“And then while the hooded-eyed ex-pimp checks the till against receipts, hunched at his table and oblivious to all else, the black scrubbers and sweepers and stackers move about their tasks, pausing often, wooden handles held in work-hardened hands, to watch these young men play purely for each other, laughing joyously between solos, at teh ends of numbers, shaking their heads in admiration at some high flight – Armstrong’s pyrotechnic brilliance balanced by Bix’s melodic mellowness – oblivious to the hood in the corner making the count, to the whole hooded empire of which this is a part, of which they themselves are interchangeable, easily disposable parts.”
– from 1929: A Novel of the Jazz Age by Frederick Turner
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