There was a book written a long time ago
That talked about a new kind of sound
The pages between the covers
are now yellow and brittle
Staring at black vinyl
spinning round and around
In between the cracks and the scratches
Was that new kind of sound
It's followed me forever
From the clubs at Vaughan and St Clair
To Old Montreal
From Chicago's California Avenue
to San Francisco's North Shore
From open air festivals
To open mics at midnight
It lives through me
and it always will
Seeping through my pores
As I dance the Second Line
On New Orleans' Bourbon Street
I've cooked to Charlie Mingus
Rhapsodized about the Monk
Witnessed the birth of a child
As Baker played his trumpet
One night in Harlem
After I'd seen it all
I opened my eyes
And saw it all
for the very first time
It was a week before Christmas
Up on Sugar Hill
The sweet life beckoned
Playing it's notes
In syncopated fury
What better gift
This holiday season
Than lending an ear
And meeting St Nick
Picture in your mind
What image do you have?
I'll give you a hint
Just think about jazz
That picture in your mind
That image that you have
That is the image of jazz
That is St Nick's at Christmas time
Sat at the bar
With the love of my life
Surrounded by friends
I didn't know that I had
Surrounded by ghosts
Of the friends that I have
Bird was there as he had been before
So was Dizzy and Tatum
The Duke would arrive
on the A Train before long
He always had an encore or two
up on Sugar Hill
As we stumbled out into the night
it had now become morn
The sun was cresting over the horizon
And the wind blew so chill
I held you closer
To feel your warmth
And we walked the few blocks home
From St Nicholas and West 145th
It was a week before Christmas
Up on Sugar Hill
I had followed that star
And it led me to you.
— Mark Butkus
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