Amsterdam, 12/05/88, Chet drops by a jazz café
By Coolhermit
- 227 reads
it’s open-mic night
the place is packed tight
with punters at tables
loaded with bottles of
Grolsch and Amstel
ashtrays overflow with roaches
my shirt is peppered with pin-prick scorches
‘is this seat free?’
I shrug – a woman takes it
she’s okay to look at –
but she’s here to listen
we don’t talk
a pianist reprises Art Tatum
on yellowed ivories
to a trickle of polite applause
ancient blackout curtains open
a gasp of awe
as a giant takes the stage
I shoot a smile at my tablemate -
smile ignored
Chet sits to play
his legs can’t take the weight
of his stick-thin frame
his mellow horn’s soon crooning tears
he lays his trumpet down,
starts singing a faltering,
“... writing songs of love, but not for me...”
his dull eyes stare
into weed-smoke nowhere,
he's miles away
reliving farm-boy days perhaps
before the demands of fame
and needles making tracks?
as the lyrics slow-slide from him
covering the blanks he scats
I’m grasping summer ‘68
Montmartre memories by the heel,
‘he’s not what he was then - but he is,
Chet still is - that’s fine by me’
the crowd adores him
willing Baker to be magical
their slow-falling idol
is cruising yet dishing out plenty
they won’t go home hungry
they’ll boast to jealous buddies
they were at the ‘Jazz Cafe’
the night Chet Baker dropped by
he shuffles through
the dusty curtains
to a standing ovation
without glancing at me
my tablemate leaves –
I guess she was not for me.
(RIP Chet Baker 13/5/88)
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