Perhaps there's no such thing as love at first sight, but we fell in love with jazz at first listen.

There's something about jazz music.

Something about the way those bluesy notes and soulful melodies warm your heart at the swell of those minor seventh chords.

Maybe it's the way the swing of the that upright bass that pulsates through your veins. The way dead poetry comes alive through lyrical phrasing. The way a simple scat send shivers up your spine.

The way it never lies still, always changing, washing you in emotions; deep as the ocean, high as the sky.

Like we said, there's something about jazz music.

From the moment our parents dusted off that first Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald record, we knew that jazz music was forever. Duke Ellington became our Santa Claus, bringing musical gifts more sacred than any Barbie Dreamhouse.

As students with an extensive background in listening to this genre as well as coming from a high school with extremely talented musicians (S/O Dreyfoos,) you could say our jazz "standards" are pretty high.

So when we say that the Stetson Jazz Ensemble blew us to pieces, we are not mincing words.

Due to work and having six to nine classes, we never could attend any of the jazz concerts in freshman year, so this year was our first time having the privilege of attending.

And we do mean privilege.

The first jazz concert featured vocalist Linda Cole (Cole as in Nat King Cole) and had us nearly in tears at the sheer homage and perfection of the concert. The performance paid remarkably tribute to the tried and true jazz standards, where you could close your eyes and remember the first Cole Porter song you ever heard.

But the second concert last Wednesday offered something, perhaps, a bit sweeter. Featuring a female soloist, Erika Sassmann, who evoked Ella herself in her scatting, the set-list was not made up of the rote Frank Sinatra tunes everyone was used to. It was different. A good kind of different.

It was unusual to hear "Ole Man River" on a upbeat swing, but it was breathtaking. Perhaps Frank Sinatra was rolling in his grave that night, but only because he wanted a closer listen.

When a Latin beat dropped during "When I Fall In Love," we realized that this, that very moment, captured what jazz was about: interpretation with integrity.

It's what many professional jazz bands struggle balancing. You want to play and hear your favorite trumpet solo just the way Dizzy did, but jazz music is about bringing something else to the song. A good jazz musician knows how to make a song evolve, rather than doing a tacky remix of a beloved tune.

With all these blessings occurring, trying to keep still became difficult. My shoulders started oozing gracefulness and Veronica's feet began a syncopated rhythm. The older people we sat with (who probably were alive when Dizzy Gillespie was at his prime) looked at us in confusion. I could hear their thoughts, "These young people are so uncultured (a.k.a. stupid)." They wanted to brush us off like we didn't know a Gershwin tune by the opening phrase. Until we showed our musical intelligence and were able to hold side conversation about the composition and arrangements, that is. We weren't your run-of the-mill non-music major, ignorant of the history. Sure, we were grooving and moving, but only because, well, what else do you do when the Stetson Jazz Ensemble breaks out a trombone trio? You dance.

This love letter is dedicated toward the Stetson Jazz Ensemble, because it allowed us to fall in love again with the genre we thought we knew everything about.

You've earned two adoring (soon-to-be-number-one) fans, and not just because Jaira is obsessed with the trumpet section or because I have a thing for saxophone players (holla at me.) But because you, Stetson Jazz Ensemble, were unforgettable. That's what you are.