[Verse 1]
(Soft piano trill, brushed snare)
I sip my espresso, black as midnight thought,
In a basement club where genius can't be bought.
My beret sits tilted, just a touch askew,
Discussin' Sartre’s angst with my shadow, just us two.
My scarf? Hand-stitched by monks in Timbuktu,
My vinyl collection? All first pressings, rare and true.
The saxophone weeps notes too pure for common ears,
While I dissect the rhythm, smilin' through my sneers.
[Chorus]
(Walking bassline, muted trumpet swell)
Oh, the velvet smoke, the dim-lit haze,
Where lesser souls get lost inside the maze,
Of simple tunes and melodies so plain,
While I dissect the dissonance, the sweet refrain
Of obscure chords that only I can name!
(Scat: Shoo-be-doo-bah, pretension is my game!)
[Verse 2]
(Saxophone solo - complex, slightly atonal)
That cat on upright? Technically proficient, yes,
But lacks the tragic depth, the existential mess
That fuels *my* art. My phrasing? Like a sigh
From Proust himself, beneath a Paris sky.
I name-drop Mingus, Monk, like they’re my next-door kin,
Condescend gently with a razor-thin
Smile to the drummer, "Darling, *feel* the space,
Don’t just fill silence with that common grace."
[Chorus]
(Walking bassline, trumpet growl)
Oh, the velvet smoke, the dim-lit haze,
Where simple joy just withers in the blaze,
Of my critique, so sharp and so refined,
While lesser talents clutter up my mind!
(Scat: Dee-bop-bah-dah, complexity defined!)
[Bridge]
(Piano solo - virtuosic, slightly chaotic)
They think it's music? Just vibrations in the air?
No, it's a dialectic! A burden I must bear!
To elevate the masses, though they'll never grasp
The subtle references behind my languid clasp
Of this small-batch bourbon, aged precisely ten...
(Spoken, over piano) ...Years. Perfection. *Sigh*. Again.
[Verse 3]
(Tempo slows, bass becomes more prominent)
The set is ending, crowd emits a cheer,
A vulgar sound, too loud, too crude, too near.
I gather my great coat (vintage, naturally),
My soul too vast for their banality.
I leave a single bill, a pointed demonstration,
Of my profound artistic disapprobation.
A whispered "Bravo?" No. Too trite. Instead,
I murmur "Intéressant..." and shake my weary head.
[Outro]
(Slow fade: piano plays fragmented chords, muted trumpet sighs, light cymbal swell)
(Scat: Wah-ooo-eee-doo... deconstructed... sigh...)
(Spoken, fading) ...Deconstructed bebop... truly... bourgeois revolution... mmm...
(Piano chord hangs unresolved, final cymbal tap)
(Fade out on the sound of a disdainful sniff and the clink of a single ice cube in an empty glass)
