The city’s noisy with jazz. Makes you want to lose yourself in the flesh of the nearest warm body. Pulpy desire. Blood on the brain. Feels like it’s gonna come out your ears or nose or eyes as tears. All you can hear is jazz. There’s the pianists in the clubs. The winos playing saxophone on street corners. The trashcan percussionists in the alleyways. And then there’s the droning and hums and screeching and scratching and bursts of feedback from synthesisers in the virtual hangouts. Some call it ear cancer. Others call it avant garde. The hounds of the city howl a rueful chorus. Over at Dixon’s a tenebrous spotlight casts a chanteuse in a dream angelique. She’s singing the blues into a piezoelectric mic held by a velvet gloved hand. Hips sway for a while then stop — repetitive strain. And eyes never opened. Imagine them as being all Bette Davis — hidden behind heavy lids and eyelashes like beetle legs cuddling dark pink cheeks. She sings with a voice sans breath. Then she passes out. She’s so light she falls in slow motion. Clutches at the red drapery.

But Music continues. So do the Lyrics — why don’t you do right…like so many men do?

The audience is bewildered. They applaud anyway. A bell rings. Cocktail hour’s over so they pour orderly as ants onto the streets, a sea of kaleidoscopic Zoot suits and rainbow Bombshell dresses unleashing umbrellas against the rain.

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