Jazz enters the room like a beautiful woman
with the soft staccato beat played against the cymbals. Her gait and the sway of her hips, knowing everyone is watching without giving the passers-by a glance. Jazz speaks to the soul playing a sad melody, strumming the strings of the heart as a tear slides down your cheek and you neglect to wipe it away, the notes leaving a trace to make a masquerade.Jazz mimics the angry street, Horns carrying out hairy conversations, while feet pound the pavement and sidewalks; a trumpeter flutters on the valves, knuckles protruding, cheeks bellowing, eyes closed, to stop and breathe in the sweet sweet sound echoing against the angry city’s madness. Jazz is the strength of a man standing in the background with a bass in his hands, plucking out the steady rhythms, providing the relentless undertow as waves of jazz wash over you.