Every night was the same. No two seconds were alike. That’s how things were at the Birdland Jazz Club. Currently, smoke hung in front of the stage like mist on a mountain. In a few seconds time it could be smoke from a flaming tomb in some sixth circle.
The band had been super charged by the stubborn, summer heat. New York in August 1959. But for now they were catching their breath. Framed by velvet curtains of a deep, lusty red, a rich blue backdrop behind, they were laughing and joking in between numbers. The audience below lay wilted, sipping bourbon and mopping beaded sweat off of foreheads in the darkness. Waiters in white tuxedos danced between the tables.
The trumpet player took a final drag on his cigarette. Stubbed the remnants out on an ash tray positioned atop the piano. The dying embers sent a small smoke signal to the audience that the band were about to start up again. A hush descended. He raised the trumpet to his lips, puffed out his cheeks.
Then she walked in…
Inspired by: Miles Davis – Flamenco Sketches