Writer's Effects 4 (March 2019, IGCSE FLE)

Passage 

The Nightblooming Jazzmen

 

The narrator has successfully auditioned for the job of drummer in a small jazz band. He has been invited to play with the band at their next ‘gig’. This concert will be the last of a series of open-air summer concerts in a local park. The existing members of this jazz band first played together in a bigger band after they had retired.

 

The dudes are severely elderly, these Nightblooming Jazzmen. They wear white belts and bow ties, trousers pulled up high.

 

‘Our angle is we’re old,’ they say. ‘You’ll have to dress the part if you’re going to be our pulse, drumbo.’ A couple of them have serious moustaches. I paste one on for the gig, bleach my eyebrows and pop on a straw hat.

 

They have the coolest names: Clyde, Chet, Wally and Hal. When I say my name is Nathanial, they say, ‘You can’t use a name like that.’

 

After my audition, Clyde comes over as I’m packing up my drums. Grinning, he says I’ve got the job, but from now on they’ll call me Old Stanley.

 

***

 

The gig’s in a park. The bandstand is covered with graffiti. A crowd of old people and a few of their grandkids look on from folding chairs.

 

Clyde puffs ‘Good afternoon’ into the microphone and we’re off and running. We cook up a carousel of sound with our hands, with the wind in our chests. A gang of senior citizens – and me – just tearing up the place. Chet is coaxing sad wah-wahs out of his trombone. Clyde noodles out golden lassos on the clarinet. Wally burps wetly along on the tuba. We stir up a flock of audience jazz-hands, playing music no one plays any more, stuff I learned from my dad. The sun tilts through the trees, spot-lighting shafts of dust. We’re just a speck in the grand whirling scheme, but at least we’re making noise. We close the set like landing a plane, bouncing along a little then rolling to a stop.

 

Give these guys their due – that gig was pretty sweet.

 

Hal, breathing heavily, comes over. ‘Great job,’ he says. ‘You can swing. How’d you learn?’

 

‘My dad,’ I explain.

 

‘Did he play?’

 

‘Yeah.’ That’s all I say.

 

Hal talks more at the after-show party. ‘We were a big band. Guys gradually dropped off though …’

 

They tried rolling with it, calling themselves The Littlest Big-Band, but couldn’t draw a crowd. So Clyde, who’s basically the leader, said they’d play jazz – did anyone have a problem with that? One guy – the drummer – walked out.

 

‘You’re good kid,’ Hal says patting me hard on the back, like he’s burping a baby.

 

The women organising the party have laid out a great spread: crackers, some kind of creamy dip, cheese, grapes and peanuts. I start attacking the snacks.

 

Hal says, ‘Easy, Stanley.’

 

The women gather up and introduce themselves. They have candy-floss hair, neatly knitted cardigans and foggy eyes. There’s more than one brooch and bracelets all around, so they jangle when they move. They deliver their names like they’re performing a song. Ruth and Nancy are sisters. Betty is an old friend. Great names, I say. Crumbs fly from my mouth. Clyde gives me a look.

 

The women love our music. So many of the summer concerts are such disappointments, they say.

 

Ruth recalls a terrible rap act. They all shudder and look to me, expecting an opinion. ‘Rap sucks,’ I say reaching for more cheese.

 

‘You have most unusual eyebrows,’ Nancy says.

 

‘Goes better with the moustache,’ I say.

 

Everyone laughs because, at the moment, my silvery fringe moustache is curled up on the dashboard of my car.

 

‘How’s that for commitment?’ Clyde smiles. ‘The kid gets hired and goes the extra mile to fit in.’ I feel like I’m eight years old – a little kid with a whole army of grandparents.

 

The party chugs forward, with some of the guys playing their horns, Wally’s stories of wars and Chet coming West to pick citrus.

 

They start dancing to records.

 

‘Why don’t you dance?’ Wally asks, watching Chet dancing with Betty.

