The place was empty, even of the tourists who don't matter. I won't be paid to play, this too does not matter.
The piano squints, letting a few notes slip out, before I am told to leave it alone for fear of having to stand me a round.
No money and not even the false hope that something may happen, I leave. I hum a song to myself, that song, her song
The sky is a prop, flat black. Walking down the street, three times I heard the same song when your name was mentioned.
Don Juan's daughter is destined to be lonely.
Yet I only talk to her across an empty bar over drinks. I had jinxed myself, no notepad, I write down the things I should have said on a napkin, under a flickering street lamp. All words to describe a tragic kingdom.
I am not thinking, just humming to myself. The perfect blues are always sung by one voice.
I love jazz because next to my kids, it's the love of my life.
I was first exposed to jazz by Joe Rico from a tiny station in Niagara Falls in 1954 when I was 13.
The best show I ever attended was Maynard Ferguson who blew the roof off Massey Hall in the late 50s.
My advice to new listeners is to listen to everything you can and then listen again.