The thought came in the house, after a couple of beers. It was a slow jazz composition, for vocalist, piano, drums, double bass, and flute. The song began with the piano soloing, for a few bars when the bass and drums blended in. then, the flute entered, and finally the singer. This song required a female vocalist, someone with a warm, non-strident voice. Not only the words and music had to come out, the emotion too. It was important to him. The drums added a regular rhythm, pushing the work along. He used the word drums guardedly. He was always reluctant to call a jazzman a drummer; percussionist was a far better word, he thought. Jazz, to him, was percussion rather than just drumming. Any fool could beat the living daylights out of a set of drums. Many had done so. But jazz needed virtuosity, the gentle subtle touch. You knew the drums were there but you didn’t notice them. He thought of the George Shearing quintet, and their way of playing; it was smooth, sophisticated, and very fine playing, real musicians who knew what they were doing. The percussion, as in an orchestra, added colour and mood to a piece, which a drummer didn’t. He thought of most of the music you could hear now. You didn’t need to kill the instrument or go prematurely deaf when playing. They were unaware of the nuance of rhythm. You just had to listen to anything commercial, and compare that with the playing of someone like Armando Perrazza. Now that was a real class act.
He came back to the song. It was in C, not the most imaginative of keys, but it was what he wanted, in 4/4 time, a slightly warmed-up andante, the type of tempo that would go down well in a plush bar late at night, when patrons wanted to talk in a cultivated way, and listen with interest at the same time. It gave the atmosphere that he was looking for. You had the group on the stage, in intimate ambience with the well-dressed audience, the kind of people who appreciated good food, drink, company and of course music., and some of them were very knowledgeable too. It wasn’t the type of place with cheap champagne and packet peanuts, and waitresses with smart dresses but wearing boots. No, in this place, the two young womengi were dressed in the right way, uniform clothes, and shoes to match. The barman knew how to mix, and there were no slot machines. The tables and chairs were bamboo, a reflection of the nostalgia of the owner, Henry. He had come here from Singapore, where his father had run a similar place for thirty or so years. The bamboo was a light yellow-brown giving the lounge a warm, airy tropical feel. The parquet floor was ochre, and on the walls were old black and white photographs of a Southeast Asia that had all but disappeared, thanks to industrialisation and modernisation. There were old wooden houses on stilts, trishaws, women holding oilpaper umbrellas, uncongested city centres, and the waterfront, where people from all over the world had come and mixed together. Along the main wall was the bar, with high stools. To the right, the small stage for the group.
At the rear was a small room; to call it a restaurant would be incorrect, although this is what it was. It was tiny, barely enough room to walk in and out. There were ten tables, half with four chairs, and half with two. It was a perfect setting for two people in love. The area had an obstructed view off the bandstand, with the connecting wall between it and the piano, but nonetheless, a pleasant spot for those who wanted a meal with their jazz. You could hear just fine. Henry’s brother did the cooking.
Everyone knew him as Chop-chop, but that wasn’t his real name. He cooked a limited array of food; in fact, there were just two. There were the traditional British fish and chips, although this was way removed from the typical fish and chip bar of a town. He cooked a whale-size chunk of fish in batter, with irregular chips he cut by hand from garden potatoes, and a rich, exciting mélange of raw vegetables, like a salad, but it didn’t look like a typical one. You ordered the items you wanted, and he would chop and mix them up for you, but in a different way each time. On the top, he sprinkled small nuts, sunflower seeds, and pepper. He might cut it small, in matchstick like size, or you might get squares or rectangles. You just didn’t know. He made his own dressing with oil and lemon, and you dipped in if you wanted too. The other offering was Alaskan crab from the Barents Straits. This was expensive, but the customers - he thought of them as regulars, almost associates - were happy enough to pay. They had the money, and they knew the quality. Alaska crab was supposed to be the finest in the world. The eaters here seemed to agree.
He came back to the song. The piano began the melody, taken up in a haunting manner by a low flute. Nothing strident, and typically flute, just, at first, the first octave and a half. It was warm, sensual, and sensuous music. The bass built a thick foundation and the percussionist used the wire brushes in a warm sensual way. The woman began to sing;
The raindrops that fall in the light of the night
The group played on for a few bars after each line.
are like the tears of love when the autumn kicks in.
to a woman, the words and tune, they’re sunset bright
to let a late night loving come, place a bet, and we will win.
The flute took over, the cymbals went a little quiet, and the people watched. A man put his arm around the woman’s shoulder. Almost all the people there were touching, or holding, or near each other. The two waitresses waited in circumspect way, enjoying the song. No one ordered anything; they were too engrossed with the quintet. The barman polished glass after glass, but at the same time, watching the group. A man and a woman got up, and began to dance a couple of metres from the group.
The singer began the second part.
