by Derek Taylor
Dewey stood stiffly with his back to the audience. The bell of his trumpet sliced an angle sternly diagonal to his wingtips, notes exiting its orifice in a moist stream of burps and blats. The pianist paused, shoulders tensing. The bassist grimaced. The drummer’s brow began to crenellate, his lips pursed into a silent whistle. Playing for the door always brought out the worst.
Derek Taylor digs jazz, even having endured his share of door gigs. He writes for Bagatellen.