12-31-2025, 12:38 AM
What follows is the first chapter of a novel I’ve recently begun. It’s a working draft, set in postwar Chicago, and aims for a jazz-soaked noir tone. This is my first attempt at writing a novel, and I’m looking for honest, constructive feedback—what works, what doesn’t, and where it pulls you in or loses you.
Lost in the Pocket
Ch1
I was a modest bassist. Didn’t finish my degree when the war broke out, but I’d been catching gigs here and there, just enough to scrape by. The pay wasn’t much, but I never went hungry, and my little room didn’t cost too much. Chicago’s jazz scene had a life of its own, and every night I felt lucky just to carve out the smallest slice of it. The city thrummed with music and ambition, buzzing like a bassline under my feet. I breathed it in every night, smoke and rhythm filling the air in those late-night clubs.
The gigs were quick, the music was lively, and the drugs—man, they were like a new religion in the underground. You’d see players come and go, slipping into shadows, leaning into the foggy glow of neon lit rooms. Reefer was the new cigarette; heroin—well, that devil didn’t let go easy once it got hold. I stayed clear of all that. Always thought the music was enough, more than enough. I needed to keep my head sharp and my fingers quicker, clean enough to lay down a groove that could outlast whatever haze filled the room.
Ten years ago, I was stationed in England, playing jazz for the Army band. For a while, I jammed with Glenn Miller himself, before he disappeared on that flight in ‘44. No one wanted to say it, but we all knew he wasn’t coming back.
The Army grabbed me during my sophomore year at the New School of Social Research. It wasn’t much of a jazz program—mostly classical—but it had one thing the other schools didn’t: a jazz class. That alone kept me off the front lines. I heard enough from soldiers on leave to know that the Rhine wasn’t for me. Men talked about the cold steel of rifles, blood on boots. Me? I was good with strings, but I was no fighter. Let the other men shoot and plan; my job was to keep morale high, and that was fine by me. War, I decided, was for justifying—or dying—and I wasn’t ready for either.
I came home, though. Lucky, I guess. Not all my friends did. And the ones who did? Well, most of them came back with something missing. Their hands would shake, or they’d stop speaking halfway through a sentence, like their minds had fallen in those fields somewhere. Even their eyes didn’t blink the same. I’d hear them talk sometimes—about the things they saw, the screams they couldn’t block out. It wasn’t just ugly. It was haunting. Some turn to reefer, others inject smack to quiet it all down. If music hadn’t kept me steady, who knows where I would have fallen in.
I didn’t see combat, but I wasn’t untouched. Still, I found my way back to the music, because it was the only thing that made sense anymore. War was chaos, music was order. War was rage, music was beauty. I’d settle into the pocket, keeping the rhythm locked, while the horns soared above me in dissonant, electric waves that somehow soothed the soul. That was my job: to be the foundation. To make the rest of the band fall in line. That bass wasn’t just wood and strings—it was my ticket to keep living. Without it, the world felt too sharp, too empty.
When I got back stateside, I grabbed my bass and headed straight for Chicago. The ticket clerk made me buy an extra bus seat just for the giant case. It was tall, awkward, and took up way too much space. But that bass had taken care of me—kept me off the line and out of the Rhine—and its next job was to keep me fed and under a roof.
Army money got me by at first. Enough to rent a room and keep me searching for work in the music scene. Bronzeville, on the South Side, felt alive. The streets buzzed with music and voices, each block marked by smoky clubs spilling saxophones and swing into the night. Outside the Blue Room, a community board was covered in wanted ads and flyers—dozens of them looking for bass players. Not many people had the determination to lug a giant upright from gig to gig, much less the money to own one. But me? I had both. For now.
I ripped six numbers off that board. Just six. Not every group is worth your time, and you don’t just fall into the first band that will take you. You need to belong. In this city, the wrong gig can hang on you like a bad suit.
Bebop was blazing when I came back—fast, tight, restless. Every solo flying off like a challenge you couldn’t refuse. But there were some cats working this thing they called “cool jazz.” It was slower, more deliberate, with an edge that crept in sideways. I had to find out where I fit. Was I going to run with the wolves of bebop, or slip into something a little smoother? Either way, I wasn’t here just to play. I was here to belong.
Bronzeville pulsed with life after dark. Streetcars rattled down 35th while club doors creaked open to let the sounds of muted trumpets and walking basses spill into the night. The air was thick with barbecue smoke and perfume, the faint buzz of conversations carried on the breeze.
I started dialing my six numbers, each one tied to a bandleader with an ego bigger than Texas. But that was the scene. Everyone thought they were the next Charlie Parker, and hell, maybe one of them was. Regardless, I needed a group—fast. The way guys kept tight back then was brutal: jam in the afternoon, rehearse what fell apart the night before, and gear up for two, maybe three gigs that evening. No sleep, just sweat and swing.
