Every guy, maybe every gal too, who has ever picked up some raw-boned trumpet, some hammered sax, or some runaway trombone, some brass thing, dreams in his (or her, okay) deepest dreams, the ones that count, about blowing that high white note. The one that says that guy is one with the instrument, is meshed, melted, mended with that metal. Blows that big cloud note, that note that blows out some café door and works its way down the barren black starless night back streets and curls on out into some foam-flecked ocean slashed by the waves as it goes out into the Japan seas. (And early morning too not just black night that hour just before the dawn when the boys really kick out the jams after playing for the carriage trade.) Duke had it, Charley and Miles had it, Lionel on a good night had it, the Count off and on, Artie, Benny maybe, maybe working that side of the street it was (is) a touchy thing to talk about except when you heard it rip out snarling and gnashing in the night you knew, knew what being just south of heaven must have been like when this earth first sounded out.