Amsterdam, 12/05/88, Chet drops by a jazz café

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)