I scheduled all six auditions in the span of a few days. The first one was loose—real loose—and the bandleader spent more time telling jokes than keeping time. The second? They were sharp, sure, but colder than a Chicago wind in January. The third, though? That felt like home. Their tenor player peeled out runs so fast it was like lightning striking metal, and their drummer locked in like a ticking clock. I hadn’t even finished my solo before the bandleader said, ‘Alright, you’ll do.’ Just like that, I was in.
The Lost—that was the name of the group. Fitting for a young black bassist fresh out of hell and trying to find his way. We were led by John “The Rev” Clark, an old-head trumpet player out of St. Louis with melodies that could take you somewhere you’d never been before. Playing with The Rev felt like stepping into a different dimension, one where every note bent reality a little. When The Rev stepped on stage, you didn’t just hear him—you felt him. The room would bend to his horn, every player around him scrambling to keep pace with a man who wasn’t following the rules.
His fingers moved so fast, you’d swear they weren’t human. His tone? Rich, sharp, and soulful all at once. I don’t know a single cat who spent more time in the woodshed than The Rev. We used to say practice makes perfect, but this dude wasn’t just perfect—he was magic. For me, The Lost wasn’t just a band. It was a compass. A way to move forward when I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself.
The Rev took to me early on. He used to say, “Joel, you bass players are about the stupidest group of guys I’ve ever met. But, damn, boy, the way you thump them strings—keeps you alright in my book.”
I can’t say I ever appreciated being bashed on my brains, but it was just his way of showing he cared. The Rev didn’t hand out compliments freely. When he said something like that, you knew he meant it, even if he wrapped it in a backhanded jab. I learned not to take it personal. With him, it wasn’t about what you said—it was about the music. And as long as I kept laying it down tight, I’d stay in his good graces.
We played mostly old standards—some I even knew from my time with Miller in England—but The Lost turned them into something unrecognizable. The best way I can describe it? Take Ellington’s “In a Sentimental Mood”, pump it full of three cups of joe, a toot of powder, and force it to chug a fifth of bottom-shelf gin. It staggered, jolted, and blazed like nothing you’d ever heard before.
Audiences loved it. They’d start with furrowed brows and scowls at us for “botching a perfectly fine arrangement,” but those looks melted into wide-eyed excitement when they realized they couldn’t predict our next move. We could sway and pivot on a dime, and they leaned in with every sharp turn, riding that edge with us. There’d always be a guy in the crowd, arms crossed tight, staring us down like we’d insulted his mama. By the third song, that same guy’d be snapping his fingers, leaning forward to catch the next drop.
The Rev and his Lost Band. Fitting. Home. I’d found my groove. Chicago was a city full of corners to turn, edges to explore, and it was ready to take me there. For the first time since the war, I had a purpose again. We weren’t just playing music—we were creating something that could carry you far away from the mess of the world. With The Lost, I was found.
Lost in the Pocket
Ch1
I was a modest bassist. Didn’t finish my degree when the war broke out, but I’d been catching gigs here and there, just enough to scrape by. The pay wasn’t much, but I never went hungry, and my little room didn’t cost too much. Chicago’s jazz scene had a life of its own, and every night I felt lucky just to carve out the smallest slice of it. The city thrummed with music and ambition, buzzing like a bassline under my feet. I breathed it in every night, smoke and rhythm filling the air in those late-night clubs.
The gigs were quick, the music was lively, and the drugs—man, they were like a new religion in the underground. You’d see players come and go, slipping into shadows, leaning into the foggy glow of neon lit rooms. Reefer was the new cigarette; heroin—well, that devil didn’t let go easy once it got hold. I stayed clear of all that. Always thought the music was enough, more than enough. I needed to keep my head sharp and my fingers quicker, clean enough to lay down a groove that could outlast whatever haze filled the room.
Ten years ago, I was stationed in England, playing jazz for the Army band. For a while, I jammed with Glenn Miller himself, before he disappeared on that flight in ‘44. No one wanted to say it, but we all knew he wasn’t coming back.
The Army grabbed me during my sophomore year at the New School of Social Research. It wasn’t much of a jazz program—mostly classical—but it had one thing the other schools didn’t: a jazz class. That alone kept me off the front lines. I heard enough from soldiers on leave to know that the Rhine wasn’t for me. Men talked about the cold steel of rifles, blood on boots. Me? I was good with strings, but I was no fighter. Let the other men shoot and plan; my job was to keep morale high, and that was fine by me. War, I decided, was for justifying—or dying—and I wasn’t ready for either.
I came home, though. Lucky, I guess. Not all my friends did. And the ones who did? Well, most of them came back with something missing. Their hands would shake, or they’d stop speaking halfway through a sentence, like their minds had fallen in those fields somewhere. Even their eyes didn’t blink the same. I’d hear them talk sometimes—about the things they saw, the screams they couldn’t block out. It wasn’t just ugly. It was haunting. Some turn to reefer, others inject smack to quiet it all down. If music hadn’t kept me steady, who knows where I would have fallen in.
