Jazz In The Afternoon

Jazz In The Afternoon

Thinking in blood, a stick turned round;
Craftsmen at work, a cymbal gently held
Twixt two fingers, in quest of sound.

The bassist interfaces, melds,
He played with Django, 78.
And I don't mean RPM;
He's still fit as a fiddler's mate.

On keyboards is the Emperor, the King.
This guy can swing from Berlin
To Beethoven, once he was an African

Prince, now he works in restaurants.
The horns congregate like malcontents
In the corner, their ancient instruments
Of strange keys and levers, propelled
By wind like sackbutts and flageolets.
There's a shiny, brassy sax, blushed
Under the stare of four coloured lights.
The others skulk in shades of ingrained pewter.
Players plot their solos, discreetly tuned
To the latest gossip by hat-covered ears.
I look for the massive trumpeter,
That I met in a hot club in Hackney;
Full of script ideas, funny stories
And a game show called 'Cocks on The Table'.
But he's not there.

The drummer's switched to brushes,
His son has carried on the trade;
In the world of pop, but still forsaking
Silicon control for bashing skins
And cajoling rhythm into line.

The amplifiers must be made of bakelite
And cat's whiskers. Now there's a black dude
Singing 'A Foggy Day in London Town'.
He's belting out the Ritzy Twenties,
Like some goddam pussycat Tommy Jones.

A white-haired guy gets up that people
Swore was dead. He duckwalks and gravels
Like Satchmo, the crowd smile and let the
Winter disappear up its cold-lined rear.
I'm blowing on a bottle,
It's all that I can handle.

'Once I Had A Secret Love'
Blowses across the stage.
But there's no Kathy Kirby lips or bust,
A beautiful black woman breaks our hearts.
Tells us 'What a Difference a Day Makes',
Doesn't it just.

A trombonist sucks music from the smoke.
Every week he says 'That's it, I've blown my lot'.
Every week he's back in the land time forgot.
Hot man, hot.

Date mostly written: 1987