It's a cold and rainy night in London. A man is out walking south of the river, perhaps through Battersea Park towards Brixton when suddenly he hears music coming from a local pub. It's the sound of a band playing jazz - it's fast and it sounds great and makes him feel good.
He goes into the pub. There aren't too many people in there taking shelter from the rain to listen to the band. There's too much competition from places playing trendier music. But the sound coming from the saxophone and trumpet is fantastic - a bit of the American deep south right here in London.
He watches the guitar player - he's playing some fruity jazz chords - rhythm guitar is his thing, leaving the soloing to the horns. The band don't make much and the guitar is old and battered.
The piano player doesn't mind if they don't make the big time - he's got a decent job and happy to wait for Friday night to let rip with the band. He's a brilliant player.
There's a crowd of young trendy boys in the corner - drunk and messing about. They don't care about the band, they don't get this music. The band play on - this tune now Louisiana creole.
And then, as the bell behind the bar rings to signal last orders, the lead band member announces that the next tune will be their last. '"We are the Sultans of Swing" - he says as the band play one more tune, hard and fast.
It's a cold and rainy night in London. A man is out walking south of the river, perhaps through Battersea Park towards Brixton when suddenly he hears music coming from a local pub. It's the sound of a band playing jazz - it's fast and it sounds great and makes him feel good.
He goes into the pub. There aren't too many people in there taking shelter from the rain to listen to the band. There's too much competition from places playing trendier music. But the sound coming from the saxophone and trumpet is fantastic - a bit of the American deep south right here in London.
He watches the guitar player - he's playing some fruity jazz chords - rhythm guitar is his thing, leaving the soloing to the horns. The band don't make much and the guitar is old and battered.
The piano player doesn't mind if they don't make the big time - he's got a decent job and happy to wait for Friday night to let rip with the band. He's a brilliant player.
There's a crowd of young trendy boys in the corner - drunk and messing about. They don't care about the band, they don't get this music. The band play on - this tune now Louisiana creole.
And then, as the bell behind the bar rings to signal last orders, the lead band member announces that the next tune will be their last. '"We are the Sultans of Swing" - he says as the band play one more tune, hard and fast.