Now, tell me: what is Kenny G, the prince of “unobtrusive jazz”, doing in Nairobi? Yes, that's right, the one with the saxophone and the perm, the king of smooth pop jazz, the same guy who accompanies your calls on hold at call centres in Italy, or welcomes you on a loop at Esselunga while you choose between Greek feta and organic tofu. In two words: “elevator music”.

But no, we're not talking about supermarkets here. We're talking about a sold-out concert in Nairobi, with the cream of the Kenyan bourgeoisie (and well-groomed expats) rushing to book months ago, as if it were the return of the Beatles. They will swoon over his notes as long as the queue at JKIA Immigration.

Is there a misunderstanding? Like “Kenny G” being mistaken for “Ken the Warrior”? Not at all. It's all intentional. It's all adored. It's all sequins and sax.

“Africa doesn't exist” – but jazz does, and how!

It's easy to take refuge in the usual mantra: “But Africa doesn't have a jazz culture...” Oh really? Then take a musical tour of Ethiopia, Mali, Angola and Senegal, and then, if you survive the beauty of Mulatu Astatke without fainting, we'll talk about it. Not to mention the South African giants. Forget “do not disturb”: jazz slaps you in the face there.

No, dear friends, this is not a question of musical ignorance. It is a question of taste. Or rather, of musical digestion. Kenny G asks for nothing in return. He does not demand attention, silence or concentration. He is the audio version of moisturiser: he spreads himself around and leaves no trace. And maybe good old Kenny can find the “G-spot” for the ladies who, as Paolo Conte sang, “hated jazz and no one understands why”.

Dental surgery music, but with a bigger audience

There is something deeply disturbing and, at the same time, revealing about the fact that a guy like Kenny G can sell out a concert in an African city with a rich, lively and often ignored music scene. He doesn't play jazz, say the purists – and they're right. He plays pop on the saxophone. He plays shopping centre melodies, with an 80s hair metal look and the air of someone who has just sold another 3 million copies while you were looking for Giant Steps in an empty jazz club.

Those who play real jazz – the kind with strange chords and never-ending solos – look at Kenny G like a Michelin-starred McDonald's: lots of people inside, but no taste. And yet... there he is, with his soprano saxophone always a little out of tune (by choice? for effect?), dominating the charts.

The art of musical invisibility

Let's not get the wrong idea: Kenny can play, in the technical sense of the term. He can hold a note for an hour and a half if necessary, he knows how to play his two applause-grabbing solos, and he knows his audience like few others. If anything, his talent lies in being totally inoffensive. It's music that doesn't ask you to understand, just to smile. It's the ideal background for those who don't want music in the foreground, but only as atmosphere. A room fragrance in the key of C major.

And so, Nairobi loves him.

But then, is it jazz or not?

Honest answer? Yes. That is, no. Actually: maybe. It depends on how tightly you cling to the coat of jazz orthodoxy. It's jazz in the same way that certain cocktails are: yes, there's alcohol, but please don't expect to get drunk. Kenny G is jazz for those who are afraid of real jazz. Like reading Bukowski just for the Instagram quotes.

Yet... let's be honest: the world isn't full of Wayne Shorter. It's full of people who want to relax with an easy melody while watching the sunset from a terrace in Lavington. And Kenny G does this better than anyone else. It's not jazz to love. It's jazz to enjoy. And maybe to slow dance to, with a glass of wine in your hand and a silly smile on your face.

Conclusion?

Kenny G isn't the problem. We are. We always try to find a logical answer to the popularity of something that makes us turn up our noses. Meanwhile, he flies to Nairobi, records a sold-out show, collects his cheque and heads off to the next airport, where his music will welcome him even before the customs officer.

And jazz? The real thing? It's there, in half-empty clubs, playing for those who still want to listen seriously. Luckily, Wynton Marsalis is coming next week. And despite his age, he won't take the lift but the stairs, and what stairs!