Chosen

Another hot Saturday in San Francisco, a need to be outside, and very little money saw us visit the Fillmore Centre Plaza Jazz Festival, a free afternoon concert headlined by the legendary Booker T (minus his MGs) to celebrate the opening of a new public space in the Jazz district. In this part of the city, Sunday had got impatient for its turn and muscled its way in a day early, leaving in its wake a very relaxed and low key mood.

We visited a very small old fashioned ice cream shop with one wall containing a board of flavours, one wall with jar after jar of sweets, and one wall containing a counter propped up by a well-seasoned man in a hat and apron looking like his heart had never left the 50s, even if his body had. He took my order for 3 single scoops of rainbow sherbet, but before he handed them over the counter, he asked me, with his deep beautiful voice, where I was from, and when I told him, he said I "talked real nice." I thanked him and as I was paying, he told me that if I ever come back this way again, to make sure that I drop in. I smiled and told him that I would, and I very much meant it.

With our sherbet full bellies we could really soak up the festival, a very small but perfectly formed affair made up mainly of locals and die hard jazz fans, some Shaun of the Dead extras, and us. There were two small food stalls selling the most delicious smelling and looking, and then tasting, barbecued chicken and ribs. When we arrived people were milling around eating and drinking, a few people were jazz-swaying or otherwise appreciating the music. One couple had fallen asleep in the middle of the plaza, and when one of the pair woke up, he looked genuinely shocked that there was music playing and people had crowded around him. The fact that they left shortly after waking confirmed my notion that they hadn't intended to be here.

Booker T's performance was excellent - there was a short and unplanned intermission due to a broken guitar string and his need to pee, but otherwise he played for just over an hour. The crowd though provided what could have been hours and hours of free and fascinating entertainment. People were really dancing now; giving it what for. Two of the dancers, who I shall imaginatively call Mr Orange and Mr Brown stood out in particular.

Mr Orange was a very petite man perhaps in his late 50s, with a grey beard standing out against the backdrop of his orange T-shirt, and with eyes that twinkled with mischief. His smile was frequent and delighted and he danced like a gleeful pixie who had tricked a foolish king of his youngest daughter.

Mr Brown was younger, taller and wider than Mr Orange. He danced with all his heart and soul, moving every muscle, every inch of flab and every limb, often all at once, and at speed. In short, he was amazing. He danced the dance of the outsider, the joyful, the passionate, the happy, the sad, the self-conscious, the wildly egotistical, the insecure, the no-holds-barred-taken-captive-by-the-music and happily succumbing to its power shimmy. He flailed randomly. He shook. He sidestepped. Throughout the dancing, he grinned like a loon and generally had a ball.

When Mr Orange and Mr Brown hooked up and danced together, it was a truly marvellous moment.

When Mr Brown approached me and asked me if I wanted to dance, I was overwhelmed.