Word: trumpet
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There have been three jazz trumpet players who could be called, with no second thought, great: Louis Armstrong, Dizzy and Miles Davis. Satch played a sweet, raucous sound that kept its roots strong in the gumbo of hometown New Orleans. Dizzy knew how to nurse a tune too, but his armor-piercing solos tore those roots right up and replanted them farther north, in the new welter of urban angst. But his music, always intrepid, remained fleet. It was spontaneous reinvention in rhythm, a kind of fun that tweaked the far edges but never crossed them...
...Wilder (1981), the second Teardrops record, Cope took over sole songwriting duties, with mixed results. The bouncy "Passionate Friend," with its Beach Boys vocals and a trumpet line that sounds, I swear to God, like the theme song from the '70s sitcom "Love, American Style," somehow manages to avoid collapsing under the weight of its production. "The Great Dominions," on the other hand, is pleasantly ethereal but never gains momentum. Think of it as Cope's "Justify My Love...
...CADILLACS NEVER DIE," OBSERVES the great trumpet player and immortal bopcat at the close of Swing Low, Sweet Cadillac. "The finance company just fade 'em away." DIZZY GILLESPIE must never have had a brush with the collection agency: there is no fading, only gleam on Dizzy's Diamonds (Verve), a 3-CD collection spanning 1950 to 1964. Grouped into three broad grooves -- Big Band, small group and Afro-Cuban -- these 40 wondrous cuts show Dizzy setting the pace for some fast company, including Stan Getz, Charlie Parker and Bud Powell. The Big Band material blasts, the small-group sides jump...
...Bartleys have, for example, the original sign for the now defunct Brattle Square T stop. Bumper stickers trumpet the campaign of Representative Joseph P. Kennedy...
...makes clear in this second and concluding volume of his brilliantly definitive biography, Waugh was a sad and even tragic figure. In his youth a dandified aesthete and party animal, he evolved into an eccentric, scowling, West Country squire who wore hideous tweed suits and wielded a Victorian ear trumpet like a snickersnee against enemies, real and imagined. That noli me tangere pose barely masked the inner Waugh: a self-lacerating loner who for a time, Stannard asserts, was certifiably schizophrenic. (The experience was transmuted in Waugh's strangest novel, The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold...