Lunar voodoo and all that jazz

We sat there entranced. From the very first note which rang from her lips like cut crystal we were lost. Her voice smoky and blue, spilling from cherry red blossoms below midnight black forever. Jazz baby, intricate winding melody amidst syncopated, broken rhythmic shrapnel. Throaty and thoughtful, breathless and ballsy, random and relenting by turns. And so fingers plucked, brushes brushed and hands danced across the keys like drunken soldiers on parade. Oh what a night! To be sat there, huddled among friends, letting the evening wash over and into us. Effortless cool, muted trumpet screaming from the depths, the performers joined in a thrumming, tumbling juggernaught of the sublime.

Imelda May,
can I just say,
that was ... stunning.