 

‘I don’t know how to dance to this music,’ I say, making my excuses and leave.

 

Looking back from my car, I watch them, silhouettes jitterbugging, framed in the rosy window. The music’s faint, but I tap along. They’re laughing in waves, warbling harmonies. Why couldn’t I have met them a long time ago? But they didn’t exist then as they are now, I know. They look like a movie flashed on a wall, hanging in space with no connection to time. It seems impossible that I stepped out from it, or that I could get back in. It’s like a soap bubble you try to put in your pocket.

 

The song ends. Everyone shouts, ‘More!’

 

That’s all I need to be called back. I press on the moustache

 

Question

Re-read the descriptions of:

 

(a)    the concert in paragraph 6, beginning ‘Clyde puffs …’

 

(b)    the partygoers in paragraph 29, beginning ‘Looking back …’

 

Select THREE powerful words or phrases from each paragraph. Your choices should include IMAGERY.

 

Explain how each word or phrase selected is used effectively in the context.

 

Write about 200 to 300 words.

 

Suggested responses

a). The concert in paragraph 6
The general effect is of the uplifting power of the music and the
connection between the surroundings and natural style of the
musicians
we’re off and running: (image) concert starts, begin to play, as if a (horse)
race, competing with each other enthusiastically
cook up a carousel of sound: (image) create music, reminiscent of
preparing food by heating it up and in doing so changing the flavour, also
falsifying/making seem better than it is; fairground ride, sound seems to be
all around, spinning, making the audience dizzy
a gang of senior citizens: (image) group, described as if criminals or
delinquents, humorous contrast with polite term for older people
tearing up the place: (image) playing energetically, as if rushing at full
speed/ destroying peace with their sound, causing an excited reaction
coaxing sad wah-wahs: (image) playing the trombone with skill and care,
played with feeling, as if persuading it to make music, sense of melancholy
noodles out golden lassos: (image) improvising, as if loops of notes,
ribbons of attractive sound, no direction or plan but skilfully hooking
audience, capturing them
burps wetly along: natural expulsion of air, as if cannot help but play along,
suggests less intelligent / unsophisticated but instinctive
stir up a flock of audience jazz-hands: (image) crowd lifting / waving
hands in time / appreciation as if group of birds taking flight suddenly,
deliberately disturbed
sun tilts through the trees: setting sun / gentle light; at an angle, as if
head on one side listening to music, relaxing
spot-lighting shafts of dust: (image) the light coming through the trees
appears to light the stage theatrically, the dust is rising not settling – the
music is causing a reaction
speck in the grand whirling scheme: each of them is just one human in
the overall pattern of life and the world, insignificant but contributing
something to the lives of those listening to their music, speck of dust
suggests they/their music will pass
like landing a plane, bouncing along   (rolling to a stop): (image) not an
expert landing /difficult to stop, but safely down, end of concert is not as
polished / not used to playing together /still some skill involved

 

b). The party goers in paragraph 29
The general effect is of a glimpse into a bygone era, and Stanley’s
desire to be a part of it
silhouettes jitterbugging: shadowy shapes, outlines of the people dancing,
energetic
framed in the rosy window: (image) like a picture, romanticised [rose-tinted
spectacles]
music’s faint: sound is barely heard, faded/fading, hanging on, soft yet
alluring
laughing in waves: (image) all laughing together/ synchronised rising and
falling, as if taken up by the same feelings / experience / emotion ,
unstoppable force
warbling harmonies: singing together, trill, embellished, quavering, birdlike
like a movie flashed on a wall: as if watching a film from the past projected
onto the house, glamour of scene suggested, artificial image rather than real
life
hanging in space with no connection to time: do not fit in with the image
of the modern world, suspended animation, like sci-fi time travellers
like a soap bubble you try to put in your pocket: (near) impossible
action; fragile, easily destroyed, bursting bubble suggests rude awakening
from a pleasant dream or view of the world