Some'tet, noir style ...

“There was that wind, from the south, shuddering the windows. It was one of those slick winter bursts shoving mischief across the Puget Sound - nasty and cold, evaporating any hope that a bit of sanity may be reintroduced to that itchy dark hovel where once housed a brain. On nights like this drinking is compulsory and even more so, jazz is required. Find your brand, your spirits; tongue the edge of that glass, filled to the rim, even a cheap whiskey will do. Hear the cries of a trumpet or saxophone. And remember there is no bad whiskey, only short pours. And like jazz, anything is possible on a windy Sunday night. Anything. And this is a Sunday night gig.”