'Slugs' by Scurvy Bastard (c) 2003

From 1965, for a few fine years
the sweetest place on God’s gray Earth
was a Jazz club called SLUG’S

242 East 3rd Street, between B & C,
in the black heart of Alphabet City
set into the brick of a torn tenement
just down the block from the Hell’s Angels clubhouse
SLUG’S was where the real ones came to play

Pharaoh Sanders fed my soul
while Leon Thomas yodeled to God
and the ghost of Coltrane sipped scotch in the shadows
watching his students pass the torch

Sun Ra descended
golden gowned, black marble Alien
there was no room left on the small stage
so his Arkestra sat at the front tables
often erupting in procession, between the tight spaces, blowing horns to our heads
strutting with loud wail through the sawdust beach

Elvin Jones once showed up with a broken finger
he used his splint as a drumstick
while we downed half-bottles of very cool Cold Duck
and shots of J&B

February 19, 1972
Lee Morgan
the bad and beautiful trumpet which escorted me through countless Nights In Tunisia
was shot dead by his wife at the bar
and two treasures were silenced forever

A perfect fusion of alchemy and irony
the damned place was named for the final blows that would close its doors 7 years later

Beat that