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Updated: June 21, 2025
To the New-Yorker whose nights must be filled with music, preferably jazz, to pass Keeley's and find it dark is much as if Bacchus, emulating the newest historical rogue, had donned cassock and hood. Even that half of the evening east of the cork-popping land of the midnight son has waned at Keeley's.
And yet her eyes, the part that the rouge pot or the bead stick couldn't reach, seemed to grow deader and deader. The jazz band let out the crash of a new melody. The voices of the crowd rose in an "ah-ah-ah." Waiters were shoving fresh tables into the place, squeezing fresh arrivals around them. The flapper had paused in her breathless rigmarole of Johns and memories.
The ballroom was a medley of plenipotentiaries and chambermaids, generals and orderlies, Foreign Office attachés and waitresses. All the latest forms of dancing were to be seen, including the jazz and the hesitation waltz, and, according to the opinion of experts, the dancing reached an unusually high standard of excellence.
The great sonorous drumming of the summer night was like the bruit of Time passing steadily by. Even in the soft eddy of the leaves, lifted on a drowsy creeping air, was a sound of discontent, of troublesome questioning. Through the trees he could see the lighted oblongs of neighbours' windows, or hear stridulent jazz records.
" just the eleganest jazz piece " Carroll heard as through a haze " just got it feet can't keep still play it for you " He found himself standing by the piano, the door between the music room and the living room unaccountably closed. Evelyn banging out the opening measures of the "elegant jazz piece."
Jurgen felt instantly relieved, and regained his composure. "Certainly I play it," he said, returning the man's smile with some hesitation. "Maybe you'll play somethin' for me? Maybe I'll buy yer drink, too." "Well I I've never played much any jazz," Jurgen said slowly. "Folk tunes, show-tunes on rare occasions. I'm a symphony violist, by profession." "Oh," the man answered, wrinkling his brow.
And from trombone and saxaphone ceaselessly whined a blended melody, sometimes riotous and jubilant, sometimes haunting and plaintive as a death-dance from the Congo's heart. "Let's dance," cried Ardita. "I can't sit still with that perfect jazz going on." Taking her hand he led her out into a broad stretch of hard sandy soil that the moon flooded with great splendor.
The wave is essentially the movement which one tends to associate, not very accurately perhaps, with the name of Cézanne: it has nothing to do with Jazz; its most characteristic manifestation is modern painting, which, be it noted, Jazz had left almost untouched. "Picasso?" queries someone. I shall come to Picasso presently.
And it is, I believe, chiefly because all genuine artists are beginning to feel more and more acutely the need of a severe and exacting problem, and because everyone who cares seriously for art feels the need of severe critical standards, that, with a sigh of relief, people are timidly murmuring to each other "Plus de Jazz!"
Enameled faces, stenciled smiles, painted eyes and slants of colored hats these are the women. Careless, polite, suave, grinning these are the men. The jazz band plays. The cabaret floor, jammed, seems to be moving around like a groaning turnstile. Bodies are hidden. The spotlight from the balcony begins to throw a series of colors. Melody is lost. The jazz band is hammering like a mad blacksmith.
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