Bum Gig

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.