I came to a glitzy ballroom to hear the sounds of Harlem, to see the throat of urban speech and mark its words. They hold their tools of trade, light tongues on reed moist lips on silver mouths.
Terry starts the melody with a two fisted wave and a quick laugh.
On stage tempered heads nod sway eyes meet midstanza, boys letting fly on brass portals. As they lend them their wind the instruments speak, some murmuring flush mews others thudding baritone. Seven tongues of Babel finding unity in harmony. The trumpet is jumping all around raspy and thick wailing dripping and stuttering gut-drenched voice. These quaking artists so proficient in the rhetoric of winds breeze and alliterated breath.