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.