It starts with a single, skeletal vamping of a piano. Then the brass kicks in, low and dirty. Before a single word is even sung, you already know exactly where you are. You’re in 1920s Chicago, a place where "murder is an entertainment form" and the gin is as cold as the hearts of the people drinking it. Honestly, All That Jazz from Chicago isn't just an opening number. It’s a manifesto. It’s the mission statement for an entire era of musical theater that decided to stop being polite and start being cynical.
Most people think they know the song because they’ve seen Catherine Zeta-Jones shimmy in the 2002 movie. Or maybe they’ve heard it at a karaoke bar where someone’s trying—and failing—to hit those low, sultry notes. But the song has a much weirder, darker history than the glitz of Hollywood suggests. It was born out of a specific kind of 1970s nihilism, crafted by two men, John Kander and Fred Ebb, who basically decided that the American dream was a scam. And they used a catchy vaudeville tune to prove it.
The Vaudeville DNA of All That Jazz
To understand why this song works, you have to look at how it’s built. John Kander didn't just write a "jazz" song. He wrote a pastiche of 1920s stage music that feels dangerous. It’s got that "oom-pah" rhythm, but there’s a tension in the chords that suggests something is about to go horribly wrong. Which, of course, it does. While Velma Kelly is singing about putting on her "buckle shoes" and "starting the party," she’s literally distracting the audience from a double homicide.
The lyrics by Fred Ebb are masterpieces of double entendre. When Velma sings about "all that jazz," she isn't just talking about the music. In the slang of the Roaring Twenties, "jazz" was a euphemism for sex, for chaos, and for the general "nonsense" of a society that had lost its moral compass. It’s brilliant. It’s tawdry. It’s the perfect hook for a show about two women who use their crimes to become celebrities.
Interestingly, the song serves as the ultimate "bookend" to the show. It sets the pace. If the performer playing Velma doesn't nail this opening, the whole show collapses. It requires a specific kind of vocal fry and a physical stillness that Bob Fosse—the legendary choreographer—perfected. Fosse’s touch is everywhere in this track. You can practically hear the clicking of the fingers and the tilt of the bowler hats in the syncopation.
Fosse, Chita Rivera, and the Birth of a Legend
The song first hit the stage in 1975. At the time, Chicago was actually considered a bit of a "failure" compared to the juggernaut that was A Chorus Line. People weren't ready for the sheer cynicism. Chita Rivera was the original Velma Kelly, and her version of All That Jazz from Chicago was jagged and athletic.
Rivera brought a certain "street" quality to the role. She wasn't just a flapper; she was a survivor. When she sang the opening lines, it felt like a threat. Compare that to the 1996 revival starring Bebe Neuwirth. Neuwirth played it with a cooler, more detached elegance that turned the song into a hypnotic trance. Both interpretations are valid, but they show how much room the song leaves for the performer to breathe.
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- 1975 Original: Gritty, vaudevillian, and deeply rooted in the Fosse "jazz hands" aesthetic.
- 1996 Revival: Sleek, minimalistic, and focused on the irony of the lyrics.
- 2002 Film: Grandiose, cinematic, and edited to emphasize the parallel between the stage performance and the actual murder.
There’s a legendary story about Fosse during the rehearsals for the original production. He was obsessed with the "smallness" of the movements. He didn't want big, flashy Broadway kicks. He wanted the dancers to move like they were in a cramped, smoky basement. That’s why the song feels so intimate. It’s a secret being shared between the performer and the audience.
The Lyrics: A Breakdown of the Cynicism
Let’s look at the actual words for a second.
"Slick your hair and wear your buckle shoes / And all that jazz."
It sounds like a fun night out, right? But look at the next few lines. "I’m gonna hotsy-totsy start the party / And all that jazz." The term "hotsy-totsy" was used by gangsters like Al Capone’s associates. It wasn't just "cute." It was the language of the underworld. By the time Velma gets to the part about "finding a flask" and "heading for the car," the song has shifted from a celebration to a getaway plan.
The genius of Kander and Ebb was their ability to hide the darkness in plain sight. They knew that if the melody was catchy enough, you wouldn't notice you were cheering for a woman who just shot her sister and her husband. This is the "Brechtian" influence on the show—the idea that the audience should be kept at a distance, constantly reminded that they are watching a performance. All That Jazz from Chicago is the "alienation effect" in musical form.
