Aim the Coltrane at my brain

My wife read about new brain research that suggests sound may ease the effects of Alzheimer’s disease.

Sound waves, when properly aimed at the right parts of the befuddled noggin, coax the tangled wires into unknotting. One’s thoughts become buttery again and slip to their intended destination right on time, like Amtrak tries to do in the northeast.

I’m not speaking scientifically here, about gamma entrainment reducing amyloid plaque and phosphorylated tau. Buttery unknotting is the layman’s gist.

Clinical trials suggest sound deters memory loss.

If the curative sound waves were jazz music — Jobim, the crooners, Segovia — sign me up.

More and more, my memory is slip-sliding away. I’ve spent anxious moments looking for my phone when it’s in my hand, or glasses when they’re on my head. There are times I’m having lunch with a friend, and I momentarily forget his name. Hey, pal, pass the pepper.

I never forget who the president is or the opening lines of Whitman’s “Leaves of Grass,” nor the fifth verse of “Amazing Grace,” nor the speed limit on Main Street in Valdese (20 mph), but the other day when the online bank teller asked for my telephone number, I couldn’t remember. “Give me a clue,” I asked.

If sound helps, bring it on.

I fear 1970s esoteric album rock, angular punk, and the high fructose corn syrup of too many years of commercial pop have fractured my attention span and harmed my sense of rhythm. I can’t dance well and am hard of hearing. (And, look, a squirrel!)

I blame pop radio.

Jazz came later in life for me — a needed respite from an all-fat diet of classic rock and the earnest protest of folksingers.

Joel Frahm closes his eyes when he plays and smiles boyishly when others in his trio dive into the charts. Matt Olsen, another inspired saxophonist, has a Doctor of Musical Arts; he is the Doctor of Cool. Guitarist Steve Watson looks like mafia in his black hat and Mexican mustache, fingers ricocheting off the strings.

And the oldsters at Preservation Hall — glory.

I love it.

Aim the Coltrane at my neo cortex and leave the room quietly. Throw in some birdsong or the steady murmur of waters tripping down Flat Creek into Lake Susan.

Yeah.

I told my wife I hoped a cure would come soon, as our elder years are taking dead aim on us. “Sometimes I feel like taking a nap for three weeks,” I tell my wife, “and getting out of bed only to take hot baths, stroll the beach, and eat chocolate ice cream.”

“That’s perfectly normal,” she says.

“At our age.”

Of course it is. I feel better when she says this. She has a doctorate, too, after all. She knows stuff.

I feel less confused when the vibe is mellow. As I become increasingly single-minded in my devotion to inertia, sometimes I awaken from naps and forget where I am. I look into the mirror and see my Old Man. How’d he get there? Microsoft Calendar tells me when to show up, but sometimes I get in the car and have to think hard: Where am I going? Why am I here? And what’s the speed limit?

Somebody told me once that if you know you’re a little more forgetful than usual, you probably don’t have dementia.

I forgot who said that, but I hope she is right.

In the meantime, start the sound waves. Let’s begin with a healing set from Pat Metheny, or Diana Krall, or Jon Batiste, or Arturo O’Farrill.

Turn up the volume.