Nothing Gold can stay.
Personalities can die an awful death. Diminishing down pockets of gold coins. This is a little reflective and.... I admit, abit indulgent. Sitting behind the gold banister that seperates the well-behaved seating from the stage, which made you feel captive and far. Not, I thought, how I remember Ronnie Scott's, when I watched Diana Krall, that first time, perform at this London institution. Or the Brazilian Bossa Nova collective, that other time or some local jazzman on another night still......as I watched my man. Losing him to the music and I didn't mind, tapping his fingers on his knee, his heel rocking to the rhythm, swaying his head and eyes demonised by the easy night saxophone:
"The night time does funny things to a man, those Tomcat tendencies you don’t understand........." hissing from the bourbon tongue of Tom Waits.
It used to be extra dark, extra smoky and the floor kinda sticky....it used to be that kind of joint. Till Faust in his suit and with his briefcase came, to take the beat away.......