"Lee Konitz--plays a delicate alto."

Trapped. So we went to Storyville.

It was different, very different. Except for the music, there wasn't a sound in the place. People sat at their tables, hands folded, staring hard at the stand. There, in the middle of the raised platform stood Lee Konitz--himself staring at a small saxophone clutched in his rapidly working fingers.

We sat down. I turned to my friend.

"Don't talk," he said, "just listen."

He turned his head and started staring hard at the stand.

So I listened.

Konitz stopped playing--leaving a couple of notes hanging in mid-air. He pulled up the microphone and spoke: "We're going to play something I wrote with Lennie Tristano called . . . I'm sorry, I don't think we gave it a name."

He played. I listened. My companion muttered something about "flatted fifths." I listened some more. The number ended. Applause.

Konitz smiled and then looked embarrassed. "I'm very sorry," he said, "but I just remembered--I didn't write that. The next number is something I waxed 17 years ago." He started to play Sweet and Lovely.

Konitz looked as if he were having a hard time pushing 24. He had short cropped blonde hair and wore thick horned rim glasses. He was wearing a blue oxford button-down and a black knit tie, and seemed perpetually bent at the knees. Very tired.

The music went on and I began to get interested. It seemed tricky and pleasant; it was the feeling you get from looking at a midget juggling ice cubes. I looked smilingly at my companion. He looked dejected.

"Not inspired," he said.

"Huh?"

"They're not getting any kicks--just playing the job."

I drained down my beer, got up, and started to walk out.

"You see," my friend began to explain, "Bop is cerebral . . ."