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Poem	Not blues in twelve but there is joy and pink champagne, the maker’s music trading eights in syncopated synergy from Dixieland to Rock ‘n’ Roll, and here the cornet-master leads in tones a trumpet cannot blow. The sidemen nod their harmonies, engrossed; their music coursing through an energy of swing; piano-player’s fingers dancing round the tune; a lover’s touch caressing melody from bass; and sax, deep throated tenor shouting counterpoint above the drums’ percussive ricochets. Not blues in twelve, but upbeat late and shimmying like Sister Kate. The cornet-master blows an emptiness away.
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