	How High the Moon
        =================

"How high..." sings Lynn. "How hi-igh... How high the moo-
oo-oon!"

With echoes of Sarah Vaughan, she stretches the final word 
beyond its normal constraints, modulating the tone, while her 
fingers follow a little behind on the piano, finally resolving 
themselves in improvisation when she senses there is little 
more to be squeezed from one word. 

The audience politely applauds as they recognise the change. 

She smiles, although she is aware that she no longer 
resembles the slender Sarah Vaughan who first sang those 
words in the 1950s, but the older, fuller one of the 1970s 
who, unlike Lynn, had achieved enough fame that she could 
afford to 'sell out'. 

Selling out isn't an option for Lynn. Neither her muse nor her 
record company, small though it is, would allow that. And 
her loyal following, scaled as modestly as Advanced Jazz 
Records, wouldn't contemplate it either.

Tomasz, her drummer, nods with a smile as he takes Lynn's 
cue to add his own improvised colour to the steady 
syncopated rhythm of the black notes on the keyboard. Paul 
strums the double bass with fingers as black as Lynn's, his 
eyes closed and the grin on his face revealing the quiet 
ecstasy that always accompanies his playing. What an 
international trio they are: reflecting the cosmopolitan nature 
of Lynn's adopted home of Manhattan. Tomasz from Poland, 
Paul from Alabama and Lynn from Peckham, a London 
suburb that seems bizarrely exotic set against the yellow taxis 
and steaming subways of the insomniac city.

The passage leads naturally to one of Lynn's own 
compositions, but not one to which she is courageous 
enough to add lyrics. She knows she is no wordsmith, but 
she relishes the opportunity to scat over her own scales. The 
audience nods appreciatively, but not so much as when, a 
bass and drum solo later, Lynn lets the touch of the orient in 
her own Cairo Taxi Cab flow into the thundering allure of 
Duke Ellington's Caravan. The more tutored ears in the 
Village Vanguard applaud wildly, joined by the rest when she 
at last sings: "Ni-ight and stars above that shine so bri-ight: 
the mystery of their fading li-ight that shines upon our 
caravan..."

The model for her rendition is not the sassy one, but Ella 
Fitzgerald who surely once sang, as did Sarah Vaughan, in 
this very historic venue. Much as Lynn loves the American 
songbook and its great stars, she is a modern artist. Her 
performances have a character and flavour that is her own, 
and good enough that she can earn a booking here in 
Greenwich Village, to which she, in true Ellington style, has 
taken the A train. But respected as she is, it is a modest 
audience that shelter in the basement club away from the chill 
of a New York autumn (or 'fall' as she is learning to call it).

At last, Lynn senses that the variations she can squeeze from 
Duke Ellington's masterpiece have reached their term and she 
lets the number end with an ironic piano roll. The audience 
applauds and, twenty minutes into the set, it is time for Lynn 
to address the shadowy figures gazing up at her, clutching 
glasses of wine and beer in their hands. Although Lynn is a 
smoker, she is grateful for the city policy that means she now 
plays in a venue that smells more sweetly than her uptown 
apartment.

She thanks the audience for their appreciation, reminds them 
that they are listening to the Lynn Wood Trio, and tells them 
what songs she's just played. Although too much chat is 
frowned on at a jazz gig, she feels obliged to give a little 
background to her next number.

"My daughter lives in L.A. now," she says hesitantly. "She's 
an optometrist, I think. Some kind of eye specialist. But 
when I wrote this song, she was just a little girl. And I still 
think of her as one whenever we perform it. Here it is: 
Kirsten!"

Indeed, it is memories of her dearest and only fruit of her 
womb that fill her thoughts as she plays her own pianistic 
tribute to the restraint and beauty of Bill Evans who was 
such a great influence to Lynn in those early days in Peckham 
and, later, North London. 

