Smooth Jazz

There were two people standing at the front of the crowd. One of them had an inflatable guitar and the other had an inflatable saxophone. They didn’t show up together, but as the music writhed and slithered they had found each other and started a mute jam session. My guitar was getting weird and calling out to them, and somehow they heard it. The music was the same as always, but it felt different experiencing it so vicariously. They clearly knew the songs, the way they jumped and cavorted on the beat, but having each other and those plastic, air-filled tools in their hands made the song live larger.

I made the obvious decision to invite them up on stage for the next song. Things died down as the current track wrapped up and the drum solo carried us into a welcome, sweaty, water-craving break. I called them up and the crowd thronged in. Seeing two of their number elevated to godhood was good sport. Security team members milled about, checking for knives or guns or whatever else they spent their time worrying about, and then the duo were hoisted up onto the stage.

That ended up being a change in precedent. By the time we were half way through our set, more and more people had emerged and worked their way on stage. The rest of the band was digging it—I’m sure the drugs and drinks helped with that—but something felt off. I couldn’t be sure what it was, but through all the noise my body was telling me to get out, get away, run. I looked around. I was surrounded by smiling, singing faces, but my stomach was in knots. In answer to the knots, the floor cracked suddenly and we fell with splintering wood, the electric clicking silence of instruments disconnecting, and confused yells. I hit the concrete basement floor beneath the stage with a heavy thud. The saxophone player fell even harder on top of me. I could taste blood on my teeth. I coughed and joined a different melody.