Swing fans milled around the Boston Theater's stage door, clamoring for autographs and drying the tears in their eyes. Glenn Miller had played one of his last vaudeville stands for the duration; within the fortnight he will be gobbled up by the Army. But fans, though tearstained, were fickle. Already they had picked a new favorite: the six-foot-one, wavy-haired son of a circus bandleader and circus bareback rider, Trumpeter Harry James. Already the "modern Gabriel" and his band had pied-piped away the followers of many hotter orchestras. When he blew his sweet, shrill...
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