Monday 3 September 2007

cyclone stanley and all that jazz

Stan whisks up to the fountain.
Around him Kings Cross has a distinct spring in its step.
A bee bop kind of swing.

He wears grey creased trousers
and his hair is short with a hint of a quiff.
His white shirt is unbuttoned and relaxed.
Stanley must be close to 80.

I say something innocuous about the day
and he eyes me off with a lion like glint...
part curious, part predatory.
It doesn't last long though.

He smiles a bit ......Do you like jazz?
Sure, I say. I like the way it's improvised.
He snorts half an approval
making a sound like a giant purr.

I used to play jazz in this park he continues.
1957. After the war and before the beatles.
Music ..... and he stares at me with that jazz players intensity ....
was no better than then m'boy.

Now I would never dismiss the good gents appraisal
but I just had to counter that one ....
when he got all enthusiastic on me

Saturday nights. Couldn't beat em ...
you woulda loved it.
He points toward the fruit shop and
paints me a picture ........

We used to set up over there.
They'd put a stage up for us and the other groups.
Alex was playing the upright piano.
Bill played the flute and the sax.
Max his double bass.
I was on the drums. A silver ludwig.
I've still got the snare

We would make it all up .....
well at least until some standard
came floating in,
then we'd run with that for a while.
Then maybe I'd hit the shuffle pedal
.... and off we'd go again.

The beatnik crew wore black suits
and crazy thin ties.
Kerouac beards and all....
always talking jazz nonsense.

Stan had a flush in his cheeks ....
stared at something in his past,
pointed and continued ....

An old speaker hung from that tree,
so the singers could be heard
way up here near the fountain ...
and to announce the next group

mmm and the sharpies would hang at the front.
Dark glasses all of em.
Right through the night.
The girls had brazen scarves
tied around their heads ....
all of em had matching thin cardies.
Everyone smoked.

Then back to Roosavelts
or maybe the Amsterdam cafe
dependin on how I felt,
with the others ... you know

Amazingly he pauses
long enough for me to
maybe say something,
..... say anything when
his friend arrives
calling his name...
STANLEY.

Snapped back to now ...
he continues
Ok gotta go ... nice talkin

yeah .... ok... seeya I say.

What a whirlwind!

I watch him as he taps his fingers
against his thighs
scuttling the pigeons that dance now
where beatnikers would swing
and Stan used to play jazz
50 years ago
this Saturday night.