I didn’t see combat, but I wasn’t untouched. Still, I found my way back to the music, because it was the only thing that made sense anymore. War was chaos, music was order. War was rage, music was beauty. I’d settle into the pocket, keeping the rhythm locked, while the horns soared above me in dissonant, electric waves that somehow soothed the soul. That was my job: to be the foundation. To make the rest of the band fall in line. That bass wasn’t just wood and strings—it was my ticket to keep living. Without it, the world felt too sharp, too empty.
When I got back stateside, I grabbed my bass and headed straight for Chicago. The ticket clerk made me buy an extra bus seat just for the giant case. It was tall, awkward, and took up way too much space. But that bass had taken care of me—kept me off the line and out of the Rhine—and its next job was to keep me fed and under a roof.
Army money got me by at first. Enough to rent a room and keep me searching for work in the music scene. Bronzeville, on the South Side, felt alive. The streets buzzed with music and voices, each block marked by smoky clubs spilling saxophones and swing into the night. Outside the Blue Room, a community board was covered in wanted ads and flyers—dozens of them looking for bass players. Not many people had the determination to lug a giant upright from gig to gig, much less the money to own one. But me? I had both. For now.
I ripped six numbers off that board. Just six. Not every group is worth your time, and you don’t just fall into the first band that will take you. You need to belong. In this city, the wrong gig can hang on you like a bad suit.
Bebop was blazing when I came back—fast, tight, restless. Every solo flying off like a challenge you couldn’t refuse. But there were some cats working this thing they called “cool jazz.” It was slower, more deliberate, with an edge that crept in sideways. I had to find out where I fit. Was I going to run with the wolves of bebop, or slip into something a little smoother? Either way, I wasn’t here just to play. I was here to belong.
Bronzeville pulsed with life after dark. Streetcars rattled down 35th while club doors creaked open to let the sounds of muted trumpets and walking basses spill into the night. The air was thick with barbecue smoke and perfume, the faint buzz of conversations carried on the breeze.
I started dialing my six numbers, each one tied to a bandleader with an ego bigger than Texas. But that was the scene. Everyone thought they were the next Charlie Parker, and hell, maybe one of them was. Regardless, I needed a group—fast. The way guys kept tight back then was brutal: jam in the afternoon, rehearse what fell apart the night before, and gear up for two, maybe three gigs that evening. No sleep, just sweat and swing.
I scheduled all six auditions in the span of a few days. The first one was loose—real loose—and the bandleader spent more time telling jokes than keeping time. The second? They were sharp, sure, but colder than a Chicago wind in January. The third, though? That felt like home. Their tenor player peeled out runs so fast it was like lightning striking metal, and their drummer locked in like a ticking clock. I hadn’t even finished my solo before the bandleader said, ‘Alright, you’ll do.’ Just like that, I was in.
The Lost—that was the name of the group. Fitting for a young black bassist fresh out of hell and trying to find his way. We were led by John “The Rev” Clark, an old-head trumpet player out of St. Louis with melodies that could take you somewhere you’d never been before. Playing with The Rev felt like stepping into a different dimension, one where every note bent reality a little. When The Rev stepped on stage, you didn’t just hear him—you felt him. The room would bend to his horn, every player around him scrambling to keep pace with a man who wasn’t following the rules.
His fingers moved so fast, you’d swear they weren’t human. His tone? Rich, sharp, and soulful all at once. I don’t know a single cat who spent more time in the woodshed than The Rev. We used to say practice makes perfect, but this dude wasn’t just perfect—he was magic. For me, The Lost wasn’t just a band. It was a compass. A way to move forward when I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself.
The Rev took to me early on. He used to say, “Joel, you bass players are about the stupidest group of guys I’ve ever met. But, damn, boy, the way you thump them strings—keeps you alright in my book.”
I can’t say I ever appreciated being bashed on my brains, but it was just his way of showing he cared. The Rev didn’t hand out compliments freely. When he said something like that, you knew he meant it, even if he wrapped it in a backhanded jab. I learned not to take it personal. With him, it wasn’t about what you said—it was about the music. And as long as I kept laying it down tight, I’d stay in his good graces.
We played mostly old standards—some I even knew from my time with Miller in England—but The Lost turned them into something unrecognizable. The best way I can describe it? Take Ellington’s “In a Sentimental Mood”, pump it full of three cups of joe, a toot of powder, and force it to chug a fifth of bottom-shelf gin. It staggered, jolted, and blazed like nothing you’d ever heard before.
Audiences loved it. They’d start with furrowed brows and scowls at us for “botching a perfectly fine arrangement,” but those looks melted into wide-eyed excitement when they realized they couldn’t predict our next move. We could sway and pivot on a dime, and they leaned in with every sharp turn, riding that edge with us. There’d always be a guy in the crowd, arms crossed tight, staring us down like we’d insulted his mama. By the third song, that same guy’d be snapping his fingers, leaning forward to catch the next drop.
The Rev and his Lost Band. Fitting. Home. I’d found my groove. Chicago was a city full of corners to turn, edges to explore, and it was ready to take me there. For the first time since the war, I had a purpose again. We weren’t just playing music—we were creating something that could carry you far away from the mess of the world. With The Lost, I was found.
