Jazz. Rainy on a dry
night. Like mellow morphine, like a nighttime voice from 50s radio, shuffling
keys weltering about the piano. Window lights going on and off, randomly, for
no reason. Bill Evans, smoking a cigarette that will never end. In fact, I’m
afraid it will end, and the music
will disappear and the audience will stop clapping. In the meantime, they still
do, scarcely, with some sort of oblique passion.
Slick hair, 1961
glasses, stylish suits, old-fashioned pictures in black and white.
Two blond girls, one of them Debby, laugh
in the background, but it’s almost inaudible and you don’t mind. You want them
to go on laughing, drowned as they are by expensive cocktails and expansive
piano notes that go from playful to melancholic in a matter of three, four,
five seconds. Double bass is picked with great care, and the drums never
threaten. Piano, mostly.
Everyone starts
falling asleep, everything fades. But this is ridiculous, this keeps going. In
fact, this could go on for ages.
