Some media can only be truly appreciated in an altered state of consciousness. Speed Racer, the 2008 masterpiece by the Wachowskis, with its surreal and colorful visuals, comes to mind. So does the National Geographic documentary Journey to the Edge of the Universe, featuring the equal parts soothing and deeply discomfiting narration of Alec Baldwin. And there's an old joke about fans of the Grateful Dead; What does a Deadhead say when he sobers up? "This music isn't actually that good."
With this in mind, I got high and listened to Jazz Wolf, a 1992 album from the label NorthSound. It is a seminal work in what musician Chuck Lange refers to as the "music relaxation market." It is possible—indeed, probable—that Lange conceived of this album while he was high. It is exactly what you think it is; the sound of wolves crooning to smooth jazz. Make no mistake: it's not good. Nor is it the only wolf-themed album from NorthSound, which also released Classical Wolf and New Age Wolf. In just 1992 to 1993, NorthSound released no fewer than 17 albums, including Jazz Loon and Frog Talk. But of these, it is only Jazz Wolf that has achieved a semblance of infamy, with a decent 46,000 views on YouTube as of this writing. (One can only presume that they, too, were high.)
Jazz Wolf opens with the eponymous "Jazz Wolf," featuring Chuck Lange's soulful, sustained saxophone—and also wolves howling, along with the sound of gently-lapping water. The track conjures an image of Lange in the moonlight, knee-deep in a stream, playing saxophone and surrounded by a pack of wolves. "Jazz Wolf" does a respectable job of introducing the listener to the album's concept. We are immediately cognizant of two things; that this album is utterly lacking in self-awareness, and that it is hilarious.
Indeed, as I listened to "Jazz Wolf" with my mouth agape, I soon felt a smile tug at the corners of my mouth. By the second track, "Ramblin'," I am laughing uproariously. I made a point of taking notes as I listened—unfortunately, these are only somewhat cogent, but I did make a note of saxophones and wolves becoming indistinguishable from one another (also, "what am I doing?" and "oh god, I hope no one hears me listening to this").
Admittedly, by "Let's Go," only the third track out of thirteen, I begin to feel the album's length. But it wasn't until track eight, "Wolf Callin' Jam," that Jazz Wolf became an ordeal. I would describe it as elevator music, except that elevator music is usually inoffensive. The wolves, too, are particularly anguished and cacophonous on this track, as if trapped and restless in Chuck Lange's recording studio. The following track, "Paula's Eyes," offers something of a respite in its mediocrity. At this point, I am simply waiting for the album to be over. The gimmick has become tired, and so have I. I find my mind wandering to other things, such as the crystal skulls of Mesoamerica, my room and why it is orange, and whether 9/11 was an inside job.
I hope for some sort of raucous, wolf-howling finale to redeem this endeavor, but I find that I'm more relieved than disappointed when the album abruptly and mercifully ends at the one hour mark. I tend to live my life without regrets, but one cannot avoid the somber feeling that Jazz Wolf was a waste of weed. It's certainly worth listening to for its title track, but I cannot in good conscience recommend the rest of the album to anyone but gluttons for punishment—or if you really, really, really love wolves.
Yet, I'm happy that Jazz Wolf exists. That someone conceived of it in the first place and, against any reasonable judgment, actually made it happen, should be inspirational to us all. It's unfortunate that Chuck Lange, who now brands himself as a performer of "dining music," has erased any vestige of Jazz Wolf from his website—wilfully forgotten, like a bad trip. Perhaps because the album sells almost exclusively these days as an ironic gift, I like to believe that Jazz Wolf was not merely a cynical money-making contrivance, but rather a passion project, and that it endures as a soulful testament to one man's audacious creativity.