It's easy to distinguish Sidney Bechet's sound. His sound is solid and driving. His vibrato, a flickering engine. Poet Philip Larkin described this more poetically: "narrowing and rising, it shakes like New Orleans reflected on the water." So novel, there's something campy about it. As brash as Mardi Gras. Fettered or fetishized by a bad reed, the way Maria Callas was by a hard voice. Pushing, like Rossy de Palma's nose, against intonation. Or as blunt and unapologetic as the noseless sphinx. Memorable like Louis Armstrong, not as remembered. His sound -- clarinet, by the way -- often dominated trumpets in the band, controversially. He did all things to earn a legacy, and got one, not without spitefulness leaving him nearly as knackered as the sphinx. "Sidney Bechet never plays the wrong chord!" he allegedly retorted, challenging the accusing music producer to a duel. Yes, a duel. As flamboyant as recorded history.
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