than getting paid to play this music you’ve heard on all those Miles records you have? But as your career develops, you’re waiting. Waiting for that next big gig. You’re waiting for the phone to ring and for it to be someone new, someone big who will give you your big break into the A-listers. The heavy hitters. The big guns.

For some, the wait is their entire life. The phone doesn’t ring. The big gigs don’t happen, no matter how good you are or how many Lydian dominant scales you practised for five years. But for others, there is no waiting. There’s going out and getting it. Having the bravery to just call musicians better than you and asking if they can do a gig with you. For these people, there’s no waiting. There’s just ascendancy, to the top of their craft. There’s no downtime, because there’s always something to learn, whether it’s practising a tricky run in your mind in the car or reading, listening, studying. For these people, it’s not a question of if, but how soon.

All jazz musicians are moving, and yet waiting. We’re all in transition, and yet hanging around. There’s always something to be learnt from downtime, and the trick is managing it. Waiting is an essential part of being a jazz musician, but a valuable one. For as long as you’re waiting around, you’re still creating, promoting, working in some way or another. And that’s why being a jazz musician is never, ever boring.