The trees and the flowers might sway in the night air
He came back to the song. It was in C, not the most imaginative of keys, but it was what he wanted, in 4/4 time, a slightly warmed-up andante, the type of tempo that would go down well in a plush bar late at night, when patrons wanted to talk in a cultivated way, and listen with interest at the same time. It gave the atmosphere that he was looking for. You had the group on the stage, in intimate ambience with the well-dressed audience, the kind of people who appreciated good food, drink, company and of course music., and some of them were very knowledgeable too. It wasn’t the type of place with cheap champagne and packet peanuts, and waitresses with smart dresses but wearing boots. No, in this place, the two young womengi were dressed in the right way, uniform clothes, and shoes to match. The barman knew how to mix, and there were no slot machines. The tables and chairs were bamboo, a reflection of the nostalgia of the owner, Henry. He had come here from Singapore, where his father had run a similar place for thirty or so years. The bamboo was a light yellow-brown giving the lounge a warm, airy tropical feel. The parquet floor was ochre, and on the walls were old black and white photographs of a Southeast Asia that had all but disappeared, thanks to industrialisation and modernisation. There were old wooden houses on stilts, trishaws, women holding oilpaper umbrellas, uncongested city centres, and the waterfront, where people from all over the world had come and mixed together. Along the main wall was the bar, with high stools. To the right, the small stage for the group.
At the rear was a small room; to call it a restaurant would be incorrect, although this is what it was. It was tiny, barely enough room to walk in and out. There were ten tables, half with four chairs, and half with two. It was a perfect setting for two people in love. The area had an obstructed view off the bandstand, with the connecting wall between it and the piano, but nonetheless, a pleasant spot for those who wanted a meal with their jazz. You could hear just fine. Henry’s brother did the cooking.
Everyone knew him as Chop-chop, but that wasn’t his real name. He cooked a limited array of food; in fact, there were just two. There were the traditional British fish and chips, although this was way removed from the typical fish and chip bar of a town. He cooked a whale-size chunk of fish in batter, with irregular chips he cut by hand from garden potatoes, and a rich, exciting mélange of raw vegetables, like a salad, but it didn’t look like a typical one. You ordered the items you wanted, and he would chop and mix them up for you, but in a different way each time. On the top, he sprinkled small nuts, sunflower seeds, and pepper. He might cut it small, in matchstick like size, or you might get squares or rectangles. You just didn’t know. He made his own dressing with oil and lemon, and you dipped in if you wanted too. The other offering was Alaskan crab from the Barents Straits. This was expensive, but the customers - he thought of them as regulars, almost associates - were happy enough to pay. They had the money, and they knew the quality. Alaska crab was supposed to be the finest in the world. The eaters here seemed to agree.
He came back to the song. The piano began the melody, taken up in a haunting manner by a low flute. Nothing strident, and typically flute, just, at first, the first octave and a half. It was warm, sensual, and sensuous music. The bass built a thick foundation and the percussionist used the wire brushes in a warm sensual way. The woman began to sing;
The raindrops that fall in the light of the night
The group played on for a few bars after each line.
are like the tears of love when the autumn kicks in.
to a woman, the words and tune, they’re sunset bright
to let a late night loving come, place a bet, and we will win.
The flute took over, the cymbals went a little quiet, and the people watched. A man put his arm around the woman’s shoulder. Almost all the people there were touching, or holding, or near each other. The two waitresses waited in circumspect way, enjoying the song. No one ordered anything; they were too engrossed with the quintet. The barman polished glass after glass, but at the same time, watching the group. A man and a woman got up, and began to dance a couple of metres from the group.
The singer began the second part.
The trees and the flowers might sway in the night air
The bass plucked a gentle train of ascending arpeggios.
but I only want to be in motion with you, this time when I
know you gaze at the early morning legs, you touch my hair
to watch the morning change, and the rain of the waning night go by.
He wondered what Mortimer Adler would have made of this. Was it culturally rich enough?
Was it scholarship? Was it one of the top hundred songs of all time? The song ended with a whispering roll. The people in the bar applauded warmly, and the singer, a white woman in her forties with golden hair, bowed, and then turned to acknowledge the other members of the group. High heels augmented her good legs, indeed, her figure in general. The applause faded away, and they began another song. This one was a little faster, with the bass player, a short white man, going bald, working a regular four-crotchet rhythm, with the percussionist colouring in the enhancement. He was an Asian man with a perpetual look of pleasure; it was quite clear he enjoyed his work. Well, they all did. The pianist was a mixed race man; someone said he was from Cuba, someone else said Guatemala. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was a first-rate musician, the piano turning out the melody and chords without any apparent effort. The flautist was a Filipina woman in her late twenties. She had long light brown hair, and her evening dress of a soft green contrasted well with the lounge suits and bow ties of the three men. She had a bracelet on both wrists. They changed position depending on the angle of the flute. Her dress was split at the side, in the style of a cheongsam, showing her calf. There were about fifty people in the bar that night. It was a Monday, and at 9pm, that wasn’t too bad. There would be others later. It was a popular place. The décor was old fashioned, and the lighting bright enough to see each other, but not too bright to take away the romance. When people said they were going down Henry’s Quay, everyone knew they would have a good night out. They also knew it wasn’t Henry’s Quay. Its real name was The Cockatoo, but no one used it. A tourist once asked people the way to The Cockatoo. No one knew what he was talking about, until he mentioned the owner was someone called Henry, and that jazz was played there.
