The City In Jazz

A Portrait of Haven on The Business End of a Horn...

Best enjoyed as a nocturne…

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They kept all the action outside so the cats could play, the long sinuous voices of our tender brass and the delicate dance of the Steinway sinking deep into all them wolves out there. Like a pied piper, my club bore a night-owl pack of pushers, peddlers, butchers, bakers, nightmare makers in hot-rods and chopped hogs galore. Uptown cats getting their kicks from the underground, and all the night’s killers out to play. Black, white, gray, red, beige, hell, they coulda come in purple, gold, emerald green or an Eastmancolor sundae for all the life of me. Point was, they all dug what the Max had to play for ‘em.

That’s the power of loving and leaving ‘em with this horn. Every night, four hours a night, my claws tap away on her valves and the air from my lungs scream through her bell and mutes, ringing in those half-cocked, drunken ears. Having some super-sidemen on the backside sure helps keep the trance up.

Got the ham beast Harv swinging on drums ‘til the tenement shook. Had an ivory tickler supreme in on the guest slot (nice fella named Roger for those looking), and big man Patch thumbing away the double bass. Occasionally a sax walks in to serenade us, and such a night was tonight. The numbers all added up to five wolves running a train on a fake book of standards, and all it took was one cool bitch to stop us dead in a number.