Amateur night

I was sitting at a crowded table

Trying to have a conversation over the sounds of bass arpeggio and walking pianos

It was very difficult

I could only see the movements of her mouth

It was almost like the sounds of the trombone were warbling right out of her

A boy took the stage

Horn rimmed glasses and t-shirt with an ironic slogan i can no longer recall

A houndstooth scarf and pleather sandals

True wicker park androgynous hipster

He picked up his trumpet and belted out a heartfelt, if lackluster, solo

Even some of the more respectable clientele turned to their respective companions

Trying to pick out a conversation to drown out the bleating of his trumpet

The two men beside me went to great lengths to critique the player

I can't remember one, but the other

Eyebrows like Groucho Marx, but as gray and dirty as the sidewalk leading to the bar

Brown leather pork pie hat and matching brown Hawaiian shirt

And a small leather case hanging from his neck

His breath reeked of a thick Boston accent 

He turned to us and asked if we would like to join them on stage

We laughed nervously and politely declined ('I haven't brought my saxophone, she, her trumpet')

They took to the stage, the other one pulling out a trumpet that was more tarnish than brass

Groucho Marx took a swig from the glass of beer he had brought up with him

My ears, ringing from the earlier solo, didn't catch his introduction

He wet his lips, and drew from the case hanging from his neck, a harmonica

The mood of the room instantly shifted, as the band began to play

We were transported to a place further south

The bayou fog crept in as the drums hit a solid beat, 

You could almost hear a washboard creeping in on the night air

And the man with the harmonica began to scat into the microphone

Intermingled with the buzz of harmonica solos

A man with pride and ego that was instantly well deserved