Crow bobbed and weaved through the animals on the New York City sidewalk with his bass guitar slung over his shoulder and his short, spindly legs stretching out with each stride. He checked his phone to ensure he was at the correct address for the audition. Hours earlier, the voice on the other end of the phone had told him to get to a bar in the West Village called The Fat Toad. There was no sign, just double doors leading to a long, dim stairway below. A shiny light bulb at the bottom beckoned him in.
Crow’s feet felt sticky on the floor as he continued to the bar. Animals milled between round tables that held pitchers of beer and cocktails in plastic cups. The room’s shape was impossible to discern as the edges of the black walls were lost against the black ceiling and floor. A lone, leaky air conditioning unit pushed around the scent of stale booze.
Crow was still wearing his suit from his day job, where he was employed as a junior lawyer. He’d taken the bar to make money but found the entry-level salary miserly and his first year of legal practice comprised solely of what he referred to as the three F’s – filing, fetching, and photocopying. On his way home from work, a shiny flyer lashed in cellophane tape to a telephone pole caught his eye. Fueled by career apathy, he called the number on the flyer to audition as a bass player.
Looking around The Fat Toad, Crow felt like a square for not having taken the time to change clothes when he saw Cat on stage in a zoot suit. Cat looked like he belonged on the cover of a jazz album, as his matching wide-brim hat bounced with each stroke of the distinctive Steinway & Sons piano. At the back of the stage, Bat tinkered with a brightly colored Ludwig drum set. Despite the poor lighting, Bat wore a pair of sunglasses, and his suit jacket had been cut off at the shoulders, exposing his wings. Crow gravitated toward the stage, watching them intently.
“Hello,” said Crow. Bat continued to fiddle with the cymbal stand. Cat jumped down from his piano stool and sauntered toward Crow.
“I’m Cat, that’s Bat, and you already spoke to Racoon on the phone.” Cat pointed a claw behind Crow. Raccoon was slumped on the bar, dressed in a black turtleneck with a lowball glass of whiskey resting next to his head. His greasy fur slicked back through the inky streaks on his head.
“He’s like this sometimes,” explained Cat before shouting across the bar. “Ay! Yo!” Raccoon lifted his head and wiped the line of drool that extended from the corner of his mouth to the bar. He downed his drink in one gulp and violently slapped his own face.
“It’s showtime,” hissed Raccoon as he sprung out of his seat and hopped on stage.
Cat slinked back behind the piano, and Crow followed them. Bat was already poised behind the drums as Raccoon walked to center stage with a microphone stand in one paw and a shiny Bach Stradivarius trumpet in the other. Bat counted them in. “A one, a two, a one, two, three, four.”
Bat established the rhythm, and Cat pounded the piano keys into a dramatic harmony while Crow fumbled with his bass. Animals watched from the bar, leaving the tables closest to the stage empty until Raccoon put his trumpet to his lips and blew with all his might. The trumpet brought the room to life as it squealed and honked with each rise and fall of Raccoon’s belly. Patrons grabbed their drinks and clamored for the seats nearest the stage. Raccoon lowered the trumpet and glared at Crow.
“Come on kid,” called Raccoon. No sooner had Crow found the beat than Bat flew into a wild drum solo. He flailed his wings, stretching them out to bring down the sticks as hard as possible. The stage lighting shone brightly on Bat’s translucent orange wings, his veins pulsing and crisscrossing through his flesh. As the solo concluded, Crow quickly fell back into Bat’s rhythm, and the song came to a close.
Every chair was taken by the time they were midway through their second song. Animals stood around the outermost seats, clicking their paws and swaying. Crow was mesmerized.
Cat played a piano solo that was met with applause. As the claps subsided, Raccoon puffed out his furry cheeks and made his trumpet hit notes that Crow had never heard before. The crowd howled their approval, which only made him play harder. As the end of the solo neared, the crowd and Raccoon erupted into a boisterous climax.
Song after song, Raccoon, Cat, Bat, and Crow sparred playfully with one another to the audience’s delight. A silence fell over the room between songs as the animals waited in suspense for what might come next.
