General

As the musicians improvised on stage in the smokey haze, the music danced out of their instruments in that swinging rhythm. My foot began to tap and my head nodded and swayed. Man I loved that sax, deep as the soul, soothing, sweet as honey pie. It surged through me, purging my blues and replacing them with a feeling of lightness, like I could live in that moment, live for the jazz.

By robertgreen, October 30, 2013.
General

For Dwight jazz was as easy as breathing. The notes flowed out of him like a audible picture of his soul. When he entered the club heads turned. His back was slapped many times on the way to the bar. But he didn't just come to play. When he listened to others his troubles melted into the smokey haze of the lounge and the whiskey in his hand stayed undrunk until the players had stopped. Yet he never listened to a CD or an i-pod. For him jazz had to be live, there had to be a whole bunch of people right there laughing, joking and dancing. Otherwise it was just music.

By sallydavis31, October 18, 2014.
General

The Jazz meets the morning air and the birdsong like old acquaintances. They know how to play nice, how to bring harmony to this post dawn quiet. The notes rise in the dampness, the soft breeze, and are somehow different than they would be in the heat of the day that will follow. The calls from the trees weave into the notes. My mind slips into a familiar trance as the wheels of my bicycle turn over the tarmac, a slight hiss when when we hit a shallow puddle. Even night rain is rare at this time of year and I know without looking I am leaving a transient record of my journey on the road behind.