In New Orleans on a shirt-sleeve night,
air filled with near running water,
I sought a cool beer
in Preservation Hall.
Lights lowered.
On stage,
the nearly forgotten jazz men of old
who haven't forgotten jazz.
Well they remember the great ones, now gone.
Where ever the old ones go,
they take the ghosts of the great ones,
so much a part of them.
Lead each feeble one
to where they are to stand to play.
That's all the help they need.
Theirs is always a session
of two ages and two worlds.
Listen as the pure old jazz comes forth,
as the ghost men whisper to the music ,
the living and dead play together.
Up and down the strings and back,
giving no quarter.
Bring in a ghostly chorus.
The blind clarinet player is hot.
His cuts are shear joy.
His solos for Pee Wee,
clear as of old.
He raises his clarinet
as a totem pole worshipped.
The tenor sax doesn't look 87.
His sax picks up Hawkins and Lester’s.
He blows like a kid.
He blows like 1955.
One hero of a saxophone section.
The piano man’s cords ,
long forgotten by moderns.
His body transcendental joy.
Who does he hear playing?
The trumpet hits one for Satchmo.
The rain outside
in New Orleans.
The cooking smells Kansas City.
The appreciative audience Chicago.
The sophisticated old drum man
right out of New York.
These are the forgotten Jazzmen
who haven't forgotten Jazz.
They knew the others,
body and soul.