Raccoon grabbed the microphone. “This is our final number for the night.” The crowd let out a collective sigh. Raccoon counted them in and signaled to Crow for a solo. Crow closed his eyes as he plucked his way through an arpeggio. As the solo ended, Raccoon was back on the microphone.
“Crow, everybody.” The crowd roared their appreciation. Sweat dripped from the tip of Crow’s beak onto the black stage, leaving glimmery blotches beneath him. He didn’t want the set to end. Given the opportunity, Crow wished to live in that moment forever.
As the final song wound down, the audience gave one more cheer before meandering back to the bar. Crow kept his bass slung around his body, ready for more, but Cat and Bat had already begun to pack up. Raccoon walked to the edge of the stage and stashed his trumpet in its case. Dabbing his brow with a raggedy handkerchief, Raccoon turned to Crow.
“The last bass player was alright, but you did real good tonight kid. Real good.” Raccoon placed a toothpick between his jagged, blackened teeth. “We play most nights. Cat handles the details.” He turned and headed toward the stairway.
Crow packed up and strolled toward the bar where Cat and Bat were already sitting with a few beers. After some backslapping and compliments, Cat pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and passed it to Crow.
“Good job,” said Cat.
Crow’s eyes lit up. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a hundred-dollar bill. Maybe never. He started fantasizing about leaving his job.
“So, umm, how’d you come to be in the band?” Asked Crow as he put the money in his pocket.
“I thought I wanted to play rock and roll,” said Bat. “But the flashing lights hurt my eyes. I found the jazz scene more my style.”
“My dad’s an executive,” said Cat. “Playing in joints like this makes me happy and, well, it pisses him off.”
“What about Raccoon?” Said Crow. “What’s his story?”
“He was born in the City, and his parents weren’t around much,” said Cat. “When he got sick of eating out of bins, he stumbled into an addiction help group, and someone thought he’d get off the dope by giving him a trumpet. You know, give him something to do. But he just ended up doing both.”
Perplexed, Crow rested his beer back on a wet coaster.
“Get with it, Crow,” said Bat. “He’s all about the jazz. Heroin.”
Crow had never met a junky before. He was used to hanging around preppy law students. Heroin was a sinister drug associated with needles, lesions, and death.
“Is he alright?” Asked Crow.
“I’d like him to go to rehab,” said Cat. “But, he’s convinced himself he has it under control. Maybe he does – for now. He lives for these gigs, and the heroin unlocks something. All those inner demons get blown through that dang trumpet,” Cat lapped at his beer, leaving specks of foam on his whiskers. “I don’t like intruding on another animal’s business. Still, I’d rather have an alive friend than a dead artist.”
Crow stuck his beak in his beer. He’d read about the great jazz musicians. Addiction was part of their brilliance. It validated the ephemeral nature of their art and their life. Raccoon was a testament to that. Crow could hardly believe he got to play alongside one of New York’s finest jazz musicians.
Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night, Raccoon, Cat, Bat, and Crow played wherever Cat could get them a gig. One night, they’d play at a swanky bar in Chelsea. The following week, they’d be in a divey old bar in Harlem where portraits of jazz musicians hung on the walls.
Uptown and downtown, the band’s reputation grew, as did the crowds. Then, a journalist wrote them a glowing review in The Village Voice, and agents started showing up to gigs.
After the gigs, Raccoon, Cat, Bat, and Crow would hang out at the bar and have a few drinks. Cat and Bat were always the first to leave, which was fine by Crow as it allowed him to ask Raccoon about his process.
One Sunday, while Raccoon and Crow sat at the bar of some dump in Hell’s Kitchen, going round for round on their usual double tequilas and soda, Crow asked, “Are we gonna get a record deal?”
Raccoon held his glass to the light as if he were searching for more liquor beneath the ice. “Kid, if a record deal is what you want, you gotta live in the jazz. Nothing but living in the jazz day in and day out. Every waking thought has got to be living in the jazz.”
Raccoon’s words resonated with Crow as the alcohol melded with the adrenalin from their earlier performance. The exhilaration of performing could not have been further from the drudgery of the law firm. The bartender wandered over and slopped more cheap tequila into their glasses.
“I need to quit my job, don’t I?” Asked Crow.
“You’re talented kid. Real good, but I couldn’t tell you what to do with your job. I’ve never had one,” replied Raccoon.
