poet, infant, in your way,’ she said.
‘Oh, I dunno about that,’ I answered her.
While this ridiculous conversation of the ex-Deb and myself was still proceeding, some musicians there in the Dubious had begun to have a blow, because apparently a character called Two-Thumbs Tumbril, who plays bass, was holding some auditions for an out-of-city gig he thought might happen, if he could recruit a combo. There in the Dubious which, as I think I’ve said, is in a cellar, the instruments resounded with a thunderous effect, and as I listened to the sweet and soothing sound I once again reflected, thank the Lord I was born into the jazz age, what on earth could it have been when all theyhad to listen to was ballad tunes and waltzes? Because jazz music is a thing that, as few things do, makes you feel really at home in the world here, as if it’s an okay notion to be born a human animal, or so.
A cat at the counter said, ‘Nice, but they’ll not make Bewley-Ooley.’ Another answered, ‘Well, who cares? That, garden party’s for the ooblies and the Hooray Henries, anyway.’ A third just said, ‘Great,’ with a soft dream in his eyes – but that may have been because he’d just been dragging on a splif inside the toilet.
From that same toilet, not quite yet fully adjusted before leaving, now reappeared the dinkum Call- me-Cobber number, who eyed the performers as if he was Mr Granz in person, like all these telly personalities do, acting the universal impresario to mankind. And after the bliss of hearing the boys blow in the proper company, the sight of the dinkum wrought me down a bit, because in the jazz thing, the audience is half the battle, even more than half.
‘Nice,’ he decided, ‘but it falls between two stools. They’re neither pop nor prestige-worthy.’
‘That’s two good stools,’ I said, ‘to fall between,’ and slid off my own to leave them.
The ex-Deb-of-Last-Year grabbed me by the port pocket of my strides. ‘Are you going to Miss Lament’s?’ she asked me.
‘Yes, maybe I catch you there,’ I told her, as I unhooked her vermilion claws.
‘You leaving us?’
‘Just for a moment, Knightsbridge girl,’ I said.
Because I’d seen the Wiz come in the place, and wanted a swift word with my blood brother.
The Wiz was wearing a gladiator Lonsdale belt with studs on it, and this he unbuckled as he came into the Dubious, like a soldier that’s been relieved from guard. But still he looked wary, as he always did, and no doubt in his sleep as well, as if the world was in the other corner of the ring where he did battle, and himself a lonesome hunter on the London jungle trail. ‘Come over behind the music,’ I said to him, and we got on the other side of the performers, so that their sound made a barrier that hedged us from the lush-swilling visitors around the counter.
‘What’s new?’ I asked the Wiz.
A nice thing about Wizard is that he forgets a quarrel absolutely. A battle, with the Wiz, is always for a purpose, like a meal, and once it’s over, he just doesn’t seem to think of it any more at all. He eyed me with approval, and I could see that once again I was his old reliable, perhaps the only one he had outside eternity.
‘I’ve news for you,’ he said.
I must admit at feeling anxious, because the Wiz’s bits of news are apt to sweep you out to sea until you can get adjusted to them.
‘I’m thinking,’ he said, ‘of going into business with a chick.’
‘Oh, are you. Clever boy. I’ll visit you at Brixton,’ I said, disgusted.
‘You don’t approve?’
‘How can I? You’re not that kind of hustler.’
‘Try anything once …’
‘Oh, sure. Oh sure, oh sure. Next thing is breaking and entering.’
I got up to fetch some drinks, and also to have time to think of this. Because I’d always imagined one day Wiz might go that way, but always decided he had brains enough to do better than that, and not get himself into some bower-bird’s clutches.
‘Oh, I dunno about that,’ I answered her.
While this ridiculous conversation of the ex-Deb and myself was still proceeding, some musicians there in the Dubious had begun to have a blow, because apparently a character called Two-Thumbs Tumbril, who plays bass, was holding some auditions for an out-of-city gig he thought might happen, if he could recruit a combo. There in the Dubious which, as I think I’ve said, is in a cellar, the instruments resounded with a thunderous effect, and as I listened to the sweet and soothing sound I once again reflected, thank the Lord I was born into the jazz age, what on earth could it have been when all theyhad to listen to was ballad tunes and waltzes? Because jazz music is a thing that, as few things do, makes you feel really at home in the world here, as if it’s an okay notion to be born a human animal, or so.
A cat at the counter said, ‘Nice, but they’ll not make Bewley-Ooley.’ Another answered, ‘Well, who cares? That, garden party’s for the ooblies and the Hooray Henries, anyway.’ A third just said, ‘Great,’ with a soft dream in his eyes – but that may have been because he’d just been dragging on a splif inside the toilet.
From that same toilet, not quite yet fully adjusted before leaving, now reappeared the dinkum Call- me-Cobber number, who eyed the performers as if he was Mr Granz in person, like all these telly personalities do, acting the universal impresario to mankind. And after the bliss of hearing the boys blow in the proper company, the sight of the dinkum wrought me down a bit, because in the jazz thing, the audience is half the battle, even more than half.
‘Nice,’ he decided, ‘but it falls between two stools. They’re neither pop nor prestige-worthy.’
‘That’s two good stools,’ I said, ‘to fall between,’ and slid off my own to leave them.
The ex-Deb-of-Last-Year grabbed me by the port pocket of my strides. ‘Are you going to Miss Lament’s?’ she asked me.
‘Yes, maybe I catch you there,’ I told her, as I unhooked her vermilion claws.
‘You leaving us?’
‘Just for a moment, Knightsbridge girl,’ I said.
Because I’d seen the Wiz come in the place, and wanted a swift word with my blood brother.
The Wiz was wearing a gladiator Lonsdale belt with studs on it, and this he unbuckled as he came into the Dubious, like a soldier that’s been relieved from guard. But still he looked wary, as he always did, and no doubt in his sleep as well, as if the world was in the other corner of the ring where he did battle, and himself a lonesome hunter on the London jungle trail. ‘Come over behind the music,’ I said to him, and we got on the other side of the performers, so that their sound made a barrier that hedged us from the lush-swilling visitors around the counter.
‘What’s new?’ I asked the Wiz.
A nice thing about Wizard is that he forgets a quarrel absolutely. A battle, with the Wiz, is always for a purpose, like a meal, and once it’s over, he just doesn’t seem to think of it any more at all. He eyed me with approval, and I could see that once again I was his old reliable, perhaps the only one he had outside eternity.
‘I’ve news for you,’ he said.
I must admit at feeling anxious, because the Wiz’s bits of news are apt to sweep you out to sea until you can get adjusted to them.
‘I’m thinking,’ he said, ‘of going into business with a chick.’
‘Oh, are you. Clever boy. I’ll visit you at Brixton,’ I said, disgusted.
‘You don’t approve?’
‘How can I? You’re not that kind of hustler.’
‘Try anything once …’
‘Oh, sure. Oh sure, oh sure. Next thing is breaking and entering.’
I got up to fetch some drinks, and also to have time to think of this. Because I’d always imagined one day Wiz might go that way, but always decided he had brains enough to do better than that, and not get himself into some bower-bird’s clutches.
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