Defining Jazz

I was driving Flik home from pre-school. I was flipping through the stations on the radio, having not yet found anything appealing. I rarely do this with Flik in the car because he always hears something he likes and begins insisting, "Wait! Go back!" Today, his choice was Blondie's Call Me. I put it on.

Flik: I like this song. I like jazz. (He says "jazz" as though it's spelled "jaaaaazz".)

Mommy: (giggle) Flik, this isn't jazz. It's rock. (At least I think it's rock. Punk rock, maybe. Whatever, it's not jazz.) 

Flik: Yes it is. It know what jazz sounds like. 

Mommy: Sweetie, it's really not jazz. It's rock. 

Flik: Stop it! It's jazz. You're gonna' get my brain all mixed up. And if you do that, my brain will end up where my heart goes and my heart will go where my brain goes because they'll be all mixed up. 

Mommy: Really? Because that's what happens when your brain gets mixed up? 

Flik: Yeah. (pause) I know that this is jazz. It's not rock. Jazz, because jazz is loud. This. Is loud. 

Mommy: Nooooo. That is not what makes something jazz. 

Flik: No! I know jazz is loud. 

Mommy: Yes, jazz can be loud. But rock can be loud, and blues can be loud... 

Flik: (fervently) Hey! You're gonna' get my brain mixed up. I told you. Now stop talking about this.

So we did. He then proceeded to tell me how I would end up in time out when we got home for mixing up his brain. But for the record:

Blondie is jazz because jazz is loud.