In the summer of 2016, despite a lack of relevant prior job experience, I became the talent booker at a jazz club. And not just any jazz club, mind you, but the hallowed Harlem birthplace of bebop itself.

Like many people who make the mistake of writing about music, I’ve held down day jobs over the years to offset the notoriously low pay and fundamental lack of benefits that come with being a professional critic. Having previously made a fairly honest living in the exciting field of marketing, I made some inroads providing these skills to the New York hospitality industry, working with James Beard nominated chefs at some of the city’s best restaurants to grow social followings, build buzz, and get more butts in seats.

That is how I ended up at Minton’s Playhouse. For those unaware, this is where the giants played, legends like Miles and Monk, Dizzy and Duke, Billie and Ella. Opened in the 1930s by Henry Minton, the uptown club came into its own during the 1940s under the managerial watch of Teddy Hill, who held the position there for close to three decades. Minton’s closed following a 1974 fire that damaged the attached Cecil Hotel, with the space seeing a few rethinks until it reemerged and realigned with its legacy a few years ago under its current ownership.

I’m sure as hell no Teddy Hill, though I did eventually end up rising through the ranks as General Manager of the historic establishment, albeit for a relatively brief run. Yet it was during my time as Marketing Manager that my side gig as a music critic made me a viable candidate to handle the booking of jazz bands. With the invaluable help of the venue’s erstwhile music director and a few good outside talent agents, I oversaw the bookings to the best of my ability for more than a year, familiarizing myself not only with the still-vibrant New York jazz scene but with the genre itself.

Prior to landing the Minton’s gig, my exposure to jazz had been admittedly limited. My parents never owned a Blue Note record, and I didn’t step foot inside a jazz club until after I graduated from college. To me, jazz was a texture applied to other music I enjoyed, sampled by hip-hop and electronic producers for their own purposes. Other than the Afro-Cuban sounds of my grandfather’s house that my father later insisted I pay attention to, the music remained vague to me for some time.

But as a music critic working in a jazz supper club, I boned up. Unlike some other genres I’d immersed myself in previously, from dub reggae to outlaw country, jazz proved dense and daunting. There were a lot of records I heard that I didn’t much like, the sort of stuff you’d find populating a Woody Allen movie, for example. Though I’d long been predisposed to dislike fusion thanks to artists like Steely Dan, my experimental streak led to the free jazz of Ornette Coleman, Eric Dolphy, and Archie Shepp. More inclined to listen to Alice Coltrane than John, I explored fringes and cosmic oddities while simultaneously getting reluctantly acquainted with established classics.

I also spent quite a bit of my time lurking in the city’s other jazz venues, including Dizzy’s and Smoke uptown and Blue Note and Smalls’ downtown. I made it a point to pay homage, witnessing the Mingus Big Band at Jazz Standard and catching veteran performers like Johnny O’Neal around town. I especially enjoyed club hopping, whenever possible, which helped with my own bookings—all now past tense. I don’t work there anymore, so I can’t book your band anymore, sorry.

All of this is to say that I’m not the jazz critic you’re used to, one so well versed in both the historical and technical aspects of the form that he could pick up a trumpet and know what to do with it. Though I’d never say this about the other genres I’ve covered over the last twenty years, when it comes to jazz I can admit I’m an amateur who likes what he hears when he hears it. Chances are, you’re that kind of jazz listener as well, which means this list of the ten albums I dug the most in 2017 may suit you too.