Jazz Nights, Stank Face, and the Art of Reclaiming

Jazz Night at Cafe Cotton Club, Tokyo, 2024

I have this little fixation every time I travel to other countries: checking out their Jazz bar scene. My first encounter was in Tokyo, where I was sitting rather awkwardly at a table full of strangers. Across from me was a middle-aged salaryman who seemed quite timid — always a bystander whenever I talked with the girl sitting next to him, who mentioned White Shoes and The Couples Company after she found out where I was from. I kept thinking I had figured out what kind of guy he was, until he stepped onto the stage later and played the harmonica. My jaw dropped instantly.

— Then there was the scene in Chiang Mai, with a guy I had just matched with online. He was Welsh, and we were at a hidden bar before I asked him about a famous Jazz bar I’d found on TikTok. He didn’t hesitate to lead the way, since he claimed he’d just been there the night before. I sat there feeling like an alien among all the white faces in the crowd. Despite technically being located in Asia, the scene felt foreign for locals — until the Thai band took the stage. The drummer opened the path and kept the whole band going, the bass set the undertone with its low range, the guitar and keyboard wove the melody, and my personal favorite, the saxophone, became the cherry on top to complete the whole set. I was immediately bewitched — what I love to call “possessed” — since the rhythm moved my entire body, had me nodding my head, and painted a stank face across my expression from time to time. The crowd shouted, cheered, and danced freely, which made the whole night a staple memory of Chiang Mai — probably the best one. He left, giving it a 9/10 for the date review, and I still wonder: was it the connection, the way I made him comfortable around me through the night, or the energetic Jazz that did all the heavy lifting? But one thing I know — live Jazz can make me feel that way: utterly joyful.

Upon returning to Jakarta, some people asked me about the best Jazz scene here, and I had no idea, because the nights I felt most alive had all happened abroad. But there had always been this one Jazz night I’d been wanting to attend — until recently, when it finally revived the feeling I had missed the most: where your body is possessed by the tune, where you can’t resist the urge to nod your head, and where you surrender yourself entirely to the rhythm. I was so expressive that the saxophonist even made a remark after I gave them my compliments: “You looked like you were really enjoying yourself.” That remark stayed with me all night. Part of me felt embarrassed to have been noticed by the artist himself, but the rest of me was amazed by how the music could evoke something in me that rarely surfaces. One of those things was the stank face.

I used to think this was an intrinsically human reaction — until I came across a TikTok by Isabella Segalovich (@interstellar_isabellar), who argued that there is a long story behind it. “Stank” — the past tense of “stink” — was originally a term directed at the Black community, which Buddy Bolden reclaimed in his song “Funky Butt,” transforming the mockery into something powerful and authentic, helping shift the word toward a more positive turn and eventually contributing to the evolution of the genre “Funk.” This made me realize that the expression isn’t universally acceptable across genres — in Classical music, for instance, I imagine pulling a stank face during Beethoven would be considered almost disgraceful. I also realized that I may have first picked it up by watching my former K-band idol make that face whenever he hit a guitar solo or reached a high note — perhaps the earliest legacy that led me toward appreciating music in a bigger way.

For all my love of Jazz, Funk, Soul, and R&B, I still couldn’t name a single Jazz song when a trivia night put them on the quiz. Beyond Norah Jones, Aretha Franklin, and Ella Fitzgerald — all of whom have vocals — I can rarely distinguish Jazz songs, let alone the instrumentals, as I seldom listen to them in my daily life. This bothered me for a while — especially when I’d been casually presenting myself on social media as someone who appreciates Jazz culture. But the saxophonist’s remark, the way my body moved, and the feeling that has stayed with me after multiple Jazz nights made me realize: I may simply be a Jazz enjoyer, and that is perfectly fine. I love the live experience, the way the musicians have fun on stage — pulling stank faces, hitting notes like some kind of mad genius — and the vibe of the room, where no one is worried about anyone else, just having fun together. All of it assembles into something epiphanic.

I may not be a Jazz nerd, but an enjoyer — and I’m reclaiming that as something still worth being.