SMOKY JAZZ BAR
H. W. Bryce
Old-fashioned smoky jazz bar,
After hours, we find a stool at the
Horseshoe counter semi-circling
The stage. The buzz of anticipation
Is physical. The intro act is tinkling
The ivories and the player’s hoarse
Voice is licking each note.
My wife tingles excitement, she who
Loves the chill and the thrill of
Coltraine and Brubeck, Clark Terry
And the Duke and the Count. Tonight
It’s the Count, only it isn’t the Count.
But then the explosion that is Joe
Williams, standing in for the Count,
Who is unaccountably incapacitated…
And the opening strains of the
Count’s band and the sheer beauty
Of it all brings tears to her eyes. To
Hear it alive!
And then Joe steps into the limelight
And then he opens his mouth and
Those unexplainably magnificent
Notes pierce the smoky air and
Hang there, a collective of a
Bravado cloud of sound.
And that saxophone, that magnificent
mellow old beaten up travel-worn saxophone
Wails and moans its jazzy, throaty wail
And the smoky atmosphere dances with the beat,
And worms its way into our very souls;
And the drums pick up where the sax leaves off
And our hearts skip every other beat,
So in love we are.
And Joe’s aide come up behind my Annie
With one single red rose…and presents
It to her. And my Annie is ecstatic, and she
Hopes the sax will never cease wailing
And that Joe will sing to her for ever…
And how sweet was that night!
We had fed our souls and come
Away renewed and refreshed
And incapable of ever forgetting
That magic night. Even today
That haunting sax and that deep
Blues voice wail in my head…
And that big fat cloud of dancing notes
Hangs softly in the air, laden with memories…
And I still see Annie and Joe Williams’
Single red rose…
And the happiness on her face.
Image by Social Butterfly from Pixabay
