Jazz Noir Detective Music - Perfect for Studying, Relaxing, General Listening

Listened to this on my way to town the other day... I ordered a coffee, black as the night and bitter as my divorce. The dame behind the counter had the look of exhaustion about herself... an honest days work, but after the crooks in government took their cut, far from an honest days pay. I headed out to the street, lighting my cigarette, delving deeper into the belly of the beast. From femme fatales and crooked cops, I was sure to come down with a bad case of lead poisoning... but I had to keep pushing on... because I needed to buy some new socks.

Shoutout to all the commenters who’ve posted short noir snippets. Lot of fun to read them all.

June 1946, Chicago: I was in my office, enjoying a smoke and some whiskey, when I got the call: Joey Sanchez was dead. My closest friend from the army, served together from Africa to the entire Italian campaign. Shot at by Germans and Italians, survived explosions from mortars, been through hell and back, and what finally got him in the end was a driveby shooting. Ain't that just a case of rotten luck

She had a smile that hit my eyes the way the first drink hits your stomach. It feels good, but you've been here before. You know how it ends. You know how it ends, and you do it anyway.

my favorite thing about Jazz is everyone doing the "detective narration" in the comments

The best Noir line I ever heard was from Calvin and Hobbes. “yeah, that’s me. Tracer Bullet. I got 8 slugs in me. One’s lead and the rest are bourbon. The drinks pack a wallop and I pack a revolver. I’m a private eye.”

It was raining. Hard. The streets were slick. The city's inhabitants were running to and fro, ruining their shoes and their newspapers, trying to escape the storm. I was sitting in my office trying to coax one more memory from my gin and tonic. The phone hadn't rang in days. The office smelled of old paper. Old air. Old cologne. My chair creaked in annoyance as I eased back...with no further plan than to dull some more brain cells. I lit a cigarette. I heard the door open quietly…And then she walked in... She was a tall drink of bourbon to a Sunday priest. My gin didn't mean anything anymore. I looked up to drink her in. She was built like an aero plane. Long. Trim…With curves in all the right places. As I forced my gaze above her chin, I couldn't help but notice –she had lips as red as sunburn...and just as hot. Skin like smooth jazz. She gazed at me with eyes so deep you couldn't see the bottom. I noticed something. She'd been crying... Maybe a swindler took her inheritance. Maybe an ex-lover jilted her at the altar. Maybe she even murdered the poor devil. Who knows? All I know is the sound of that door opening meant greenbacks in my palm and my next hot meal. I'm a Private Eye.

I cracked the door open and shook off my coat. It had been raining again. It was always raining lately. I hung my now ruined hat on the hook by the door and stepped inside. A small movement in the kitchen caught my eye and I shut the door. It was my unwitting house guest. Mittens let out a pathetic noise and I knew. "Hungry too? Figures." I went to open a small can of tuna, my last one. Darn cat ate better than I did. My pay as a gumshoe was terrible, my pay as a P.I. had been worse. Giving up on my notion of a sandwich I got to work. The perp thought he'd gotten away, but he'd been cocky. I knew what I'd seen had to be a clue. I was close, I could feel it. "Looks like you an I are in this together now, eh mittens?" The little furball was my only partner now. I had inherited her from a grateful client before they had passed. Turns out a lonely cat and a washed up detective make a good pair. Both keep late hours and both of us needed someone to trust. And I.. I had to make enough leads to equal a sandwich.

"It had all come to this, here I was, walking into a dark bar that looked to be made entirely of wood, marble, jade, and danger."

You know they say that in life you should eat what you're served. Problem was, most of the time, I was served soup with a fork.

