The noise that springs from the excitable crowd

gathered for the evening performance

is shattered as the glass baton

comes crashing down

upon the lectern and the stern faced conductor,

well past his prime but ready to give

one last Winter serenade,

asks the free form Jazz Band to take their mark

and the collision of cultures

begins in earnest.

 

The whisper of aged musicians,

is stopped in its tracks as the rising force

of a solitary sax maniac

rises above the temper of glowing terms

and the spit from the eager drummer

dribbles down his creviced and hunched face

as he quickly knocks out a beat

for the two backing singers to grasp

onto and sing as if a hundred

had just stepped on stage.

 

The seven piece band would rock the joint

and let the flowing freedom

of introspective desire lead them

where they would, although

at least one would go home alone

with their instrument tied firmly

in knots.

There was no better sound on that Saturday night

and the conductor kept time

as he lifted his glass baton with skill and deference

to the master of the band and invited him

with clockwork sparrow eyes

to keep his end up and perhaps

play a new tune on the old French Horn,

just as a gift to the people in the audience.

 

The master though, full of cheer

on the outside,

troubled casualty on the inside

lifted the double bass upon to its stand

and played the sad lament

for the band members who failed to show,

the heartbeat of a hundred souls

flashing away in delicate precision

somewhere in the world.

He stopped, flashed a grin of cool

to the beauty in the tight black skirt

and distempered tights

and slowly as the drum beat swayed, the sax

groaned like an angel’s orgasm

and the violin player performed on his own,

he sang for all the lost souls

and the conductor nodded his head

in silent toasting

to the memories of the small town,

free-form Jazz Band.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015