“What do you call it?”
Razi leaned back in his chair, puffing his cigar as the trio of musicians packed their instruments. This was not jazz. He knew jazz. He’d spent his greening years in New Orleans—the very birthplace of jazz. This was no Congo Square swing—all blare and brass. It wasn’t even the rhythmic roots of it, which owed its soul to the brothers and sisters sold from these shores. No, this was something different.
As a boy he’d played a game they called ‘telephone’, where the children sat in a circle. One child would whisper something—sometimes a secret—but usually a lie. Each child would whisper to the next, passing the lie from ear to mouth until it became something else entirely—something bigger and brighter and more fabulous. And sometimes, by the time it made it back, it be truth.