Those were hard days and Lynn knows only too well that a 
single tune, however sincerely meant, can scarcely begin to 
recompense for the neglect she'd actually shown her 
daughter. Those were days when a regular supply of smack 
and a series of relationships, unsatisfactory and ecstatic in 
equal measure, were far more important to her than a wailing 
child whose father had left her when Lynn was still a fifth-
form pupil. Even those formative days of premature 
motherhood were just a momentary stumble in a series of 
boyfriends, drugs and a passion for music that owed nothing 
at all to the subtleties and rhythm of Bill Evans or Duke 
Ellington. However, as the fashion for the disco of Sister 
Sledge and Chic was supplanted by jazz funk and Lynn's 
growing interest in the origins of those more intriguing 
rhythms, music was mostly just the backdrop to her carnal 
and narcotic indulgences.

When she wrote her song, the nearest any of her 
compositions has ever approached to commercial success, it 
was more a guilty tribute to the feelings she felt she ought to 
have towards her daughter than a reflection of the love she 
actually expressed. 'The Brat', as she'd privately christened 
the optometrist-to-be, was an awkward child who resented 
the series of wholly unsuitable boyfriends shooting up in the 
squalid bedroom she shared with her mother. Long before 
she was able to enjoy sex herself, she'd seen enough of it on 
her mother's bed. And frequently with more than one partner.

 Perhaps that was why Lynn sees so little of the daughter 
celebrated in the wistful melodies of her most celebrated 
opus. And why Kirsten dedicates herself to a life as unlike 
that of her reprobate mother as it is possible to be. When she 
and her boring accountant husband have children of their 
own it is unlikely they'll know anything other than the 
comforts of West Coast Suburbia.

It is Paul's turn for a prolonged solo and he smiles broadly as 
he acknowledges Lynn's nod. Dave Holland, look out! Lynn 
leans back on her stool and lets her eyes wander about the 
audience she hasn't really had the opportunity to study 
before. It is the usual Wednesday night crowd at the Village 
Vanguard: mostly men, mostly middle-aged, a couple of 
disorientated Japanese tourists and a lot of tapping toes. 

She knows her daughter isn't seated there in the second row, 
by a table all to herself. Although Kirsten has supported her 
mother's career with more selflessness and love than Lynn 
ever managed towards her daughter, there are too many 
miles and too many optically challenged patients between 
them for her to celebrate her mother's good fortune at 
earning a short residency at the world's most celebrated jazz 
venue. It is a woman, though, a white one as well and the 
same one who sat in the same seat the night before. The 
same woman who approached Lynn as she made her way to 
the back room that doubles as both changing room and 
kitchen. 

"I really want to say just how much I enjoyed your set," she 
told Lynn shyly in her educated Brooklyn accent.

"Why thank you!" said a truly flattered Lynn, who is 
accustomed to praise from men but rarely receives it from 
women.

"I love all your songs," continued the woman gushingly, "but 
especially Kirsten. I can't begin to describe how much it 
helped me when I was going through a bad patch. I've often 
meant to see you perform, but you don't play downtown 
often enough..."

"The tours take me everywhere, but it's my home town I 
enjoy playing the most," Lynn replied. "The world's a big 
place, you know."

"Yes, yes," said the woman, clinging desperately to her 
moments of conversation with the English emigre. "I've seen 
the itinerary on your website. You play everywhere. San 
Francisco, Tokyo, Sao Paolo, Trond...Trond..."

"Trondheim. Norway," Lynn corrected. "Great country. I 
love it..."

"And I love you," said the woman. Then blushing: "I mean I 
love your music. It means so much to me."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Lynn, who smiled, and eased pass 
the woman to Paul and Tomasz waiting for her at the back 
with her long-neglected packet of Marlboros.

It is Tomasz who takes over from Paul with shuffling soft 
percussion, while Lynn's hands hover over the keyboard. At 
last, it seems right and she breaks the tempo with a few tinkly 
notes mostly drowned out by the applause for her sidemen. 
Then, appropriately for the time of year, it is the yearning 
sadness of Autumn Leaves that she plays to the delight of the 
Japanese tourists.

