The rich sound of the saxophone fills the dimly lit subterranean jazz club. Subtle vibrations bounce furtively from one wall to the other, moving around the smoky atmosphere that surrounds the relaxed patrons. Every person sitting and listening to the music is transfixed, transported to another time and place, as the beautiful melody washes away all their troubles of the day.
At the bottom of the steep stairwell that leads from the street, the bar itself is large. Most definitely big enough to hold a hundred people both seated and standing. But the intensity of the music somehow reduces the scale of the room to a feeling of intimacy one would expect between lovers. The soul emanating from the musician on the stage is pivotal in pulling everyone together.
Here, the smoke that fills the room creates the atmosphere, unlike other bars in the modern era. It snakes and whispers upwards towards the dimmed lights from almost all the small round tables. The barman stands at one end of the long wrap around bar staring towards the stage. His back leans against the wall that hides the staircase which leads down from the street. The music transfixes him, but more than that, he is mesmerised by the beautiful lady who sits perched on the bar stool closest to the stage.
This is the only place in the city that still allows smoking in a public area. Maybe that’s because it’s not a public place. This is a private club where the true jazz enthusiasts that remain in this city can gather to hear their pure delight.
It’s true that the furniture has seen better days, as it has frayed and the leather pads have ruptured. Almost all the chairs have the foam filling spilling out where the repair tape has worn away and no longer sticks down. But despite their condition, these tired chairs tell stories of love and loss, jealousy, and anger. Throughout times of war and peace, this place has been here, in one form of another. Entertaining people through beautiful, heartfelt music. This bar has been home to so many lost souls over the years.
While it’s true that we may have all experienced feeling lost at some point, there is a common factor that unifies us all here. This is the place where my soul feels complete and my heart can continue to sing with joy. There goes the growl of the saxophone, this is my favourite part of the night, the tempo slows, the tone is almost primal and with the lighting turned down low we can just see the soft white lights accentuating the figure of the musician as he bends into his instrument with total love.
The sound of enjoyment bounces off the walls. I can hear the toes around me tapping to the beat, and the shoulders of the crowd are moving to the groove of the music.
Lover’s eye each other with deep desire and old men’s eyes shine, lost in their memories of better, kinder times.
The music starts to fade away, and the silence takes over again, with a stillness akin to an early dawn.
Voices can be heard at the top of the stairwell, with the arriving people complaining about the coldness in the building.
Moth holes cover the curtains, the carpets need replacement, and thick dust covers the furniture, confronting them with the dilapidated condition of our favourite place.
These people think the place is empty and long since abandoned. What they don’t see are what hides in the shadows, the souls who remain tied to this place. We cannot leave, as for us this is the only home we have ever known, and as time has long forgotten us we have no other place to go.
