Alive!
I walk briskly in the crisp autumnal air, my high-heeled boots tapping smartly on the cobbles of Soho. Neon lights glow in the dusk and people buzz about in little eddies.
I climb the little flight of stairs and the heavy red curtains part. The stars in my eyes shine in the gloomy lobby and the dour ticket man can’t hide a slight smile as he clips my stub.
The cloakroom attendant winks as he takes my frivolous wrap and the maître d’ unbends a little as he sweeps me to my prized table in the front row. What will Madame have? Champagne… of course! A Gallic bow and he’s gone, leaving me twisting around to check out the place.
Welcome to Ronnie Scott’s! shouts the décor. Everything gleams. The panelled walls, the burnished banisters, the velvet banquettes. Coy little lamps cling to the walls as their peach bonnets throw a soft glow on the scene. I marvel at the tightly packed tables and cynically wonder just how threadbare this place is in daylight. But non! tonight is for dreams come true…
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Here’s to being carried away by the gods of music! I toast as the crisp bubbles tickle my nose and slide down my throat, adding to the rush of sensations in my brain. My silk stockings rustle under my cashmere tunic as I lean back as much as I can in my tiny chair, watching other guests as they perform their unsubtle dance of pretentiousness… How nice to see you again! I’ll have my usual, Carl.
A tune starts up on the surround system and grows louder as the opening band strike up… my feet tap under the table and my shoulders sway… I’m mesmerised by the shine of the sax as the saxophonist leans towards me like a snake charmer, his hooded eyes boring into mine. The frantic drumming in the background makes the pulse at my throat beat faster. The hubbub of conversation and the tinkle of spoons fade into the background as I lose myself in the Dave Brubeck Quartet.
The last note wanes. Applause and conversation then a sudden lull. The lamps dim. A spot glows on the small stage. My nerves thrum in anticipation. Heat rises so I clutch my cold glass. A figure sidles into the light as her giant signature yellow spectacles flash. Her close cropped hair fades into the background as her bright red lipstick catches the light. Her dark skin gleams beneath her oh-so-cool smock.
Cécile McLorin Salvant!
She’s only here for one night… the room erupts in wild delight.
A hush. Then the loudspeakers on the stage tremble as the first pure note hits the mic.
Euphoria shoots through me.
