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There is a great difference between a singer who sings jazz and a Jazz Singer.
The venue was perfect, mood lighting, wooden chairs and tables holding up a weary wall drooping from a withered ceiling with a lazy fan pushing the smoky air. A red glow permeated from a lava lamp (classy not cheap!) onto the corner stage with old school upright piano shrouded in dusty curtain. A cellar door led to the half balcony where patrons hung over creaky banisters willing themselves towards the performers, trying desperately to capture and encompass the moment. To bottle it as a previous commodity and save for a rainy day. A familiar floor lamp, and old friend of mine, tipped his shade in respect, a salut of appreciation.
Last night, oh what a night, she was a sultry lady In a classy gown with her own electric double bass. Perched on a high stool a quality act from a bygone age. Some would say sassy. That was using your voice as an instrument... When she sang it was like dark chocolate. Deep and warm, a hidden power, but with subtle hints of bitterness that make you tweak your ear and enjoy the slightest of dischords.
But then, There was a modern acidity. A fusion as modern red nord (fee would love it) hit loveliness of notes to offset with bass and vocal.
The room felt it, the electricity, unconscious foot tapping, hand shaking, head bopping and body grinding to the elusive 7/8 beat. You felt the groove but hell could you count or repeat it. Two musicians intwined in rhythm yeah.... Acid smooth. Jazz in the true sense and viscosity of the word. You felt the presence, the depth of it, and it felt like treacle, syrupy goodness.
And them there was tonight. A great pianist, a decent voice... But where was my chocolate, my syrup, my depth. The room felt or didn't to, voting with their feet. A discomfort settled, a stillness, a disquieting moment. An emptiness... The soul had left that place, the presence had left with my chocolate. All that remained was gin, tonic and a stolen lime.
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