Here's my hardboiled detective film noir opening. It’s my world, a world where the night is never just night, and every shadow tells a story. The city never sleeps, and neither do the secrets that slither through its shadowy alleys. It was a night thick with fog, the kind that clings to your coat like a desperate dame. I was holed up in my office, a glass of bourbon keeping company with the stack of unpaid bills. The neon sign outside flashed a sordid dance of blues and reds across the room, painting the scene like a Picasso in his blue period. They call me Jack Sullivan, private eye. I've seen things that would make a preacher swear and a convict pray. The door creaked open, and she walked in, legs first, a silhouette cut from midnight velvet. Her eyes held the promise of trouble, the kind I knew all too well, the kind that paid the bills but never came cheap. "Mr. Sullivan?" Her voice was a melody that could turn saints into sinners. I tipped my hat, "The one and only. What's got you wandering through the devil's playground at this hour?" She took a breath, and the story began. Another chapter in this city's endless book of heartache and crime. And me? I'm just the sap who writes it down. She perched on the edge of the chair across my desk, a black dress hugging her like a lover's whisper. "It's my husband," she said, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. "He's missing, and the cops... they ain't doing squat. I need someone with your... particular set of skills, Mr. Sullivan." I leaned back, the chair groaning under the weight of the world. "Missing, huh? People don't just vanish into thin air, not in this town. They leave trails, like breadcrumbs for the hungry." She pulled out a photograph, a snapshot of happier times. "He was last seen at the Sapphire Lounge, the jazz joint down on 5th and Vine. He plays the piano, or he used to, before..." "Before what?" I prodded, sensing the plot thickening like blood in cold water. "Before he got mixed up with the wrong crowd. Gamblers, thugs, the kind of people who'd sell their own mother for a slice of the pie." I took the photo, our fingers brushing—a jolt of electricity in the gloom. "I'll take the case," I said, already feeling the familiar itch of intrigue and danger. "But I gotta warn you, what I find might not play the tune you wanna hear." She nodded, a tear escaping down her cheek. "Just find him, Mr. Sullivan. Please." The door closed behind her, leaving nothing but the scent of jasmine and a mystery to unravel. I grabbed my coat and hat, ready to dive headfirst into the belly of the beast. The Sapphire Lounge was calling my name, and I had a feeling this case was going to be a doozy. The Sapphire Lounge was a joint where the drinks were stiff and the jazz was smooth. I pushed through the door, the sound of a saxophone wailing like a siren's call. The air was thick with smoke and secrets, and every shadow seemed to whisper a different lie. I made my way to the bar, the bartender giving me the once-over. "What'll it be?" he grunted, polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days. "Information," I said, sliding a crisp bill across the mahogany. "I'm looking for a piano man, goes by the name of Eddie. Ring any bells?" He pocketed the bill, his eyes narrowing. "Might do. Eddie's been tickling the ivories here for years. But he ain't been around for the last couple of nights. Word is, he's in deep with Big Tony's crew." Big Tony. The name was like a bad penny—always turning up. I thanked the bartender and turned to leave, but a voice stopped me cold. "You're Sullivan, ain't ya? The detective." I turned to see a dame with a face that could launch a thousand ships and a body that could sink 'em. "I might be. Who's asking?" "The name's Vivian. I'm a singer here. And I know where you can find Eddie." She led me to a table in the back, her hips swaying to the rhythm of the music. "Eddie's got himself a gambling problem," she whispered, leaning in close. "He owes Big Tony more dough than he can ever pay back. Last I heard, he was trying to skip town." I felt the puzzle pieces clicking into place. "And where would a desperate man go to disappear?" She scribbled an address on a napkin and slid it over. "The docks, at midnight. But be careful, Sullivan. Big Tony doesn't like snoops." I pocketed the napkin and nodded. "Thanks, doll. You've been a real peach." As I stepped out into the night, the fog seemed to close in around me, a shroud for the city's sins. The docks at midnight—it was a setup, it had to be. But it was the only lead I had. I'd have to be ready for anything. Because in this town, anything could happen—and usually did. The docks at midnight were a maze of rusted shipping containers and forgotten dreams. The air tasted of salt and regret as I followed Vivian’s lead. The moon hung low, a pale witness to the sins that played out in its shadow. I found Eddie huddled near the water’s edge, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on the piano case. His eyes were hollow, the light gone out like a busted streetlamp. “Sullivan,” he croaked, his voice a rusty hinge. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” I leaned against a stack of crates, my fedora pulled low. “Eddie, you’ve been dancing with the devil. Big Tony’s got a long memory, and his goons have a short fuse.” He wiped sweat from his brow, the lines etched deep like canyon walls. “I had a system, Jack. A way to beat the odds. But the cards turned cold, and now I’m in too deep.” I glanced around, shadows shifting like ghosts. “What’s the play, Eddie? You gonna run? Disappear into the night like smoke?” His fingers traced the piano keys, a melancholy melody rising from the darkness. “Nah, Sullivan. I’m gonna face the music. Tell Big Tony I’ll pay what I owe. But I need time. One last gig, one last chance.” I knew the stakes. Eddie was a pawn in a high-stakes game, and the odds were stacked against him. But maybe, just maybe, I could tip the scales. “Alright, kid,” I said, my voice gravel and regret. “I’ll make a deal with the devil. You play that piano like your life depends on it. And I’ll dance with the wolves.” As the clock struck midnight, the Sapphire Lounge came alive. The crowd swayed, lost in the rhythm, while Eddie’s fingers danced across the keys. The notes were a confession, a plea for redemption. And somewhere in the shadows, Big Tony’s enforcers waited, hungry for blood. I stepped outside, the night air biting like a betrayed lover. Vivian was there, her eyes wide with worry. “You’re a fool, Sullivan,” she whispered. “But you’ve got a kind heart.” I lit a cigarette, the smoke curling like a question mark. “Kind hearts don’t last long in this city, doll. But sometimes, they catch a break.” And so, I waited. The docks held their breath, the moon a silent witness. When the final note echoed across the water, I knew the game was afoot. Eddie had played his hand, and now it was my turn. Big Tony’s goons stepped out of the shadows, knuckles wrapped in brass. But I had a secret weapon—the truth. I stepped forward, my voice cutting through the night like a switchblade. “Big Tony,” I said, “your boy Eddie’s got a debt to pay. But he’s got something you want more than money. He’s got a soul.” The enforcers hesitated, eyes flickering between me and Eddie. Big Tony emerged, a mountain of menace in a tailored suit. “Speak your piece, Sullivan.” I leaned in, my breath hot with defiance. “Eddie’s gonna play one last tune. And if it don’t move you, if it don’t touch that black heart of yours, then you can have him. But if it does… well, then maybe we all get a second chance.” Eddie sat at the piano, his fingers trembling. The keys whispered a prayer, a melody that hung in the air like a fragile promise. And as the notes soared, I saw it—the flicker of humanity in Big Tony’s eyes. The city held its breath. The scales trembled. And for a moment, just a moment, redemption hung in the balance. And that, my friend, is where the story ends. Because sometimes, even in the darkest alleys, there’s a glimmer of hope. And sometimes, just sometimes, a private eye can change the tune of fate.

