Scratching an itch to add fresh music -- jazz -- to my collection, I was upstairs at HMV.
Silently, I cursed the pounding bass and screeching treble from downstairs, drowning out our first floor jazz. It's a long time since I felt welcome and comfortable in the rock section, I mused, perusing the sparse collection of jazz, mostly old, except for a couple of Melody Gardot albums already ensconced in my collection.
I have the kind of ears that listen. Downstairs had found something quiet to play, and HMV were treating us upper atmosphere souls to a woman's voice I didn't recognize, delvering a gutsy mix of jazz and rockabilly.
"Who's that?" I asked an assistant.