Out at the front of the lounge, overlooking the harbour, a gentle rain was beginning to cool the warm night air. A yellow taxi went by. A puff of smoke came from the window. On the water, the yachts went with the motion of the sea. On some of them, you could see groups of people sitting under the cabin light, drinking, and laughing, and having a good time. It was that kind of place, easygoing, open, gracious, and welcoming all rolled into one. It had class, but it was the relaxing type.
Back in the lounge, the music had stopped, and the band was taking a drink at the bar. There was the merging of people, the low murmurings of those brave to talk out loud in a public place. The eating area was packed like sardines, as usual. One idiot customer, an Oriental, had finished eating, and in a loud, laughing way, had told the others at the table, and the rest of the assembled eaters too - he couldn’t fail to, the area being so small - that when he was trying once to catch lobster, he had fallen out of the boat. For some reason, he thought this amusing. The rest of the people there half-laughed, but it was probably at him, rather than because of the incident.
Henry would wander round from time to time, sometimes stopping for a chat, or sometimes helping behind the bar or bringing the drinks, if the two girls were stretched on a full night.
It was a place to relax with good food, music, and company. The group began to play again, a beautiful slow number, ‘When April comes again.’ Around one of the glass-top circular tables, three men and a young woman were talking quietly. Next to them, an elderly couple were watching the others in the lounge. Now and then, one would lean forward and talk to the other. There were about fifteen of these tables, the attendant armchairs with bamboo motif on the cushions. Henry used to change them according to season. Now, in the summer, they were a light beige and green. In the winter, he put on a warmer brown and orange. Two young men in tee shirts and jeans walked in, and went to one of the tables near the group. One of the girls walked over.
but I only want to be in motion with you, this time when I
know you gaze at the early morning legs, you touch my hair
to watch the morning change, and the rain of the waning night go by.
He wondered what Mortimer Adler would have made of this. Was it culturally rich enough?
Was it scholarship? Was it one of the top hundred songs of all time? The song ended with a whispering roll. The people in the bar applauded warmly, and the singer, a white woman in her forties with golden hair, bowed, and then turned to acknowledge the other members of the group. High heels augmented her good legs, indeed, her figure in general. The applause faded away, and they began another song. This one was a little faster, with the bass player, a short white man, going bald, working a regular four-crotchet rhythm, with the percussionist colouring in the enhancement. He was an Asian man with a perpetual look of pleasure; it was quite clear he enjoyed his work. Well, they all did. The pianist was a mixed race man; someone said he was from Cuba, someone else said Guatemala. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was a first-rate musician, the piano turning out the melody and chords without any apparent effort. The flautist was a Filipina woman in her late twenties. She had long light brown hair, and her evening dress of a soft green contrasted well with the lounge suits and bow ties of the three men. She had a bracelet on both wrists. They changed position depending on the angle of the flute. Her dress was split at the side, in the style of a cheongsam, showing her calf. There were about fifty people in the bar that night. It was a Monday, and at 9pm, that wasn’t too bad. There would be others later. It was a popular place. The décor was old fashioned, and the lighting bright enough to see each other, but not too bright to take away the romance. When people said they were going down Henry’s Quay, everyone knew they would have a good night out. They also knew it wasn’t Henry’s Quay. Its real name was The Cockatoo, but no one used it. A tourist once asked people the way to The Cockatoo. No one knew what he was talking about, until he mentioned the owner was someone called Henry, and that jazz was played there.
Out at the front of the lounge, overlooking the harbour, a gentle rain was beginning to cool the warm night air. A yellow taxi went by. A puff of smoke came from the window. On the water, the yachts went with the motion of the sea. On some of them, you could see groups of people sitting under the cabin light, drinking, and laughing, and having a good time. It was that kind of place, easygoing, open, gracious, and welcoming all rolled into one. It had class, but it was the relaxing type.
