This kid can play. His mouth is like a magical hole. A conduit to a land of fantasical winds. That when they blow, oh man, it powers the sounds. It’s the harbinger of sonic dreams. Calling all the wizards! Calling all the witches! Calling all the prestigitators! This kid is playing your song. Can you hear it? I bet you can. You know you feel it. In your thaumaturgucal loins. Getting them hot. Getting them bothered. When it goes like this–
Do you feel moved? Deep down. As in your necromantic bowels? It can’t be helped, this kid can blow, man, this kid can blow. Through his lips comes that voodoo sound mixed with the soothsaying melody of the fairy boys.
THE MUSICS OF THE MYSTICS! TOOTINGS OF THE GODS! RHYTHMS OF DRUIDS! PHWEEB! PHWEEB! PHWEEB!
This kid can play the clarinet! This kid can jam with the ghosts of enchantment! Stars and spirits and sortilege massaged by his tunes, casting their spells like angels breaking wind.
It’s new jazz, baby!
This kid’s alright!