I’m about to do some sneaky mischief listening to that opening track

Reading everyone's detective narration in the Noir Film transatlantic accent is the highlight of my day

I'm loving these comments as much as the music itself. 💯

I made the mistake of starting to read the comments! lol They are as GREAT and the music. Love this!!

It looked like rain, so I got up to close the window. That guy on the sidewalk was still playing his sax. He was good, but I had heard enough for one day. When I turned back to my desk, she was already standing in front of it. "Can I help you?", I said. "No, Mr. Starker, I'm here to help you.", she whispered. "You placed a Want Ad for a secretary in today's paper. I'd like to apply for the position." "Cookie, you can have any position you want." I replied, "You're hired as of now. And from now on, call me Mick." "Oh, thank you Mr, uh, Mick." she squealed, "You don't know how happy this makes me." "Sit down, sugar, pour yourself a drink. We've got all night to get to know each other. And you don't know how happy this'll make me!", I said as I removed my tie. That's when the phone rang. That's when it all started to go sideways. Who could've figured that she'd wind up dead, and I'd be sitting in a jail cell talking to you?

October 2287, Boston: I was on a case for a runaway daughter. The family were good people but their daughter was quite the rebellious spirit. Tracked her down to an old vault ran by an old acquaintance of mine named Skinny Malone. Seemed like it just became a case of kidnapping. I guess they were expecting me, cause the next thing I knew, I was apprehended and locked inside the overseer's office much deeper down. Only then did I find out that the runaway daughter wasn't kidnapped but rather she became Skinny's new girl. The oil that makes the flame shine brighter. Hope someone comes by soon so I can get out of here.

I can just imagine Capt. Picard on the Holodeck as P.I. "Dix" on ST:TNG or ST : First Contact. Guinan - "Tell him it's - Gloria, from Cleveland."

Twin Peaks vibes too ☕🥧

12;45. Pauline’s Saloon. Second Booth from door on right. That was all the letter said. I studied the scrawl, smelled the paper, and checked for any signs of where it came from. Nothing. I checked my watch, 12;28. Pauline’s was about ten minutes from my office, but I was never one to be late. I took my .38 from the top drawer, slid it into my shoulder holster, and closed up shop. Business had been bad lately and this looked like the first thing all week that might put some dough in my pocket. It was 12;40 when I got to Pauline’s. I slid into the booth, ordered a gin tonic, and sat back to wait. Several people entered for the next few minutes, but none so much as looked my way. Then she came in. Looked like she stepped right off one of them fashion magazine covers. She carried an air of confidence on her and her big brown eyes looked as deadly as the poorly concealed derringer in her purse. “Mr. Maunders?” She asked. Her tone was as thick as honey. I nodded, pulling a cigarette from my case. I offered her one and she took it with a pair of slim gloved fingers. Leaning across the table I lit it and then my own, then waited to hear what she’d say. A couple of puffs and then she stared me in the eyes. “A friend told me you knew Sammy during the war.” A pretty vague statement. I shrugged, “Knew a lot of guys named Sammy before, during, and after.” However, there was one Sammy that came to mind specifically. Sammy “Diamond” Brooks. He and I had been stuck in a basement for almost a week while the Jerry’s kept base above. He told me a lot during those days. His life, his family, how he got his nickname and a lot of other stuff. “Oh you’d remember this Sammy,” she smiled and reached into her purse. I subtly reached for my gun in case she tried anything. She pulled out a small velvet bag and threw it in front of me. I opened it and found myself staring at four diamonds. Even in the dim interior they gleamed and sparkled. She locked her fingers and rested her chin on them, “Now, Mr. Maunders, just what did Sammy say to you.” I cinched the bag closed and threw it back at her. “Nothing worth this lady, now just what are you really after?” She grinned, “Truly, I just want to know what he told you.” She leaned over and slid the bag into my coat pocket, her hand lingering on my chest for a moment. “Surely, with these, you can at least spare the time to tell me that.” Before I could even reply, a car came screeching down the street. Bullets, glass, and screams were all I knew for the next minute and then the bullets stopped. Habit had saved me, I’d ducked, but not for my mysterious companion. She lay face down on the table, a pool of crimson dribbling off the corner. Who really was this Sammy Brooks? What had he told me those three years ago that had suddenly become worth killing for? I slipped out through the back during the confusion and hoofed it back to my office. I looked at the time as I sat back at my desk - 1;01. The night had ended but my work was just beginning. I lit a cigarette, leaned back, and slowly began going over those days three years ago.