Back in the lounge, the music had stopped, and the band was taking a drink at the bar. There was the merging of people, the low murmurings of those brave to talk out loud in a public place. The eating area was packed like sardines, as usual. One idiot customer, an Oriental, had finished eating, and in a loud, laughing way, had told the others at the table, and the rest of the assembled eaters too - he couldn’t fail to, the area being so small - that when he was trying once to catch lobster, he had fallen out of the boat. For some reason, he thought this amusing. The rest of the people there half-laughed, but it was probably at him, rather than because of the incident.
Henry would wander round from time to time, sometimes stopping for a chat, or sometimes helping behind the bar or bringing the drinks, if the two girls were stretched on a full night.
It was a place to relax with good food, music, and company. The group began to play again, a beautiful slow number, ‘When April comes again.’ Around one of the glass-top circular tables, three men and a young woman were talking quietly. Next to them, an elderly couple were watching the others in the lounge. Now and then, one would lean forward and talk to the other. There were about fifteen of these tables, the attendant armchairs with bamboo motif on the cushions. Henry used to change them according to season. Now, in the summer, they were a light beige and green. In the winter, he put on a warmer brown and orange. Two young men in tee shirts and jeans walked in, and went to one of the tables near the group. One of the girls walked over.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’
‘Hi, chica.’
She stiffened. She didn’t like being called chica by anyone. She knew by the accent that he wasn’t from here. And people here didn’t greet others with ‘Hi’, either.
‘Two beers.’
She looked at them. ‘Please’ would be nice. The people who came in here said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as a matter of course. The man took the pause to mean she hadn’t understood him.
She stiffened. She didn’t like being called chica by anyone. She knew by the accent that he wasn’t from here. And people here didn’t greet others with ‘Hi’, either.
‘Two beers.’
She looked at them. ‘Please’ would be nice. The people who came in here said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as a matter of course. The man took the pause to mean she hadn’t understood him.
‘Two beers.’
There was still no ‘please’. She was right. He was, or maybe they both were, English.
There was still no ‘please’. She was right. He was, or maybe they both were, English.
‘We don't serve people dressed the way you are'. .She pointed at the small sign on the wall near the entrance. The man got up and walked over.
‘Dress. Smart casual.’ The man swore quietly, and went back to the table.
‘What’s up?’ the other asked. The first man told him. The second man got up, and they both walked to the door.
‘Bye, chicos,’ she said.
The couple at the next table began to laugh. The man, who was big, was the local butcher. He had a droopy moustache. His wife, who in contrast was a slim thing, worked as a receptionist in one of the numerous hotels here. She gently slapped the girl on the arm. ‘Maria!’ and began to laugh again. Two members of the Police came in. They both wore the long leather boots of the motorcycle patrol. They walked over to the bar, but didn’t sit down. People there knew why. They were glad to stretch their legs a bit.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ the barman said. ‘Two cups of tea, please.’ ‘Right you are.’
‘What’s up?’ the other asked. The first man told him. The second man got up, and they both walked to the door.
‘Bye, chicos,’ she said.
The couple at the next table began to laugh. The man, who was big, was the local butcher. He had a droopy moustache. His wife, who in contrast was a slim thing, worked as a receptionist in one of the numerous hotels here. She gently slapped the girl on the arm. ‘Maria!’ and began to laugh again. Two members of the Police came in. They both wore the long leather boots of the motorcycle patrol. They walked over to the bar, but didn’t sit down. People there knew why. They were glad to stretch their legs a bit.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ the barman said. ‘Two cups of tea, please.’ ‘Right you are.’
He placed the two cups on the bar top, and pushed a bowl of sugar towards them.
‘Thank you.’
They drank their cup of tea , put some loose change on the bar, and turned and walked out, their boots resonating on the wooden floor. The barman put most of the cash into the till, and the tip into his waistcoat pocket. He had worked at Henry’s Quay for a number of years now. The clientele always found him to be pleasant and polite, a nice chap.
The thought came in the house, after a couple of beers. It was a slow jazz composition, for vocalist, piano, drums, double bass, and flute. The song began with the piano soloing, for a few bars when the bass and drums blended in. then, the flute entered, and finally the singer. This song required a female vocalist, someone with a warm, non-strident voice. Not only the words and music had to come out, the emotion too. It was important to him.
© Richard Homer 2008
They drank their cup of tea , put some loose change on the bar, and turned and walked out, their boots resonating on the wooden floor. The barman put most of the cash into the till, and the tip into his waistcoat pocket. He had worked at Henry’s Quay for a number of years now. The clientele always found him to be pleasant and polite, a nice chap.
The thought came in the house, after a couple of beers. It was a slow jazz composition, for vocalist, piano, drums, double bass, and flute. The song began with the piano soloing, for a few bars when the bass and drums blended in. then, the flute entered, and finally the singer. This song required a female vocalist, someone with a warm, non-strident voice. Not only the words and music had to come out, the emotion too. It was important to him.
© Richard Homer 2008
