28 October 2012
He sneaks into the kitchen and assembles his golden goose sax on the stainless steel, loose and relaxed as a hired sniper. The singer and her combo on a small riser, sleepwalking through an old standard, pause when he begins to play, whisper soft, the dishwasher holding the door ajar. He slides a marble plinth beneath her heels and her voice begins to bloom on the new tune he reveals with coin and smoke and heat and chill. The sculpted notes like old quarters as far as weary-worn and coolness blown, but like a slink of kitty around her shins and calves, as far as smokiness goes.