I have my mother—the beatnik, alcoholic artist and reader of poetry—to thank for my deep appreciation of jazz. That rendition is as close to defining the genre as anything I have heard in my 74.6754389 years. The song was “Springsville,” the lead track on the Miles Davis recording, Miles Ahead, a collaboration with arranger Gil Evans. Like “Poinciana,” “Springsville” sounds as fresh today as it did 67 years ago. For many Americans, listening to jazz is at best an annoying experience and at worst excruciatingly painful.