Jazz Without Whiskey
Jazz without whiskey, jazz without smoke
Would sound to the masses like some kind of joke.
Jazz without whiskey might bring in more folk
But somehow or other, it’s got itself yoked
To bourbon and rye, and the need to get high.
Players of jazz are usually broke,
(There’s just no respect, and neglect is the problem.)
Playing in pokey, cheap holes-in-the-wall
Where the upright’s un-tuned (if there is one at all),
Prices are high, people are drunk,
And most of the listeners think jazz is bunk;
Strange situation this! Something’s gone wrong.
The wonder is that it continues to change – in the song
And the structure – and never goes under.
But whiskey’s okay if the drinker stays calm –
Receptive and quiet while player plays on.
And if there’s applause at the end it’s a balm.
But smoke! There’s an enemy hell bent on slaying
The public, the player. In short, life aborted
By one cigarette times a hundred,
Times three hundred sixty-five unnumbered darts.
The issue is, where does the yearning
Young jazzer finds outlet, sand for the grit
In his oyster that strives for its pearl,
Bosses who care, who have taste and right wit.
(Not the churlish and burly who’ll screw any girl,
Whose aim is the buck sans the need to take part
In the needs of the player to foster his art.)?
Players rise up and open your bidding!
Break off the shackles! Well, whom am I kidding?
I’m timid, and not an example
To take you the distance to getting your due;
But I have ideals; experience too.
Maybe they’d blend to produce the right end
If there were one loner to start a new trend.
It takes balls.
© Jazz Without Whiskey 5.10.1995 Vaguely About Music; Defiant Doggerel; Arlene Corwin
Arlene Corwin Poetry 