As smoke swirled through the hazy room, the band began to set up.  At first, it was mostly quiet, with only the piano player practicing.  During this time, the saxophonist tuned his instrument, the trombonist and the trumpet put together their horns, and the clarinet loosened up her reed.

      Then, seemingly at once, a slight cacophony began as the band began sliding up and down the octaves, individual instrument players went over parts they had had trouble with, and squeaks started issuing from the general direction of the clarinet's section.  A trumpet began yelling at the clarinet, complaining that she hadn't properly 'greased' up her reed, to which the clarinetist replied that she couldn't 'grease' up her reed, at which point the leading saxophonist yelled at them both to shut up.  This, of course, didn't help much, and soon enough all but the pianist were taken up in an argument that spanned from how shiny their respective instruments were to whether reeds were better than brass- in general.  Eventually the pianist became aware of the outside world, which she then yelled at the whole rest of the band, which had a marvelous quieting effect on the whole of them. 

      Just then, the conductor came onto the stage, and shortly enough, the band began playing a Bp jazz arrangement.  Just as the last trombonist ran up to the stage, the watching crowd began paying more attention to the band.  In truth, the Bp arrangement was just about the only thing that each of the players knew well- and that was only because the they'd been playing it for two years, every day.  Of course, this didn't stop a bit of talk between the trombones and the trumpets about how the reeds kept on squeaking, which, fortunately, the saxophones and clarinets didn't hear. 

      After a minute or two of practicing sustaining a low G, the conductor gave a few directions to the band, and they began playing a musical selection called "Night Trains". 

      Quickly enough, the show was under way.  Though the band was actually just a bunch of High School kids who disagreed about just about everything, they could make some music.  Slippery smooth notes slid of the well practiced tongues of the players as the ears beheld a varied vehemence from each one of the players.  To actually try to follow each of the cross currents of the music would be near impossible, so the average listener just sat back, and enjoyed the show. 

      The band must have been played this for a while, because the conductor could easily have stood off the stage and let the band go about it's auditory theatrics.  The threshold of the of the listener would have to have been high to resist tapping their foot in one of the many compositions played by the band.

      The next selection involved a slow, seeping theme, with the saxophones as the main perpetrators of a slow, laid back theme, that dominated the conscious and subconscious mind, bringing back memories of another time, another reality, where detectives and dulcet voices intertwined to create an atmosphere of pseudo-reality, which the mind could live and love in, without fear of discomfort.  As the last note rang through the air, it took a moment for the awed listeners to comprehend exactly what they had been graced by, and to begin a long and appreciative standing ovation.

      The next song was fast and loud, immediately grabbing the passerby's attention, and unifying the whole band into one tremendous tuning fork of jazz.  Every sense was overlaid by the thought of Jazz, jazz-z-z-z. . . JAZZ!

      Everyone in the room was taken in, sloshed around, and turned about by the amazing song and head-bobbing of the lilting tune.  Deceptively simple, yet undeniably overwhelming in it's capacity to make even the oldest veteran tap and tip his head to the marvelous selection.

      Finally, The very last song began.  This song was actually accompanied by a singer.  The song was similar to the second song in that it was a slow song.  Yet where the first slow song held the mind and captivated it for moments, this song was so slowly enticing that the audience and singer alike would be captivated for months by the singly sieve-like pseudo memories of the past.  This composition's last note was held long and still by the voice of the song, held 'til the sound synchronized with the symphonies phantom echoes, rebounding off into the minds of the listeners with unsurpassed remembrance and silver-lined simplicity.

      This was simply a sound, yet somehow the frenetically, feverishly, unconcerned moment would sink to the hearts and souls of the listeners, lasting for years of dreams and decades to come.