Crow nodded and sipped his drink. Raccoon’s recognition of Crow as a talented jazz musician was all he needed. Crow resolved to quit his job and pursue a life of jazz. That’s how Raccoon lived, and he was a genius. To Crow, playing his bass on stage was intoxicating, and he wanted more.
The following day, Crow marched into the law firm at his usual starting time and told the managing partner he was quitting. When the managing partner tried to convince him to stay, Crow flipped off the managing partner as he walked out with his beak held high.
Their next gig was at a small concert hall in the Bowery. The show should have started, but there was no sign of Raccoon. Cat, Bat, and Crow sat on folding chairs in a green room not much bigger than a New York City food truck while the stage manager yelled at them.
With the show about to be canceled, Raccoon came stumbling in, smelling of piss and walking like he was riding a boat on rough seas. Cat and Bat leapt from their seats to steady Raccoon. The dark fur under Raccoon’s eyes seemed to melt down his face, and his claws were blackened with dirt.
“Give us five minutes,” said Crow to the stage manager.
The stage manager scowled and stormed out of the room.
“Look at him Crow. He can’t play,” said Cat.
“If we don’t go out there, we’re not getting paid, and Racoon and I don’t have jobs,” replied Crow. “We need the money. Raccoon needs the band. You said it yourself. Now, go warm up the crowd.”
Cat and Bat helped Raccoon onto a folding chair. Cat walked towards Crow and stood in his face. “If he’s no good in three minutes, I’m calling it off.” Cat cocked his head in Bat’s direction, and they left for the stage.
Crow rushed to Raccoon’s side and helped him into the bathroom.
“Heya kid,” said Raccoon, his breath smelling like vomit.
Crow leaned Raccoon against the tiled wall. He turned on the tap and splashed water on Raccoon to rouse him until the floor became slippery, and Raccoon slid down the wall to the floor. Crow crouched low to speak face-to-face with him.
“Raccoon, you gotta pull yourself together,” Crow pleaded. Raccoon’s head hung lifeless from his shoulders.
“I need you to live in the jazz tonight,” Crow continued. “Can you live in the jazz for me?”
Raccoon lifted his head and coughed the phlegm clear of his throat. “It’s showtime.”
Crow helped Raccoon to his feet and out of the bathroom. They grabbed their instruments from the green room and walked out on stage to the crowd’s cheers. Cat and Bat sat at their instruments playing a soft melody. They carefully studied Raccoon’s movements as he left a water trail across the stage.
Raccoon slicked back the wet, shimmery fur on his head and leaned on the microphone stand like a crutch. Bat counted them in, and Cat and Crow fell into the rhythm. Minutes passed while Raccoon stood motionless at center stage. He always played the first solo of the first song, and it was fast approaching.
When the solo arrived, Raccoon sprung to life with a fiery solo that convinced Crow he must have done a deal with the devil. Raccoon rocked his head back and forth as he clamored for air. Crow surveyed the audience where he noticed Lizard, an agent for the City’s most prominent record label, tapping his feet. Lizard’s diamond-encrusted Rolex shined in the lights.
As the set drew to a close, Cat, Bat, and Crow were just as wet as Raccoon, having drenched themselves in sweat. The crowd roared one last time as Raccoon lost his balance while taking a bow and nearly fell into the front row. Cat grabbed him and helped Raccoon from the stage. When they returned to the green room, Raccoon was teetering on the edge of consciousness.
Cat checked his breathing.
“Bat, Raccoon lives by you, right?” Asked Cat. “Go grab a cab and take him home with you.”
Bat helped Raccoon out the back door. As the back door closed, Lizard entered the green room.
“We’re not interested,” said Cat as he began folding the chairs.
“Not interested in what?” Asked Crow.
Lizard’s tongue flickered between his thin lips as he produced a business card from his jacket.
“There’s a slot to audition for the label’s president in a month.” Lizard held out the business card. “The details are on the back.”
“Thanks,” replied Crow, grabbing the card. “We really appreciate it.” Lizard’s tongue flickered once more before he darted out of the room.
“Woo! This is it! This is our big break!” Crow squawked.
Cat threw a folding chair against the wall. “You’re kidding, right?” Hissed Cat.
