If you watched people listening, whether it was in a club or a hall or down at Smokestack Records, they all had a certain look, which they couldn’t help, as if they were trying to get a peek down the bell of that big brass sax, because it sounded like something lived down there. Something wise and wet and not particularly happy. There was an old soul behind that sound, but whether the soul was in the saxophone or in the man himself was never plain.
