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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required You can smell jazz, if you got hip to the sound, like on “Camera Three” a TV program in the 50s/ a 1956 episode featuring The Gerry Mulligan Quartet in black -N- white/ many jazz clubs come and go dimming their lights in the sunset glow/ fast food joints now line the streets where once stood the mighty jazz clubs of old/West Coast Jazz exploded in your ears/ Like Central Ave, It was the soulful jazz heart of LA’s jazz scene in the 40s, 50s, and 60s, all the jazz great’s/ would be sittin’ in to their fellow jazz musicians gigs after their two sets where over/other jazz clubs to be seen and be booked in up and down in the LA area/ Zardi’s, Tiffany Club, Jazz Cabaret, The Haig, Jazz City, drinks, drugs, sex, where all part of the show while diggin’ Art Pepper, Monty Budwig, Hampton Hawes, Ernestine Anderson, Zoot Sims, Miles Davis, Shelly Manne, and Wardell Gray In the lost-and-found of memories, there lie Nina Simone LPs, forgotten treasures about love lost, love found, and a revolution in a new voice sound waiting to be spun/ A jazz hustler leans at the door, a whisper of dreams tied to CDs, silent songs, never given the chance to ride the radio waves/ In a cab to your gig, you left your horn in the back seat— a misplaced key in a world full of locks, yet out of the blue, you find your singing voice, the notes rise like steam from the New York streets on a rainy jazz night, each syllable soaked and sung in spoken word passion and pain/ It’s crazy, this love, sometimes feeling like you’re out to lunch, in a world that doesn’t pay to play jazz/ and yet you are hooked on this jazz thing bathed in the glow of the bandstand spotlight, asking, “Why do I love it so much?” Because jazz, my friend, is the heartbeat of the lost, the anthem of the unheard, a melody that sings even when the world goes dark.
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