I have a terrific longing to find a real jazz bar, something Django would have called home. Blue with smoke so thick you see the notes of the saxophone slip through the nicotine air. The ice in the myriad glasses of bourbon clink against their walls as the bass player slides into a solo that Mingus would scoff at. He scoffed at everything. Those beautiful days in Harlem, waiting for the sun to set, the drink to kick in and the smoke to fill the room. It's what Katie Matzell's voice does to you when you hear her sing. The minimal notation of her band behind her, consisting of some of Portland, Maine's finest music men, they create the space where Matzell can slip in easy, like the smoke in those clubs. It's so rich, so full, so omnipresent you can't see where it came from but it's hugging you like a secret lover. You don't want to tell anyone, you just want it to last.
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