Nine Lies of B.G. Davies

Seduction in D Minor

The guys said it would be a slow night—usually is on a Sunday down here. On Saturday, the cats with money come in from the suburbs to paint the town, drop a few bills, then spend the night in their loft. Or if a guy is lucky, he ends up at somebody else's place. But the Sunday crowd typically wanders into this pit of a club after dinner, has a drink or two, then leaves early to catch the train back home. They just wish they were hip enough to be in the city on a Saturday night, but they've got to get the kids to soccer in the morning. And the hip cats, well, they don't come to Freddy Freeloaders anymore. In the Chicago jazz scene, Freddy's doesn't even list. Then again, Brian reminded me that it's Valentine's Day, so we might see a few lovers out for an after dinner drink.

It's funny what you see from the stage, how you can stand here under the one floodlight, the audience looking at you with your eyes closed, thinking that you're into the groove, just diggin' the music. Fact is, on most nights, your hands and breath and ears are playing with the guys alright, but your mind is elsewhere. Face it—the chord changes are so predictable, the groove so goddamn friendly, you could sleep standing up and keep blowing. Folks don't dig anything too outside. They want their jazz to be smooth, their saxophones smoky. They don't want to have to think when they listen. And if I want this gig every second Sunday, then I'd better listen to what they're telling me.

So I make up stories.

It was two weeks ago, on a Friday. We were playing our usual three set gig, except we had this kid sitting in on keys. Nice kid. Some hotshot player from the University, but nice hands. Hard to find kids today who are not all jacked up on themselves, thinking they can kick our asses, but this kid knew his place. I like giving these punks a chance to gig downtown every now and then. Good experience, having to play the third-rate clubs with tramps like us. Might make them reconsider their career choice. Go into dentistry or something. Horn players need dentists who understand embouchure, except most of us can't pay for it. But, I have my teaching, so I'm good, plus, I get to know the young players who will bring in the crowds. I feel for Ronny though, a whole life spent on the road and in the clubs. Bass players don't need teeth anyway.

This is the sort of shit I'm thinking about, instead of listening for the chord change to the bridge. And I'm thinking about how I first saw her, two weeks ago. I didn't notice her at first; she was at the table in the back corner, with five or six other women. A couple of them knew the kid on piano. She seemed to slip by me unnoticed, which is unusual. The only time a woman comes to a jazz club is if they're with their boyfriend or husband; it was odd to see a group of girls on a night out at Freddy's.

I glanced over to their table a few times during the course of the set. Her friends were talking, definitely not listening to the brilliant bass solo Ronny was laying down in "Autumn Leaves." I wanted to yell at everyone to shut up, because—if they would just fuckin' listen—they would witness this poor bastard pouring his soul out, his essence, all he has left, spilling out his guts, covering the ancient double bass, leaking onto the stage floor like spilled beer, in a wasted puddle of genius that will never, ever, be heard again.

But not her. When I first saw her, she was lost in the music. While her friends chatted, she listened; when they laughed, she shushed; when they nudged, she kept her eyes closed. She was consumed. Her head swayed in rhythm to the slow swing laid down by Brian, her chin rose to the arpeggio of my melody, lines of pleasure and pain squinted from her eyes when the kid added his ballsy colour to the comping chords; she slid back lower in her chair and opened her legs, ever so slightly, welcoming the resonance of the pedal tone that grabbed the room and shook it. And I loved her then.

Brian clicks his stick against the snare drum rim on beat four to get my attention. I guess I should be driving this, but, whatever. My eyes meet his and he knows I'm back. Ronny doesn't need to look at us; he feels that we're heading to the top.