Get this, hepcats: we sat down with one of the red hot jazz combos of our times, the Frankie Tops Quintet, and wouldn’t you know it, we couldn’t stop the heat those wild, wild jazz cats were bringing and now it’s in us and please help us, daddio, this is hell.
It was just a routine interview assignment, and we didn’t think much about it, other than we thought it would be a real draaaaaag, man. We got to the spot where it all happens, which is to say the jazz club where the FTs were doing their thing, and as soon as we started asking Frankie Tops questions, this strange thing took over and now we can’t stop. We can’t stop what is happening, you dig me?
We started with a real jive question about keepin’ it on the eight, because back then we were real slow on the down low, but Frankie made eye contact with us and it was like our legs turned to groovy jell-o, man. We started talking like this, and the band laughed real weird, like a bunch of dewdrops in their glad rags, hear?
Skee, skee skiddily bop!
Then we started talking like this, Johnny Kiss, and it won’t stop happening and we can’t stop and we’re scared and dig that far-out sound of the double bass going blunk blunk blunk! We tried to clap our hands to indicate that the band had stopped playing, but we could only snap our finger, which is so dumb. We ain’t throwing no applesauce on that, and ain’t no one got the beat like Rick Thumbs, the drummer of the quintet?
How did we know that name? And where did this beret come from?
Daddio, this is a living torment. We can’t exist solely as jazz cats be-bopping and telling it to Sweeney! Please! Kill us! Please put us out of our red-hot misery!
It’s the screams we’re not screaming!