Strings

The spotlights are reflecting off
Rows of brass and wind;
The downbeat's coming--
I exchange a look with the drummer
And grin.

We all surge into action after
A brief prelude;
Fingers flying on shining keys
And blurring drumsticks form
'In The Mood'.

The music's dancing,
Falling in layers.
Trombones, trumpets, clarinet and sax...
But no one notices the lone
Bass player.

The strings are supple beneath
My calloused fingers,
Pulling each note out of the instrument
With an aching touch, breathing until
Suddenly the music lingers...

Just me and the drums now,
Piano too.
Pouring out rhythm as if
Rain from the sky in an
Effortless debut.

End of the solo and
The band picks up once more
My hands are tired now,
Fingers cracked and bleeding--
Gotta make it to the encore.

Trumpets are are straining for
An impossible pitch,
Pianist's hands are a whitish blur.
And yet through all these tiring efforts
The music is still sweet and rich.

Hands are cramping,
Arms are shaking,
Pulling through the last few measures
Keep going, keep going...
It's music you're making!

With satisfaction we finish
To thunderous applause.
We all look at each other,
Smiling and excited in an
Unnoticed pause.

None save a bassist can know
The gratification of the finish.
When sore hands get a rest and
Bleeding fingers throb gently,
The joy of performance is hard to diminish.

No matter the strings are slippery
With blood and sweat--
I don't care about the callouses
Roughening my fingers,
For music owes me no debt.

There is nothing quite like
Getting lost in the song.
For some musicians,
Music is the only place
We can belong.

So when you constantly feel beneath your fingers
Smooth, resilient strings
You will know that you are
One of the few
To whom jazz sings.