The Jazz Age Exorcist
The sound came from the horse at three in the morning, when the last band had packed up their instruments and Eddie Washington was alone in the dressing room behind the Cotton Club, tuning his horn for a gig that hadn't been booked yet. It was a low, rhythmic sound—like a heartbeat filtered through water. Not a whinny. Not a neigh. Something in between, with a cadence that almost matched the...
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