Jazz and Die by Stella Whitelaw Read Free Book Online

semi-circle round the stage. Chuck didn’t like regimented rows so the layout was always changed for him. Lots of regular old-timers brought cushions to sit on.
    I stood at the entrance, looking official. The evening was already cooling and the sky darkening. Street lights were coming on in the town below. The field was high above the shore line. No vertigo but I could see a couple of steep paths which might be tricky in the dark.
    ‘Wristbands or tickets, please.’
    ‘My husband has got mine and he’s already inside.’
    An unlikely story, madam. I smiled at her. She had a set-hard face. ‘Then he will probably come looking for you, won’t he? Please wait outside.’
    ‘I’ve left my wristband at the hotel.’
    ‘Lucky you. You’ve got time to go back and get it.’
    She agreed, reluctantly.
    ‘I’ve brought the wrong colour. I’ve got on a blue wristband.’
    I checked with the chief steward, the heavyweight who was in charge. He said blue was tomorrow’s colour so her story sounded true. She had bought a weekend stroller. I let her in. She looked relieved and flashed me a big smile.
    ‘I’ll buy you a drink in the interval,’ she said.
    Things were looking up.
    It was a long time since I had heard any really good, authentic jazz. My trumpeter friend of old, who occasionally played at Latching, had vanished from the circuit. Please play ‘Here Comes That Rainy Day’, I thought. ‘Rainy Day’ is the lament they play for musicians who have died. It’s quite beautiful and always makes me cry even if I don’t know the musician. They could play it for me, one day.
    Tonight’s big band concert was full of unexpected delights. They played ‘You Do Something To Me’ and ‘When Can I See You?’, both full of rhythmic energy. ‘Moonlight In Vermont’ is one of my favourites with its gentle, insistent swing. ‘Shake, Rattle And Roll’ had the tent flaps vibrating. ‘Watermelon Man’ finished the first half.
    Jazz was changing. It was a marvellous confusion of complexity, genre-mingling. It was every kind of jazz that there had ever been, all mixed up. Harmonies, grooves and anti-grooves, funk, fusion and free-jazz. It was a ground-breaking sound; made my head spin.
    Maddy wandered over towards the bar. She was probably getting something for Ross. Musicians get thirsty. I remembered seeing the great Maynard Ferguson drinking champagne throughout a whole concert at Wigan. It was a wonder he remembered what he was playing or could still stand.
    I didn’t get that promised interval drink but I bought myself a cool lager. The marquee was hot, pulsing with heat under the canvas.
    ‘Hiya, Jordan. Are you enjoying it?’ Maddy asked, strollingover. Tonight she was wearing purple tights, black shorts and a vivid skimpy sequinned top. Quite a dazzling outfit. It was a wonder Ross could keep his mind on the score.
    ‘Fabulous,’ I said, even though I had to stand. I was keeping an eye open for an empty seat. Stroller tickets could move onto one of the other venues. But no one ever left a Chuck Peters gig. So never a vacant seat.
    ‘Now you know that Ross can really play the drums. My dad thinks a lot of him. Did you hear those brush strokes? And his suspended time fills and cymbal patterns?’ Her eyes were glowing, brighter than the diamanté lashes.
    She was talking a foreign language. But I nodded. ‘Great sense of timing,’ I added. ‘Spot on.’
    Maddy seemed pleased. ‘He always plays inside a song.’
    Inside a song? I had a lot to learn.
    I was glad they didn’t play any Glenn Miller. Although he was a great musician, his compositions had been done to death. Not exactly the right phrase since he disappeared on a night flight during World War II and was never seen again. But there were some of his numbers I never wanted to hear again. (Do not mention a certain pearl necklace.) It was not fair to a great band leader, of course. But he did arrange masses of other music which no one ever seemed to