The low trumpet hums on as it has for years, over the low din of the crowd and the thwomp of the hip-hop beats outside.
The air is stale with cigarette smoke and spilled gin, and the clink of glasses and shuffle of chairs fill any short silence. Low voices and laughter and applause provide the chorus.
He breaths between songs, takes a drink, smiles as he has for 13 years. He was talented and he was handsome, but perhaps he was a little too late, a little too past the prime of the waning light of jazz. He dutifully signs CDs between sets and sneaks out into the cramped courtyard for cigarette or two. Heavy draws, heavy drinks, a night heavy with humidity and one of the coldest on record.
"My pianist is 89 years old, plays every damn day and loves his vices," he confides in me. He gestures in a motion full of daydreams and resignation, a cigaretted hand with fingers curled and relaxed. "He's gonna die on that thing." He makes it sound like an admirable way to go. I sip my wine and smile.
The air is stale with cigarette smoke and spilled gin, and the clink of glasses and shuffle of chairs fill any short silence. Low voices and laughter and applause provide the chorus.
He breaths between songs, takes a drink, smiles as he has for 13 years. He was talented and he was handsome, but perhaps he was a little too late, a little too past the prime of the waning light of jazz. He dutifully signs CDs between sets and sneaks out into the cramped courtyard for cigarette or two. Heavy draws, heavy drinks, a night heavy with humidity and one of the coldest on record.
"My pianist is 89 years old, plays every damn day and loves his vices," he confides in me. He gestures in a motion full of daydreams and resignation, a cigaretted hand with fingers curled and relaxed. "He's gonna die on that thing." He makes it sound like an admirable way to go. I sip my wine and smile.
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