It was Hamateur Night down at the Squeaky Wheel. The pay was peanuts really. Yet every cab driver with the ten-spot to get his horn out of hock took his turn in the shadows of Parker and Gillespie. A beady-eyed quartet I had seen lining up outside earlier shuffled onto the stage; with luck, they’d only butcher a few numbers before slinking away in shame. I ordered another shot of cheap Bourbon and braced myself for the worst.
But then they started to play… It was as if angels had parted the skies with trumpets blaring.