“What?” Replied Crow.
“You idiot. Raccoon is a wreck.” Cat edged closer to Crow. “He barely made it through tonight. There ain’t no way we’re going to that audition.”
“It must be real nice for you Cat,” snapped Crow. “You get to live off that fat cat dad of yours. You can afford to turn this down. What about me? This is all I’ve got.”
“Did you not see Raccoon? He barely knows what planet he’s on, and you think he’s ready for the pressure of a record deal?” Cat turned to head for the back door.
“Raccoon listens to me,” called Crow. “We hang around and get drinks.”
Cat stopped at the door. “So what?”
“I’ll help you get Raccoon into rehab tomorrow.”
Cat stood in the doorway, his tail swishing. Crow knew Cat cared more about Raccoon than any record deal.
“You help me get Raccoon to rehab, and you can have your audition,” said Cat as he closed the door behind him. Crow kissed the business card. They were on the verge of a record deal because he’d come along.
Raccoon went off to rehab the following day without much fuss. Cat, Bat, and Crow confronted him in the morning, and Raccoon was too drained to fight. The four of them walked to the nurses’ desk of a local hospital to check Raccoon into a four-week program that started with a detox.
When the three of them stepped out of the hospital, Cat broke the silence.
“Are we agreed that we can’t play without Raccoon?”
Bat agreed while Crow’s silence was taken as acquiescence.
“It’ll be tight, but my word is my word,” continued Cat. “I’ll organize a gig at The Fat Toad the day after Raccoon gets out. Then, we have the audition the next day. We good?” Cat held out his paw to Crow.
“Yeah, we’re good.”
Crow returned to his apartment solely focused on the audition. He had four weeks to prepare and didn’t intend to let a moment go to waste. He searched online for newer, fancier basses. He opened another browser tab and checked his bank account. Without money from the band, he didn’t have a dollar to spare if he was going to make rent this month. He switched between the tabs, oscillating between paying rent or risking everything on the audition.
“Live in the jazz,” he told himself as he clicked “Add to Cart”.
Crow practiced on his new Sadowsky bass all day and all night, only stopping to eat or sleep. Rent day came and went without payment as Crow continued living in the jazz. Each morning, he would stare at his face in the mirror, imagining his reflection was the glossy album jacket of their freshly pressed vinyl.
As the day of the return gig approached, Crow received an eviction notice. He had two weeks to pay his rent or to get out. They had to get the record deal. Crow smiled at the life he’d created. He was a great artist with nothing and everything to lose.
On the day of the gig, Crow dressed in a black turtleneck and walked his new bass down to The Fat Toad to set up. Much to his surprise, Raccoon, Cat, and Bat were already there.
“Hey, here he is!” Called Crow as he spread his wings to embrace Raccoon.
“How are ya kid? Good to see ya.”
Raccoon wrapped his paws around Crow. He felt stronger than Crow had remembered, and the color had returned to his fur.
“Look at you,” said Crow. “All clean?”
Raccoon nodded.
The four of them walked over to the stage and made the final adjustments to their instruments before Bat counted them in. “A one, a two, a one, two, three, four.” Cat and Bat fell straight back into their groove, and the drumbeat drew the crowd to the stage.
They hadn’t discussed any changes to their setlist, which meant the first solo belonged to Raccoon. A space opened up for him. Raccoon missed it. He tapped his foot at center stage while caressing the trumpet with his paws, seemingly unsure which claw was meant to go over which valve. Crow filled the void with his solo. He pointed his new bass up and down as he strangled every chord from it.
The crowd gave a weak round of applause. Crow stood panting at the side of the stage, confused at the crowd’s mediocre reaction. What Crow had just done was technically incredible, but they weren’t picking up what he was putting down. Cat and Bat either didn’t notice the lackluster response or didn’t care.
Soon after, another space opened up, and Raccoon took it on. He huffed and puffed into his trumpet, but something was missing. There was no shriek. No pop. The audience kept their paws in their pockets.
The solo finished with the crowd clapping while continuing to hold their drinks.
