*Story contains language typical of 1950’s jazz age / Beatnik era (and slang).

**I exercised extreme creative license in all of the New York scenes.

I was growing more and more restless by the day. I was tired of the long nights, drunken patrons, hecklers, dizzy dames, and people who had no appreciation for the syncopated rhythmic patterns, improvisations, and distinctive tones of jazz. Not to mention the insulting nickel tips. Me and the boys were just a backdrop that blended in with the peeling wallpaper of this dump. It was such a drag. I wanted something more; something better than this. At this rate, I’d never make it to Carnegie Hall.

I was the pianist and leader of the house band at The Cellar on Gr...

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