Black angel bops, Trane rides sax, and Dolphy calls, responds in churchy deeps while McCoy winds time, rhythm beat from pew to the bar. Jazz is my religion, Papa Jo says. We don't have time to explain our references. We just play blowin like wind. I'm altered by that state. Improv me baby. Wail out your love honks supreme. Swing didn't die but turned boppy handstands, notes splanky rilled, all funked up like chicken, yardbird dancin in a pot.