Long ago (BC) in a land where The Post and the Tower were hangouts for infamous musicians learning their trade and for those who were Hallmarks of their trade, and those who could teach those who were finding their way in the Kingdom of Jazz. One Sunday, which will go down in the annals of history, was noted for its multicultural mixture of Mediaeval Knights of razzamatazz who had fallen in love with the wickedly juicy and enticing melodies that fed their souls.
You could feel the heat from the kitchen.
The Italian stallion had ordered a Latte from the bar while tuning his horn. Waiting to jump into the instrumental line up was a Spanish Guitar Virtuoso. Unfortunately he had hooked up his amp with a frayed dubious lead that was causing the ‘Captain” a headache in feedback. The floor looked like a sea of snakes with wires and leads ready to strangle their prey. It took a diploma to navigate the labyrinth. Some disconcerted warblers were known to have mic. leads literally drop to the floor at the sound of their voices.
Ales flowed from mouths to reeds as the sound depended on the ritual to salivate. First time viewers of Tromboners’ blowing out their spittle, separated the men from the boys. Not to mention the babes. There were singers from everywhere that would give UNICEF and the WHO a run for its money.
The Gentle Giant from the suburbs had lined up his plethora of Woodwinds ranging from Soprano to Baritone Sax and decided to begin his pitch by declaring that he needed to practice the Clarinet. Numerous pianists of all sizes hovered around the ivories in the hope of winning the competition to see who could press the most buttons. My money was on the organ.
The afternoon soldiered on, many Damsels in Distress were rescued by Knights with shining instruments. The Maid of Marion had had her fill of improvising on that well -known instrument of yore. Oh my, could she blow up a storm of hits. Alas, the reverie was nearly over.
The Battlefield was strewn with Troubadors who had played their lungs out, eaten their fill of jam, satiated their thirst for soul and to boot, had a barrel of laughs. It was time to hit that Route 66. This meant everyone in for a trip around the Round Table, and/ or whoever finishes last, finishes loudest.
Alas as the Italian stallion reached to swap his trumpet for his flugel, the Gentle Giant of Superbia had just put his Clarinet to his lips, when, Maid of Marion in her excitement to add an extra trill, tripped head over heels caught up in the sea of leads. She flew through the air but was gallantly saved by the Gentle Giant who dropped his beloved Clarinet to the ground. With both hands he caught Maid of Marian as she still clung to her instrument.
Merde! The Clarinet had broken in half. Split in two.
MORAL OF THE TALE .
Many a Licorice Stick slips between the mouth and lips.
Never cry over a split Licorice Stick.
Signed : “Cookin.” From the Pantry.