So it snapped. Far be it that I cut the throat that yells for us or bite off the hand that applauds us, but my bread and butter was involved, not to mention swing. I shushed that night the way Tommy Dorsey might shush his kids if they go into a jam session during evening prayers. Yes, it hurt me more than it hurt them. For swing means a lot to every musician - and to everybody else, including jitterbugs.
Swing is the food and drink and the relaxation and the music of the times.
It has crowded high-brow music over on the pedestal, climbed its way to a place beside it. It is as difficult to explain as the Mona Lisa's smile or the nutty hats women wear - but just as stimulating. It remains something you take 5,000 words to explain, then leaves you wondering what it is. It is something to be reacted to but not helped if you can't hear or feel it, any more than an opera aria would be helped if a grand dame in the diamond horseshoe suddenly yanked a whistle from her V-neck and blew it lustily during a lovely bit of Puccini.