As you walk into the bar, the strong, musky scent of the establishment assaults your nose. Even so, it was a familiar and comforting scent as opposed to the all-so-familiar sensation of the biting cold right outside. A band is starting up, pumping out lick after lick of soothing jazz. It was no wonder that this warmly lit and comforting bar was highly rated.

As you take off your hat, the bartender looks up and smiles. He recognizes that you are a regular and asks if you are to have the usual. Half a liter of lager, as it always is. You nod with a smile. That would be the only drink for the night unless it was a particularly rowdy night. After the bartender fills your glass, you slip to him the usual folded bill, which he gratefully takes.

As you take a sip, you note a group of somewhat elderly men in the corner causing an unusual ruckus. Not in a violent manner, just slightly louder chatter. They must have lots of energy for being that old. In their 60s, you gander.
Feeling a little more talkative following some sips of your beer, you sit at the table next to theirs. They take note, but they keep on going. You must be another stranger taking the night off to them.

Out of curiosity, you insert yourself in their conversation while they were momentarily silent. Not in a particularly graceful manner, but the group brings you closer in their conversation. Turns out that they were talking about the jazz playing right now.

After a little questioning, one man reveals that they all have a special connection to music. Clad in a yellow t-shirt and the top of his hair gone, the somewhat burly man sits back in his chair and folds his arms. His eyebrows raise, and the other three instinctively fall quiet.

As he starts to speak, his deep, commanding voice begins to waft over the ears of the willing listeners. Out his mouth tumbles a completely different reality that seems so distant, yet so real.

Entranced by his story, you are transported to a cramped room with four others: incidentally, the younger selves of the four men. They all have instruments in their hands, and they begin to play together sensually. The music is slightly rehearsed but still chock full of slight imperfections that make the music so human. The saxophonist takes over as the soloist and crashes the performance just as spectacularly.

A different man, this one with a green shirt and a full top of head hair, interjects and adds a missing detail: a drumstick sent flying towards the soloist. Laughter passes around the table; after all, the victim couldn't let the perpetrator get away with leaving out such an important detail in the story.

And so, the band continued rehearsing. Even though the music was mostly improvised at times, every minute counted.

The reason? All four would perform at an outdoor venue in front of many guests. Especially for an audience of this size, there was bound to be somebody important in the crowd.

Transported to the night of the performance, you see the group on stage, setting up for the moment they have been working so hard to perfect. The band members exchanged hurried glances of optimism. It can only be left up to fate, they said at their last rehearsal. We have done our best.

When they finally took the stage, the sun had fallen below the horizon. It was winter, so it was just as bitterly cold as everyone would have expected. They stood on an elevated platform on the banks of a river, facing away from the water and towards the venue.

The drummer, a burly man even then, walked up to the microphone and gave some introductory words. It was a pleasure for them to perform for everybody that night, and their smiles reflected that. The brightest one was the saxophonist, but the bassist scored a solid second.

After a round of applause, the band members looked at each other and counted off. It was showtime.

The performance was much cleaner than in rehearsal, but that didn't cure them of any mishaps. Every so often, one person at the table would interject and wag his finger at another. A simple accusation would make the entire table chuckle. This performance seemed like yesterday to all of them, even though it was decades in the past.

The performance was quite a success, and they even attracted enough attention to be signed for some recordings of their music. Though they saw some moderate success, the band never made it big. As a side gig, the entire group found it rather appealing. Albeit sometimes not economically appealing. The group laughed at the red-shirted man's comment.

It turns out, it was economic ventures that would cause the band's demise. To boost sales, the record label offered a collaborative album with a female singer. Not very well-known, but quite skilled nonetheless. She was a pleasure to work with was the general consensus, but there was a giggle when the man in the red shirt agreed. Such a pleasure, echoed the rest.

Transported to the recording studio, you see the slightly older band members in a recording room along with the singer. The saxophonist holds eye contact with her for a split second before they both avert their eyes. Then it is on to the next take. Repeat. Repeat.

The green-shirted man asks the red-shirted man about his wife. Is she doing alright, everything okay at home, the usual banter. He shakes it off and just curtly replies yes. The singer became his wife, and the complicated social dynamic that such a relationship entails shook the band apart. Nonetheless, the members still are on good terms, and they even occasionally visit the dining hall where they first performed together. It is just across the street, but they opted to visit the bar tonight since the hall is undergoing renovations.

Watching these aged men talk about their past with such energy fills you with spirit. You note down some of their contact information, and you promise to keep in touch with them. They even offered you to come over sometime to listen in on one of their jam sessions.

With that, you finish off the last of your beer. Just before you leave, they all bode you goodbye, hoping to talk to you again. You tip your hat back and turn around to face the bitter cold back on the way home.