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All That Jazz
by
Rusty Broadspear
Shhhh
snickety snick, shdoosh, shdoosh
Supple wrists guiding agile hands,
Painting tempo light, across the skin of the snare.
Behind shades, mister sex embraces mister sax,
In unison, swaying back and forth, whilst
The rest of the band relax, away from the glare.
Acoustic guitarist silently tunes and glances
Through cloud at the building crowd, as
In one dark corner they instigate a moderate sway.
The little bloke puts out his smoke, downs his
beer,
Twizzles his double bass, like son with drunken
mother.
The clarinetist, strokes beard, steps in the light,
starts to play.
A swollen trumpeter saunters on from the side,
Blasting air from stretched lungs and cheeks,
In to and out of a gleaming silver banshee horn.
A signal to the remainder, to play, stomp 'n' move.
The stage is ablaze, hysterical, possessed, as
The crowd rise to their feet and an evening is
born.
A big woman, black, bedecked in jewelry 'n' large
hair,
With gin bottle in hand, pushed the bar away.
Unwinding a snail's trail of syrupy, recognizable
perfume,
The mass made polite way with unheard applause.
Hefted to the stage, all lights swung, centred.
Silent acclaim, beneath the howl of the music,
filled the room.
Shhhh snickety snick, shdoosh, shdoosh,
Whispering intro, anticipation, cut glass about to
crack.
Glitter claws grasp mike, pianist stands,
stretches, sits.
Laughing eyes and organ ivory keyboard teeth
contrast.
Cut glass cracks, with her opening crystal note
And the multitude go feral into hyperactive fits.
And later the mood changes, requests thrown in,
Coloured, ruddish lights compose hazy proceedings.
Tips the bottle as mister sex embraces her fulsome
waist,
She slips into slinky song, like squeezing
stockings up to thighs.
Phantom couples slide across the dance floor,
As time stands still for lovers, no urgency and no
haste.
The bottle stands empty and the room is sparse,
bare,
As the cloud thins, chairs scrape the floor, clean
air invades.
Band and singer collect payment from the man behind
the bar.
Loading the van on a chilly starlit morning,
The little bloke gives way to all the beers before,
To the background of a twang of someone packing
their guitar.
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