Chords for 1) Beat - Jack Kerouac Jazz and Prose - Beat Poetry Vol 1

[Gm] Now it's jazz.
The place is roaring.
All beautiful girls in there.
One mad brunette at the bar, drunk with her boys.
One strange chick I remember from somewhere wearing a simple skirt with pockets.
Her hands in there.
Short hair cut, slouched, talking to everybody.
_ [Bb] _ _ _ _ _ _
_ [Gm] _ _ [Bb] _ _ _ _ _
[Gm] Up and down the stairs they come.
The bartender to the regular band of Jack, the heavenly drummer who looks up in the sky with blue eyes,
with a beard.
He's wailing beer cap, bottles, and jamming up a cash register and everything is going to the beat.
It's the beat generation.
It's the beat to keep.
It's the beat of the heart.
[Gb] It's being beat, down in the world, and like old time lowdown.
[Gm] And like in ancient civilizations, the slave boatman rowing galleys to a beat.
And servants spinning pottery to a beat. _ _ _ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ [D] _
[C] _ [Bb] _ _ _ _ _ _ _
[C] _ _ [Gm] _ _ _ _ _ [Bb] _
[C] _ [Bb] _ _ _ _ [Gm] _ _ [Bb] _
[C] _ _ [Gm] _ _ _ _ _ _
[C] _ [Bb] There's no face to compare with Jack [Gm] Mingers, who's up on the bandstand now, with a colored trumpeter who outflows and wild and dizzy,
but Jack's face overlooking all the heads in smoke.
He has a face that looks like [Bb] everybody you've ever known [C] and seen on the street [Gm] in no time.
A sweet face.
Heart described.
Sad eyes, cruel lips, expectant glean, [Bb] swaying at the [C] beat.
Tall, [Gm] magnetical, waiting in front of a drugstore.
Face like hunkies in New York.
Hunkies you'll see on Times Square.
[Bb] Somnolent in the work.
Sad, sweet, and dark.
Holy.
Just out of jail.
Martyred.
[G] Tortured by [Gm] sidewalks.
Starved for sex.
Open to anything.
Ready to introduce a new world.
[C] Shrug.
[Gm] _ _ _ _ _ _ [Bb] _
[C] _ [Gm] _ _ _ _ _ _ _
_ [Bb] _ _ _ _ _ _ [Gm] _
_ _ [F] _ You see someone.
Hi!
Then you look [Gm] away elsewhere for something, someone else.
It's all insane.
Then you look back, you look away around.
Everything is coming in from everywhere in the sound of a jazz.
Hi!
Hey!
[Gm] Bang!
The little drummer takes a solo, reaching his young [F] hands all over traps and kettles and cymbals and foot [D] pedal booms in a [Bb] fantastic, thrashing sound.
[F] [A] Twelve years old.
[Dm] What will happen? _
_ [A] _ _ [F] _ _ _ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ [Dm] _ _ [Bb] _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ [D] [Bb] The colored big tenor with the big bone is blowing [Gm] sunny stitch clear out of Kansas City road hollers.
Clear, [C] heavy, somewhat dull and unmusical ideas which [Gm] nevertheless never leave the music.
Always there, always far out.
[C] A harmony too [Bb] complicated for the motley bums of music understanding [Gm] in there.
But the musician's here.
[C] The drummer is a sensational twelve year old Negro boy who's not [Gm] allowed to drink, but can [Gb] play.
[C] Tremendous.
A little live, [Bb] childlike, Miles Davis kid.
[Gm] Like early Fats Navarro fans you used to see in [C] Espanjalem.
Heft small.
He thunders at the drums with [Gm] a beat which is described to me by a near standing connoisseur with beret [C] as if tabulous.
[Bb]
On piano with blondie bill.
[Gm] Good enough to drive any group.
Now Jack Minger [C] blows out over his head with his [Gm] eagles.
Fill [C] more, I dig him.
Now he's terrific.
_ _ [Gm] _ [C] _ [Bb]
I just stand in the outside hall against the wall.
No beer necessary with collections of [F] in and out listeners [G] with Bernie.
[Gm] Now here returns Bob Berman.
[F] He's a kid from West Indies who [Gm] barged into my party six months earlier with Dean and the gang and [D] I had a Chet Baker record on and we hooked it at each [Gm] other in the room.
Tremendous.
Perfect bassist dancing [F] casual with Joe Lewis casually hooking.
[C] He comes now in [Bb] dancing like that.
Glad.
Everybody looks everywhere.
It's a jazz joint regeneration mad trick.
[G] _ [Gm] _ _ _ [F] _ _ _ [Gm] _ [Cm] _ _
_ [Dm] _ _ _ [Gm] _ _ _ _
[A] _ _ _ _ [Dm] _ _ _ [A] _
_ _ _ _ [Dm] _ _ _ [A] _
_ _ _ [Dm] _ _ _ _ _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ [N] _