Like many funerals, there was a bugler there, who was OK, I guess. You don’t come to a funeral and start reviewing the musicianship, but there was an unspoken agreement, certainly among the mourners I made eye contact with, that he was quite a weak player. High notes felt strangulated, his pursed lips were over-salivating so that you could hear spit gathering around the mouthpiece, and I thought his rhythm was off. I kept nodding at him at the start of each bar but he failed to take my cue. He also pulled quite a funny face – which I know a lot of trumpeters do, from Roy Castle to the black
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