The X generation & CBGB drop outs struggle to find a seat.
The fuggy Ian Fleming smoke permeates the the jazz which permeates the feet,
Then the brushes start to sizzle, the tightened snare is tight,
The groove is lightly drizzled and there's a raffle for the meat!
A cold, sharp man parts the curtain, his ego weighing him down like Atlas
He is the personification of the lead piping in the drawing room.
Dreadful, droning drumming dots his dramatic, droll deliveries
Mumbling, mouthy monologues mix his mambo music mysteries
"AVANT SPAZZ!" cry the crowd of young boys in the corner in their best brown baggies.
N'er a tap, click or strut from their platform soles
N'er a jump, skip or beat from their love-lorn souls
This ain't what they call rock and roll thank you very much.
The pianist depresses his feet in sporadic desire for hard or soft.
First stanza forté in a crashing, banging Ivory key coast,
Second verse pianissimo (cos the melody's been missing you) in a softly softly Ebony boast.
The cool, curt man utters, "Who wrote this stuff in Italian? I only know Persil adverts!"
He is not pianissimo despite the directions, he is loud and crass in his off-white shirt.
The musicians wince at the faux-pas but they play on... this is Jazz after all
Home of chameleons, watermelon men & 5/4 time signatures.
"MAPLE LEAF DRAG!" bemoan the old fuddies in their Zoot suits & brogues
N'er a crash, bang or fizzle from their pressed shirts
N'er a hop, swing or jive from their dough-eyed skirts
This ain't what they call jazz at all thank you very much.
The icy, blunt man muffles the drums... he mutes the horns... he closes the lid on the pianists fingers...
Silence
apart from a lone high hat 'Tsss Tssss Tsssss'
the crowd catch on ' Shhhh Shhhhh Shhhhhh'
Simon Le Bon Bon pops a Rowntree's Fruit Pastille in his mouth and begins to suck....