Cat and Bat’s solos were similarly met with a mixed response. The band’s chemistry was off. Raccoon lacked his usual swagger. There was no way they’d get a deal if they gave the same performance in front of the record label’s president. Raccoon continued to grope his trumpet as though discovering what it was like to hold it while sober.
The crowd dissipated midway through the set. Those who remained played with their phones, the screens illuminating their distracted faces.
When the set finished, there was a smattering of applause before the crowd moseyed away. Cat and Bat came from the back of the stage to pat Raccoon on the back.
“Well done!” they exclaimed in unison.
“You were great tonight,” Cat continued, leering at Crow to praise Raccoon.
“Oh yeah,” said Crow. “Great.”
Raccoon continued to turn his trumpet over in his paws.
“Thanks,” mumbled Raccoon. “It’s good to be back.”
Cat and Bat packed up their belongings, hollered more praise at Raccoon, and made their way to the stairway.
“You want a drink?” Asked Crow as he picked up his bass and nudged Raccoon.
“Come on kid, I just got out of rehab.”
“I’ll buy you a soda water,” replied Crow with a chuckle.
Raccoon gave a skittish laugh and walked behind Crow. They slung their instruments under the bar and sat on the barstools. Crow rapped a rhythm on the bar while they waited for the server, who was busy with some other animals. Crow played the rhythm harder, slapping his wings down on the wood. Raccoon clasped his paws together and chewed at his lips. Crow stopped.
“What happened tonight?” Demanded Crow. He stared into the bar, unwilling to look at Raccoon.
“Well, I, you know. It wasn’t easy tonight kid. That’s all.”
Crow clenched his jaw.
“I’m worried about you Raccoon. You and me, we’re visionaries. We used to sit on these stools, drinking for hours, and play better than anyone else in this city, but,” Crow shook his head. “We’ve got the audition tomorrow, and it’s a chance for you and me to be somebody. To do something with our lives.”
Raccoon flopped his head onto the bar, his ears twitching.
“Something was missing tonight, Raccoon, and I know you want to live in the jazz.”
Raccoon whimpered, his face pressed against the bar. “I’ve been out of rehab for less than a day kid. Cut me some slack.”
“You had it under control before, and you’ll have it under control again. Do you think any of the greats were stone-cold sober? You inspired me to quit my job, practice every day and now you’re quitting?”
“I ain’t quitting kid. I played the trumpet when I was in rehab. I’d sit in the window of my crumby little room and wait for it to come to me. But it didn’t. I thought it must have been something about the hospital, you know, like I couldn’t focus in there or something. I, I stunk tonight.”
Raccoon’s voice cracked, and his body jerked with emotion.
“Could you feel the music?” Crow asked as he placed his wing on Raccoon’s back.
“No,” Raccoon muttered. “I felt nothing.”
A voice called from the other end of the bar, “Fellas, double tequilas with soda?” Crow nodded.
“You need to come back,” implored Crow. “Live in the jazz Raccoon. Live in the jazz.”
Glasses clinked up and down the bar while animals shot pool behind them. A roar went up as a game was won and lost. Raccoon lifted his head to find the double tequila with soda beside him.
“Cheers,” said Crow as he raised his glass.
Raccoon reached for his drink. Without acknowledging Crow’s toast, he guzzled it down.
“Welcome back,” said Crow before downing his drink in one swoop and calling for two more. They finished the second as soon as it was set down in front of them and sat in silence to let the spirit do its work.
When Raccoon’s eyes were glazed from tequila, Crow started laying the groundwork for tomorrow.
“Do you miss it?” Crow asked.
“Kid, there is no better feeling in the world than the rush when it first hits. It’s a cozy feeling, familiar, like an old blanket. It would get me through the intolerable days until I got to play again,” Raccoon gestured for another drink.
“And,” said Crow. “Imagine what you could do with your life if we had a record deal.” Crow stared at Raccoon, imploring the words to cut through Raccoon and enflame his darkest desires.
Raccoon got up from his stool. He held the bar to steady himself as he crouched to grab his trumpet case.
“I gotta go kid,” said Raccoon and he headed toward the stairway.
