Back To Als Site
Back to Al's Text Humor Page

Jazz Haiku

Money’s everything.
Playing any gig that comes.
Whores, we are all whores.

Squeaking and squawking,
All eyes roll to the heavens.
The clarinet speaks.

One beat to change from
Harmon to cup to bucket.
“Hey, who wrote this shit?”

The jam session starts.
Somebody calls “Giant Steps.”
Cold fear grips my brain.

Here comes the high note.
The lead trumpeter puckers.
Clam, clam. “Crap!” Clam. “Shit!”

Here’s the girl singer
Stepping to the microphone.
Pitch, time, all gone now.

Gig is going well.
Asshole requests “In the Mood.”
I look at my watch.

I once had a dream:
Big house, new car, big money.
Now I play the bass.

Gorgeous chick tells me,
“You sound just like Kenny G.”
My ego shatters.

Three-eight, eleven-eight;
Fuck you, Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Five-eight, seven-eight...

The accordion.
“Squeeze box,” yes, but more often
“The Stomach Steinway.”

The woodwind doubler
Practicing the piccolo:
Frustration defined.

Trane, Prez, Bird, Brecker;
Giants of the saxophone.
Eat shit, Kenny G!

Pit orchestra gig;
Days and nights become as one.
I have no damned life.

Bad intonation.
Strings are sharp and reeds are flat.
Brass too loud again.

Great changes, good groove:
A one-in-a-million gig.
No singer. Yippee!

An oxymoron:
“He played the accordion
With delicacy.”

Bassoons forever
Try in vain not to sound like
A falling bedpost.

The strings slowly tune.
When they’re done, the unisons
Are anything but.

“I can’t find my note,”
Bemoans the confused singer.
“Quit now,” we all pray.

The contractor calls.
Months of Andrew Lloyd Webber.
“Bird Lives” no longer!

Solo tenor sits
Under drummer’s crash cymbal.
“Where are my ear plugs?”

That plate of hors d’oeuvres
Cost more than we’re getting paid.
Think we underbid?

Rock drummer, lounge keys,
Classically trained singer:
Welcome to sub hell!

God bless trust fund gigs!
Only have to eat ramen
For a few more weeks.

Break time is over;
Rest of band is returning.
Now for that phone call.

A new world’s record
For choruses on “A Train.”
My band hates me now.

Forty-two straight gigs
With no requests for “Take Five.”
Time to call Guinness!

Free jazz temptation
Strikes during the bride’s first dance.
What Would Wynton Do?

Solo pianist,
Freed from all constraints of form,
Heedlessly mangles.

Jazz nymphs crowd bandstand
Offering carnal delights.
My alarm clock rings.

Double-timing bone
Sounds like somebody chewing
On a rubber band.

Jam session bassist
Observes fourteen soloists,
Contemplates murder.

Say, do you guys know
“Wedding Song” by Kenny G?
Buy the damn record!

I’m sending a sub.
But don’t worry, he’ll be fine;
He’s fresh from rehab.

Riffing on “Rudolph”
Musicians in red and green
Learn humility.

New Years revelers:
Here’s hoping the stroke of twelve
Sends you the hell home.

Checking out women.
High stages and low necklines,
Great combination.

My drummer helped me
Count the syllables
In this Haiku.