The Amazing Bud Powell

Alone with a lit bone the piano is his throne. Notes blow the ozone as tones of sound rain down. Bud’s mitts move with swiftness while the room fills. The piano moans as he slams the ebony and ivory. You feel the chi. His skin glistens freely.

“Hey Bud!” No response. Sweat pours down his face; he smiles distant.
“Uaagh!” comes from his throat, an ancient voice flows through him. The crowd knows there’s no one home now, so they let go.

“Who is he?”
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
“Bud Powell…? Blue Note records…?” Her Negro friend hangs his head in shame. On fire Bud burns the fans with his flame. “He’s only the hottest bopper in the world. Harlem is where the real heads hang.”
“Oh…”
“You hear the sounds of slaves sobbing in the fields. He weaves webs for the lost man when he blows. Whew!”

Miles rolls a joint and hands it to Monk. The sweet smell of marijuana floats through the room. No one seems to notice, or they know not to notice.

“No way we’re following Bud now.” Miles leans lightly on the wall. Monk mumbles, bumbling around to the sounds of the music.

“…then the police threw ammonia over his body. Mixed with water. Old remedy for “negro madness”. She opened her mouth in horror.
“Why would they?”
“They say he’s nuts. Whites never understand negroes.”
“That poor man.”
“Word is he’s moving to Paris.”
“When?”
“Soon.” He shushed his lady friend. Bud was bowing to the crowd while whistles and shouts shook Minton’s.

Moonlight lit Bud’s walk along 42nd street, a new tune filling his lips. Sweet like roses, the melody haunts his mind. Miles and Monk walk beside him.

“Hip man, hip!” Miles hums with Bud, his horn hanging in his hands. “Whatcha gonna name it?”
“Parisian Thoroughfare.”