An unregistered van with blackened windows pulls up to your house at 2:17 am. You’re directed to get in. The chauffeur is wearing sunglasses.
You’re dropped off outside a boarded-up building. The only distinguishing feature is a sign made from discarded metal that reads, “Parker’s Playground.”
At the door, a voice asks for the password. Your escort drones, “Long live The Duke.”
You’re ushered through an underground labyrinth. Through the dim lighting, you make out a graffitied poster for the 1973 Montreux Jazz Festival.
In the distance, you hear the echo of someone repeatedly muttering, “Mingus Ah Um.”
You’re led to a small soundproof basement and seated on a cold steel chair. Above you, a solitary exposed light bulb flickers and emits a faint buzz. The timbre evokes a flashback to your childhood of warming up your lips before blowing “What a Wonderful World.”
You, and other shadowy figures, are left waiting in silence and nervous anticipation for an indistinguishable amount of time. Eventually, five people walk into view through a wall of cigarette smoke. They’re all wearing either a beret, a turtleneck, or a mustache. Some wear all three.
The person you assume is the leader saunters over. He has a neck tattoo of a lady wearing nothing but a saxophone. He crouches down, stares into your soul, and then crescendos into a full hour of crooning nonsensical phrases, such as “Skibbity-bee-bop.”
When he finishes, everyone claps and says things like, “Noodle it again, you crazy cat!” and “Nasty pipes, Daddy.” You have no idea what just happened. But to fit in, you nod and clap along.
A cacophony erupts. There’s no discernible key, time signature, or melody. You’re disoriented and overwhelmed. All you want to do is sleep, but the noise makes it impossible.
After six long sets, the music stops, although your head still pounds. You’re led out of the basement, and into morning sunlight. The van you arrived in has been burned down, you presume so there’s no evidence of what just occurred.
As the door closes behind you, a voice whispers, “That’s jazz, baby.”
You stumble home praying you will never again experience the horror of that night.
1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10, 11, 13: Both
5, 8, 9, 12: An exclusive jazz club
