There is a place in Los Angeles where a band plays swing like delusion. Their instruments squat on a wide half-foot pillar overlooking a linoleum stade where skirted women and high-waisted men wait for heaven. But so far no pearly gates, just a bass line that floats around like stink in the breeze. The players are on break and such a pause may tempt a wider view where suspicious downstairs club-goers lean in, gawking, cat eyes scanning the bar where clipped…
