They stare at the bandstand in monkish silence, nodding sagely to the rhythm of drums and bass. Every song is a séance for them, and they listen with every muscle. They are devout, transported, almost catatonic, and when the music stops, there is a little lost moment while their eyes blink and they heave the sigh of the far voyager come home. Then they smile approvingly and say, "Yeah!"
Cultural Death. In the years since innocent Ira Gershwin wrote Little Jazz Bird, the jazz audience has changed even more remarkably than the music it worships. The 50 or so shrinelike...
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