Hotel Bar
J.D. McClatchy, 8 August 2002
“... The saxophonist winds up ‘My Romance’, the song with a scar. In the red lacquer ceiling, the night’s raw throat, I can just make out lampshades the colour of a smoker’s breath. One is at our table. Across sits a woman in tiny furs from before the war, the mouth of one gnawing on the tail of the other, like comets. A sudden brightness on stage, a flaring spot, flashes on the nodding brass ... ”