In every small vinyl shop, next to the counter where the seller stands — and the seller, as a rule, is the owner himself — there is always a turntable, and on it, most of the day, a record is playing: something popular, something that sells, to draw a passer-by in and keep a customer entertained. Always something popular. But as soon as the shop is empty, the owner takes down from the shelf one of the records he wants to hear alone, in the quiet. This shop has such a shelf too. It is called JAZZ.

Today's five come off that shelf, and they share more than a shelf. Jazz, as this shop understands it, is music for listening to alone, or in small company — not a stadium crowd, not loud, not for the body, not for dancing. It is music for the soul: you put it on, you listen, and you think. That makes this issue the deliberate opposite of our last one, which was all concerts, crowds and sweat. Here there is no crowd. There are five records, a quiet room, and time to hear what is actually on them.