Tomasz and Paul are attractive men, both younger than 
Lynn, and together they make a coherent trio, 
communicating with the empathy of all successful 
improvisers. Each knows intuitively what the others are 
doing and is happy to give each other the support that has 
kept the trio going for more than two years now. 

However, much as Lynn privately lusts for Paul's lean, 
muscular body, his arms bare to the shoulder, or the slightly 
vulnerable, even feminine, Tomasz, she has learnt from 
earlier mistakes not to mix a professional relationship with 
sex. In earlier days, in Peckham, later in North London and, 
then, on the back of one of her more passionate relationships, 
Stateside, she let the easy rapport she achieved on stage 
overlap on her bedchamber.

It is undoubtedly true that the skill for improvisation that 
make her a professional jazz musician are just as well 
expressed in physical passion, and she has enjoyed sex with 
the members of her earlier trios, even the quartets and 
quintets, sometimes together but more often separately. But 
the more passion, and the more recklessly it is expressed, the 
briefer the length of time she has managed to hold her 
ensembles together before jealousy and intrigue threw the 
whole affair apart, invariably messily and rarely without 
rancour.

What would it be like to take Paul's cock in her mouth? Or 
even Tomasz's? Lynn has long ago overcome her fear of 
unfamiliar white cock, although the first few times were 
definite disappointments compared to the standards of sexual 
prowess she had become accustomed to. But even now, she 
feels more content brushing against black skin. Perhaps not 
as often as she once did and certainly no longer as often as 
she'd like, but advancing age hasn't diminished her desire, 
however much it has affected her ability to prolong her carnal 
encounters beyond the first hour or so.

It is, in fact, weeks, maybe over a month, since she last 
enjoyed sex and, like so many of her more recent encounters, 
it was an unsatisfactory affair that failed to go beyond even 
the first night. Her last real relationship was well over a year 
ago, and she was more shocked by its disintegration than she 
ever thought possible. It is harder to find and even harder to 
hold onto a good thing. Once she thought her comparative 
fame and fortune would bring her an unbroken series of 
affairs, but the history of her amours has followed a different 
trajectory to that of her critical and exceedingly modest 
commercial success.

People might think that the rewards of a career like hers 
would be a life of constant debauchery, but, just as she 
reluctantly, but heroically, abandoned a life of drug abuse 
that threatened to get out of control, so too, and for totally 
different reasons, has a life of easy sexual abandon deserted 
her.

After the applause that greets the final notes of Autumn 
Leaves, Lynn thinks the audience is ready for sterner stuff. In 
the hush between numbers, she plinks a few notes and looks 
searchingly towards Paul and Tomasz. The Polish drummer 
is a talented composer himself, and he deserves credit for the 
next number which he knows is next in the repertoire. Better 
to give that credit afterwards when the audience has heard it, 
than before when they might think Lynn is featuring his 
Karol's Wake for reasons of kindness rather than admiration.

She lets him begin on the little brush that strokes the 
cymbals, while Paul closes his eyes and readies his fingers on 
the strings of his double bass and Lynn squeezes her hands 
together on her lap. 

Perhaps it is the sorrow of Polish history that guides 
Tomasz's compositional muse, but it is a sense of regret and 
lost beauty that inspires Lynn's interpretation of his sweet 
melody. Her own compositions have also become much less 
upbeat and more wistful, and fit easily with the mood that 
develops. Tomasz's notes slide easily into those of Lynn's 
Approaching Ennui and an ambience of sadness and 
reflection replaces the more straight-ahead rhythms of the 
first few numbers. 

Sometimes Lynn believes she only truly knows herself 
through her improvisations. She expresses more of herself on 
the ivory keys than she has ever been able to do in word and 
deed. Perhaps this is why her daughter loves her, not because 
of the maternal love she so much failed to provide, but from 
the truer feelings that guides her through the performances 
which drain and enervate her, but also bring her to a level of 
ecstasy that not even heroin ever managed to do.

