Now purple, now a fuchsia undertone. The lights give the club the type of fuzzy atmosphere that the world appears to have after you open your eyes from unrestful sleep. It leads you into intoxication without the help of alcohol. The crowd watches in noisy anticipation. The sexy wail of the sax screams triumphant notes above the boisterous audience.
Trumpets brace the voice of the sax, riff loud and clear over the dissonant wail.
Brassy, ragged runs sailed smoothly into quiet undertones. The drums and bass accentuate the rhythm. The crowd is with the band, sways with the music, makes the air static with gyrating fingers and pounding hands. Blow that thing. Weird, crazy sounds of bop, the frantic beat of jazz, the good ole lowdown blues.