“THADDEUS”
“WO!”
He was louder than his canary yellow shorts, elasticated band slightly higher than is really necessary or respectable, dress shoes and long socks, lilly white legs between.
He asked me the name of the trumpet player - Thad Wilson, I told him.
I wish I had told him the wrong name, just for fun...
“YO!”
“THADDEUS WILSON”
“THE FIVE OF YA!’
He shouted at the jazz players. Others looked around nervously, in the dim candlelight of the basement club, tables seating 2-4; the perfect jazz club, in fact. The Bohemian Cavern, where Thad Wilson and friends were playing is on U Street, where Duke Ellington came from, and had played in this very same club, in this now up and coming area, but former deprived black neighbourhood of Washington. A lot of Barack Obama’s young guns allegedly hang out around here. The jazz was, well, exactly how jazz should be. The African American group were superb, playing in a way that captures everything that jazz is. They even played Louis Armstrong’s “When the Saints”. And the Margarita cocktail was just perfect. All that was missing was the smoky atmosphere.
We were there until gone midnight, and returned by metro.
On the way there earlier we walked from the apartment. Outside on our street the cars and floats for the Capital Pride parade were getting ready. Two red volkswagens had harnesses attached to the front, and 6 guys had straps around them, ready to haul the cars. 15 men walked by in leather thongs and boots, and not much else, Cross dressed Dames (Not the pantomine type, I think) in Elton John frills and wigs, high heels, and barrel like shapes that gave their true sex away. They seemed to be mostly middled aged men, but not all, some were stunning, and you had to look carefully, but didn't really want to stare, 'cause you weren't sure.
We walked out of the apartment and I tried to act normally, but I think our clothes were too normal to be normal in the weirdness and bohemian nature of our surroundings, so I hung on to Anji for safety.
No comments:
Post a Comment