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    Charlie Parker, a kid in his mother’s woodshed in Kansas City, blowing his tapped up alto among the logs, practicing on rainy days and coming out to watch the old swingin’ Basie and Bennie Moten band with Hot Lips Page and the rest. Charlie Parker, leaving home and coming to Harlem and meeting mad Thelonious Monk and madder Gillespie. Charlie Parker in his early days when he was flipped and walked around in a circle while playing. Somewhat younger than Lester Young, also from K.C., that gloomy, saintly goof in whom the history of jazz is wrapped. For when he held his horn high and horizontal from his mouth, he blew the greatest. But as his hair got longer and he got lazier and stretched out, his horn came down halfway until it finally fell all the way. And later when wearing his thick soled shoes so that he could no longer feel the sidewalk of life, his horn was then held weakly against his chest and he blew cool and easy get out phrases. These were the children of the American bop night. — JK

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