Crow arrived at the record label tower the next day and was escorted to the recording studio’s control room. Lizard pushed back from the panel of knobs and dials and introduced Crow to the record label’s president. Crow felt his wing quiver as he reached out to greet Crocodile, who wore a thick gold chain and a business suit. He could feel the stinky warmth of Crocodile’s nostrils on his face. One of the walls of the control room was glass, where Cat and Bat could be seen setting up in the recording studio.
Crow walked out of the control room and into the recording studio to plug in his bass.
Minutes passed. Cat and Bat sat at their instruments. Crow busied himself, tuning his instrument, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
Click. “Where’s the raccoon?” Said Lizard over the intercom.
Cat and Bat didn’t move. Crocodile gazed at his watch and shuffled his thick, scaly tail in his seat. As Crow went to respond, the door to the studio opened. It was Raccoon. As he pulled the door behind him, his trumpet case remained tucked under one arm as he fell to the floor.
Raccoon was a ghost of himself – shades of black and white fur in low resolution. He got up in slow motion and ambled to the center of the studio. His white undershirt was stained, and his pants were ripped. Pulling his trumpet from its case, he promptly dropped it.
Crocodile and Lizard were still in the control room, watching Raccoon fidget and sweat under the lights. Before anyone could do anything, Crow counted them in. “One, two, one, two, three, four.”
Bat set the rhythm on the snare drum while Cat watched Raccoon carefully. Raccoon was fossicking on all fours, looking for something no one saw him drop. This was one of their signature songs with multiple solos from Raccoon. This was it. Their chance. Crow closed his eyes, willing the record deal from his bass.
As they approached Raccoon’s first solo, Crow opened his eyes. Raccoon was asleep with his trumpet hanging from the tips of his claws. When the solo arrived, Crow leapt into it. He plucked and pulled at the strings like his life depended on it.
As the solo wound down, so did Cat and Bat until the room was quiet. Crocodile and Lizard had left.
“Come on!” shouted Crow. “Come on!”
With a crash, Bat threw his drumsticks into the drumkit and stormed out of the studio. Cat pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed for an ambulance.
The next day, Crow waited in his apartment to hear from Raccoon, Cat, or Bat. His phone was quiet. He knew there was no band. He had no job. No way to pay his rent. His only money was the hundred-dollar bill he’d saved as a memento from his first gig. Crow slung his bass guitars over one shoulder, a few personal items in a duffel over the other, and left the keys on the ground inside the front door before leaving the apartment. He was determined to hold onto his dream. He would live in the jazz, and he didn’t need Raccoon, Cat, or Bat to help him. His last hundred dollars would be more than enough to get him there.
The following weekend, Crow was back playing at The Fat Toad. He stood alone at center stage with a spotlight beaming down on him and his bass guitar. A few animals sat at the round tables, talking amongst themselves while Crow played intricate solos. The crowd didn’t appreciate that Crow was nailing every note.
As the song concluded, some of the crowd clapped, but most continued their conversations. Crow took a swig of whiskey from his lowball glass and looked out over the audience. A familiar face was making his way toward him. It looked like Raccoon. The face was fuller, and the fur seemed more vibrant.
Crow pushed the microphone stand to the side.
“Raccoon?” He asked.
“Yeah kid, it’s me. Heard I’d find you here. How ya doing?”
Crow fondled his bass. “I’m doing it. I’m living in the jazz. What about you? You want to play tonight?”
“Nah,” replied Raccoon. “Didn’t bring my trumpet. Plus, Cat and Bat don’t want me onstage no more. Playing it straight, you know?”
Crow considered the possibilities. With Cat and Bat out of the way, it was a chance to collaborate with Raccoon again. They could start a new band. Take another shot at a record deal. Crow’s feathers tingled with anticipation.
“We should start a band,” Crow suggested. “You and me. We could take a real run at it.”
“Nice idea,” replied Raccoon. “But, I’m clean kid. How ‘bout you? Do you want to get clean?”
Raccoon was no longer in the jazz. He was a distraction, a detractor, someone who stood in the way.
Crow stepped away from Racoon and pulled the microphone stand back before him.
“I understand kid. Take care of yourself,” said Raccoon as he tapped the edge of the stage with his paw and turned to leave.
When he reached the stairway, Raccoon looked back with an empathetic smile at Crow under the lights of the stage.
Crow leaned into the microphone and hissed, “It’s showtime.”