The Open Court
The night the band formed, there was jazz coming out of every window on 135th Street. Not the polite jazz of the uptown clubs with their white tablecloths and champagne flutes. This was the real stuff—saxophone screaming like a woman in labor, piano keys chopped like bread, drums that sounded like someone hitting the roof of the world. It was April 1925, and the jazz was the only thing in...
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