Why it Resonates in the 21st Century
Why do we still care? Honestly, because we’re more obsessed with "true crime" and "celebrity scandals" than ever. In 1975, the idea that a murderer could become a media darling was a satire. In 2026, it’s just Tuesday.
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The song captures the exact moment when American culture shifted from valuing "character" to valuing "fame." When Velma sings, "No, I'm no one's wife / But oh, I love my life," she’s declaring her independence from traditional morality. She’s choosing the spotlight over the domestic. That’s a very modern sentiment. It’s the anthem of the influencer before influencers existed.
I’ve talked to musical theater historians who argue that Chicago is actually the most "honest" musical ever written. It doesn't promise you a happy ending where everyone learns a lesson. It promises you a show. And the show begins and ends with that same vamping piano.
The Technical Brilliance of the Composition
From a purely musical standpoint, the song is a feat of engineering. Kander uses a lot of "blue notes"—notes that are slightly flattened—to give it that "dirty" jazz feel. The orchestration is heavy on the reeds and the banjo, which was the backbone of the 1920s sound.
- The Tempo: It starts slow (the vamp) and gradually builds in intensity, mirroring the rising adrenaline of a night on the town—or a crime of passion.
- The Key: It’s written in a way that allows for a lot of "talk-singing," which is essential for the character of Velma. She isn't a classically trained opera singer; she’s a nightclub broad.
- The Bridge: The shift in the middle of the song provides a momentary breath before the final, explosive chorus.
Many people don't realize that the song was actually inspired by real-life jazz legends of the era, like Texas Guinan. Guinan was a "speakeasy queen" who used to greet her patrons with the phrase, "Hello, Suckers!" That same "Hello, Sucker" energy is baked into every bar of the music.
Misconceptions About the "Jazz" in the Title
There’s a common misconception that Chicago is a "jazz" musical in the way that Duke Ellington or Miles Davis is jazz. It’s not. It’s "Stage Jazz." It’s a theatrical approximation of the genre.
True 1920s jazz was improvisational and messy. Kander’s score is precise and calculated. Every "ad-lib" is scripted. Every "scat" is written down. This fits the theme of the show perfectly—everything in the world of Chicago is a calculated performance. There is no room for spontaneity when you’re trying to avoid the gallows.
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Also, people often forget that the song is fundamentally about the death of the jazz age, not just its peak. It’s set right at the end of the 20s, heading into the Depression. There’s a frantic, "last party on Earth" vibe to it. You’re dancing because if you stop, you’ll realize how miserable you actually are.
Practical Insights for Performers and Fans
If you're a performer looking to tackle this song, or just a fan who wants to understand it better, here are a few things to keep in mind. First, don't over-sing it. The biggest mistake people make is trying to "belt" the whole thing. The power of the song comes from the quiet parts—the whispers, the pauses, the way you say the word "jazz."
Second, remember the subtext. You aren't happy. You’re desperate. You’re trying to convince the world (and yourself) that you’re having the time of your life while your world is literally falling apart.
- Watch the 1975 footage: Look at Chita Rivera's eyes. They are hard as flint.
- Listen to the orchestration: Pay attention to the trombone. It’s almost a character itself, laughing at the singer.
- Read the source material: Check out the original 1926 play by Maurine Dallas Watkins. It’s even darker than the musical.
Final Reflections on a Masterpiece
In the end, All That Jazz from Chicago is the perfect marriage of form and function. It tells you exactly what the show is about, it establishes the tone, and it gives the audience exactly what they want: a spectacle. It’s cynical, it’s sexy, and it’s deeply American.
It reminds us that we love a good show, even if the person on stage is a villain. We’re all "suckers" for a catchy tune and a bit of "razzle dazzle." And as long as we are, this song will remain the gold standard for how to open a musical.
Actionable Next Steps
To truly appreciate the depth of this song, your next move should be to listen to the 1975 Original Cast Recording and the 1996 Revival Recording back-to-back. Notice the difference in tempo and "attitude" between Chita Rivera and Bebe Neuwirth. This comparison reveals how the song can be adapted to fit the cultural mood of different decades.
After that, watch the opening sequence of the 2002 film but mute the audio. Observe the editing and the choreography. Then, watch it again with the sound on. You’ll see how the music dictates every single cut, proving that the song is the actual "director" of the scene. Finally, if you're in New York or London, see the show live. No recording can capture the physical "thump" of the bass in that opening vamp—it's something you have to feel in your chest.