the blag that gets in the way

The wet, hot tone of the B-flat horn soared and surged throughout that cramped hole in the wall, drilling through and filling the soul of every man and woman in reach with its sweet, cutting wail. The ride cymbal convulsed and shimmered, agitating and inspiring the gnarled fingers of the upright player to explore even further the capabilities of his instrument. Bass drum bombs and snare drum taps added a thumping, stuttering oom-pah-pah to the syncopated comping of the man behind the ivories, while a dark figure clutching a beat-up tenor sax waited patiently for his chance to blow. Smoke rose from the bandstand and billowed about the room, and those in attendance, rosey-eyed and cloudy, and not one without a hat, puffed their smokes in the direction of the band. Ash trays and well drinks and economy beer dressed the tables at which they sat.
And not a moment too soon, the tenor player blew in, carrying with him the blue spirit and whimsy of the Bird, and the exhausted trumpeter nodded and shook his sweat-drenched head in response, affirming and denying the impeccably logical phrases. The strings of the upright strolled on, and the piano player stood and turned in circles to the rhythm of the walk.
The tenor cut out, and the applause drowned out all four-bars of the drum solo. When it finally died down, the trumpeter took up his horn and the chorus came back with full force. The tenor joined up again for the final bar, and a swelling duet of pulsing piano and drums brought the piece to a slow, ethereal climax. Applause roared as all of the performers stood and took a bow.