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Poem	Pottering around the stage, a hyperactive ancient in his own backyard - independent of the band it seems. Disrhythmic shuffling of ashtray, beer, a pack of cigarettes, adjusting microphones, then in the middle eight he draws, exhales, and catches breath, stoops forward to the mouthpiece and blows, a tumbling counterpoint, scales soaring from his horn. The melody flows until the break, and then he shoulders arms, a truce between the music and his ailing lungs. Between choruses he sits apart to light another cigarette, a sideman counting out the bars until he rises for the coda - this Lazarus of swing.
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