This was a rough fuckin’ year for jazz. Once upon a time, I’d begin almost every one of these columns with an account of a live performance I’d witnessed sometime in the previous month. I haven’t done that since March. And I don’t know when I’ll get to do it again. Nobody does. And the music is already suffering. Venues are closing; the Jazz Standard, one of my favorite places to see live music, was the first to go. (This reminiscence from a former waitress is terrific; go read it.)