The upbeat staccato notes dance out of the end of the trumpet, as the man on the other end puffs his cheeks in and out, pushing air through the shiny brass tubes. His eyes open wide and eyebrows dancing up and down with the effort.
Behind him the graceful fingers of a pianist cavort over the worn ivory keys. Her shoulders move up and down with the beat brought by the drummer at the back of the stage, who closes his eyes and feels the beat tapping out of the end of his sticks.
A tubist, clarinetist, and guitar player take up the rest of the stage. Each lost in their own instrument.
It's the people out in the smoky hall in front of the stage who get to really appreciate how the instruments come together.
In the dark corner booth, a man with the dark mustache and suit sits, his ice melting into the scotch in his cut glass tumbler, leaving yet another watermark on the scarred table. He sits with one leg crossed over the other, the well pressed crease centered down the side of each. He seems unmoved by the beat of the music that fills the hall from its baseboard to rafters, but every once in a while the tune wins and the careful observer is rewarded with a subtle tap of his foot. He sits with a pen poised over the paper on the table and every few minutes he jots something down, careful to avoid the upper corner of the paper that had the misfortune to fall in a previous customer's fresh watermark. His free hand periodically goes up to his mouth as he takes a long breath through a thick brown cigar, then sends a ring of smoke into dimly lit air. He keeps his eyes trained on the band, rarely distracted by the mass of movement between his table and the stage.
At least a dozen couples move around the rough hewn wooden floor that has been made smooth by the movement of hundreds of feet over the years. The thick heeled pumps, spinning around the shiny black and white wingtips, both moving too quick to really see how scuffed the toes are from their constant movement. Above the shoes skirts twirl up and down, confused by the repeated change of direction as their owners spin in and out against the pin stripe vests of their partners. Above the swishing skirts, you can catch glimpses of exhilarated and white smiles, jumping out from flushed faces that contrast nicely against the pleased, and confidently demure, grins on the faces above the pinstripes.
Laughter breaks over the top of the band, emerging from a cluster of tables pushed against the wall where a group of dancers take a much needed break. A girl whose carefully placed curls are starting to come loose around her face jokingly swings her tired feet up onto the lap of her partner, pleading exhaustion. As the band starts up a new song he holds his hands out to her, inviting her to return to the throb of their whirling compadres. Her smile doesn't leave her face as she wearily shakes her head, and sneaks a swig out of her friend's glass. Unfazed, her clean shaven partner doesn't budge his invitation, and she lets out another laugh before standing and leading him on to the dance floor instead.
On the stage the trumpeter lowers his instrument and steps up to the microphone. As he opens his mouth a smooth, low, gravely strain of words escapes over the room. A faint impromptu cheer rises from the crowd as he makes his announcement.
From the back of the stage another man has emerged with the announced instrument. He lets loose his string of notes as the trumpeter taps his foot against the stage, waiting for his cue to start singing. As the song progresses so does the swinging and stepping on the center of the floor.
"Sisters and Brothers, this is Reverend Satchmo getting ready to beat out this mellow sermon for you. My text this evening is 'When the Saints Go Marching'. Here come Brother Higgenbottom down the aisle with his trombone. Blow it boy."*
The night is begging to go on forever, and yet the band begins to wind down with a slow melody that showcases the slow pluck of the guitar and the dancing fingers of the pianist across the high octaves of the keyboard. The trumpeter lets them play alone for two counts of eight before letting the main melody emerge from the wide end of his instrument. After a full minute he drops the trumpet to his side and reaches for the glass of water on the old wooden stool next to the microphone. He lets the last few gulps slide down his throat before clearing it softly as the piano and guitar hold the mood. He takes hold of the old silver microphone, looks towards the ceiling then drops his swaying head, eyes closed, and begins:
"Hold me close and hold me fastThe magic spell you cast
This is la vie en rose
When you kiss me heaven sighsAnd tho I close my eyesI see la vie en roseWhen you press me to your heartI'm in a world apartA world where roses bloomAnd when you speak...angels sing from aboveEveryday words seem...to turn into love songsGive your heart and soul to meAnd life will always beLa vie en rose"*
Slowly, as the band escalates through the end of the song, the couples reluctantly pull on their coats, and wrap scarves around their necks. The girl with the curls has pushed the fallen ringlets inside her felt beret, and linked her arm through her persistent partner's, the remnants of her exhilarated smile still flitting across her face. They stroll out the door under a full moon that cuts through the late night haze hanging above the Chicago harbor, and the club falls into an exhausted silence.
The band begins to pack up their instruments amidst scattered compliments to each other's playing. The man in the mustache approaches the stage and introduces himself as a reporter for the Times, doing an article. He sits with the trumpeter on the edge of the stage and begins by asking him about his music.
The trumpeter lets out a rumbling chuckle, and shakes his head.
"There is two kinds of music, the good, and the bad. I play the good kind."*
The reporter nods as he scratches notes on his water stained piece of paper. He continues to ask questions and scribble the answers for a few minutes before Louis, exhausted from the night of playing, shakes his head and breaks into his famous smile that seems to take up the entire lower half of his face. Happy wrinkles escape the corners of his eyes as he reaches out and sets calloused fingers in front of the mustached man's pen. He takes a deep breath before summing up the article as he sees fit:
"What we play is life."*
*All real Louis Armstrong quotes.
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