A trumpet soared out on a clean strong singing note and the other trumpet danced above it with a clarinet effect. Satchmo again, this time on the cornet, created a staccato growl in the lower register. And Louis the singer, with uncanny rhythm and knowledge of vocal dynamics, started the song. The fifth Armstrong backed the ensemble with an obligato of scat. The Hot Five took it from there.
It was an exhibition of free style counterpoint and melody that had once been a part of traditional music. Lost for a time, found again by jazz, heatedly denied and equally defended, it had at last returned to its rightful place in the great company of music.
Louis, the original Louis, would have been amazed by the performance. Delighted by it, too. Because it was his, from beginning to end. Every note, at one time or another, he had played, though not in that sequence. He might have done it that way, had he, in the flesh, been able to split himself into five parts, each as musically complete as the others.
The Caruso quartet followed. Danny listened as raptly as he had to the first. Different music in each case, but melody was big enough to include both performers.
During intermission a girl twice his age attached herself to Danny. She wouldn't have bothered had she known, but he was still big for his age. It was easy to mistake physical size for maturity, youthful silence for sophisticated taciturnity.
She chattered gaily. "Don't you think it's wonderful?"
He nodded mutely.
"I mean, the world's great masters, all the time. Nothing second rate. The best, any time you want them, of all the ages."
"Not all the ages," he corrected. "What about Paganini?"
"What about him?" she said. "Who's he?"