Tomasz's lightly brushed tympani bring the medley to a close 
and the applause that greets the pause gives Lynn the space 
to study her audience again. The woman in the second row is 
strangely illuminated, perhaps, Lynn fancies, by the light 
shining from Paul's beatific grin. Although she is applauding 
as vigorously as anyone else, Lynn is sure she can see tears 
smeared over her face. 

Lynn does not think of herself as a woman especially inclined 
to Sapphic pleasures, although there have been occasions 
when she has succumbed to them when they are available. 
She senses that this woman is besotted by her, and there is 
little doubt in her mind that there would be much effort 
required in persuading her to extend her adoration of Lynn's 
music to her body. But what does Lynn think of her female 
admirer?

Clearly, she is not a woman in her earliest bloom, but she is 
still younger than Lynn. She remembers from their brief 
encounter that she is a woman who carries her years lightly 
and she is sure that there is beauty beneath her sweater and 
jeans that is well worth the adventure. Although she has 
often had sex with her admirers, not once has that been with 
a woman. And would this even be wise?

Lynn doesn't know, but the thought of an amorous liaison 
excites her in a way she didn't expect.

"The first song in the medley was written by Tomasz," Lynn 
announced, generously gratified, as was the Pole, by the 
audience's thunderous appreciation. "Karol's Wake. It's about 
the late Pope, I think. The second two are new songs of 
mine, as yet untitled."

Then, as is traditional at this stage in the gig, Lynn 
introduces her sidemen by name. As always it is Paul who 
gets the loudest yelps of appreciation. Lynn knows that it 
isn't just his playing that earns the audience's adoration but 
that natural love for his trade that shines from his eyes and 
his remarkably healthy teeth. If her daughter had been a 
dentist rather than an eye specialist, who knows how much 
admiration she would express for her sideman, whose only 
hours away from constant practise on the tool of his trade 
are spent in the uptown gym where he exercises his 
generously toned biceps. 

Lynn has learnt from her years of performing to pace her sets 
without the benefit of a watch, and now is the time to up the 
tempo and bring the set towards its climax. There is no need 
to announce the Brian Wilson song she has made her own, 
although she is wise enough not to emulate the vocals. But 
even as her piano sings over Tomasz's joyful percussion, she 
mouths to herself: "Wouldn't it be nice..."

How nice would it be, Lynn wonders, to get married, to have 
children and live a Suburban life? One just like her 
daughter's? A life of domestic settled bliss she fears it is 
already too late to know herself. 

On the other hand, would she have willingly exchanged all 
the sex and associated excitement for well-tended lawns and 
the local church? How many housewives have enjoyed as 
much cock as she has? She has heard about suburban orgies, 
but she can't imagine that the huge drives and sidewalks are 
really home to more depravity than what she has already 
enjoyed.

As she guides the trio towards her next number, Nardis, a 
Miles Davis opus naturally, that allows her to show off the 
skills earned from hours of practise, the erotic images that fill 
her mind feature rather less cock and lithe male muscle than a 
softly feminine intimacy. When was the last time she tasted 
the thick lips of another woman's vagina? Not for a long 
time, but her memories are vivid and so too is her as yet 
unrealised resolution to taste more. That Brooklyn woman 
promises so much and not only was there desire hidden in her 
eyes, but a strange enthusiasm that Lynn is sure would make 
a night with her a night to remember.

And maybe not just the one night.

And wouldn't a little reliable intimacy be welcome at this 
time in her life?

Music melds mind and body together in a most strange way. 
And tonight the erotic frisson of Lynn's speculation is taking 
her improvisations in a new direction. Her fingers caress the 
keyboard as she would make love to a naked body. The 
rhythm she maintains in her left hand expresses the carnality 
of desire, whilst her right hand guides a melody that hints at 
those deeper emotions that are most keenly felt in the throes 
of sexual ecstasy.

And then Tomasz takes over the rhythm, pushed forward by 
the strum of Paul's double bass. The three of them bring their 
improvisations together in one of those moments of mutual 
communication that are as ecstatic as any other kind. Paul's 
grin threatens to split his face in two and Tomasz is as 
rhapsodic as he can ever be. And Lynn knows, although she 
has only ever seen it in photographs, that her own face is a 
broad, almost child-like, expression of rapture.

One more number and the set will be over. Or not quite. The 
audience, and in particular the Brooklyn woman of Lynn's 
fantasies, won't let the trio off the stage. This is the last set of 
the night and there is no excuse that the audience will accept. 

"Well, thank you! Thank you!" says Lynn, who is genuinely 
flattered by the applause. She smiles at the woman in the 
second row whom she senses must know that the added 
impetus that made tonight's set gel so well came from her. 
"And this must be the last one on our set. It's a number that I, 
for one, will always associate with the Village Vanguard. The 
Bill Evans classic: Gloria's Step!"

This unscheduled third encore is for Paul's benefit. It's a 
number perfectly attuned to his virtuosity and he takes up the 
challenge with relish and much to the delight of his adoring 
fans. Tomasz's face beams with a smile almost as broad as 
Paul's and Lynn can feel the ache in her own cheeks as the 
musicians coalesce in one last improvisation.

The audience know that three encores are enough and aided 
by the lights being raised by the management, they get up to 
leave at the same time as the Lynn Wood Trio gathers their 
water bottles together to leave the stage. The woman in the 
second row still sits there as the rest of the audience head off 
to the door and the steps leading up to the Manhattan streets. 

She stands up and pulls a long leather overcoat over her 
shoulders. She glances up half-expectantly towards Lynn and 
is clearly surprised to see the pianist approach her.

"So what did you think of the gig?"

The woman chokes slightly to be addressed so directly, but 
she recovers her composure even though her white freckled 
skin is unable to hide the colouring that fills her cheeks.

"It was probably the best concert I've ever heard!" she says. 
Sensing more is needed, she adds: "I particularly enjoyed 
those melodic tunes you played in the middle. How can 
music be so beautiful?"

"Indeed!" says a gratified Lynn. "I'm glad you enjoyed our 
set. So, what's your name?"

"Tina," she says. "Tina," she repeats. "I'm called Tina."

"Tina," muses Lynn. A nice short name, but this Tina is very 
unlike the soul chanteuse who is her namesake. "You're a 
Brooklyn girl aren't you? Are you going back home by 
subway?"

Tina nods and Lynn studies her face. She is sure her instincts 
are right. This is a woman whose passion for Lynn could 
easily become physical. She just needs the opportunity. As 
the pause between them lengthens, Lynn sees excitement and 
nervousness battle to set her face in repose.

"I really truly enjoy your music," Tina gushes at last. "For a 
long time, Kirsten was the only tune of yours I really 
appreciated, but now I'm addicted to every song you play or 
write. And this show was much, much more enjoyable than 
I'd ever thought possible."

It would be too soft to admit to Tina how much Lynn's 
fantasies of conjugal passion added to the success of the set, 
but there is no way that the pianist can allow the woman to 
disappear into the streets alone.

"Stay a moment, Tina, and I'll accompany you to the subway. 
I've just got to say goodbye to the boys."

"Accompany me to the subway?" Tina gasps. Had she ever 
imagined that the famous Lynn Wood might ever make that 
suggestion?

"There's so much we can talk about, I'm sure."

"There is?"

Lynn takes Tina by the shoulders, feeling her slender frame 
through the patent leather. She recognises too well the desire 
that burns in the Brooklyn woman's eyes.

She kisses Tina briefly and tenderly on the lips, thick lips 
against thin: Tina's opening ever so little but managing to 
restrain her eager tongue.

As their lips separate and Lynn studies her admirer from 
arms' length, she feels a fire burning between her thighs she 
knows she must satisfy. And she knows that Tina is the one 
to do it. Those slender hands with the tapering fingers she 
grasps in hers. The dimples in cheeks on an otherwise gaunt 
face. The long neck that curves towards the open lapels of 
her leather overcoat. 

"And I'm sure," says Lynn, "that talking needn't be all we do 
together this night!"








