Damn, I wish I could get that Dexter Gordon tone in my writing. You can feel the reed vibrating between your teeth, a big man’s sound that fills the room, every corner, every crevice, the ceiling to the floor and even reverberates in shot glasses and empty beer bottles. Toward the solo’s end it disappears out the lowest register of the horn and the pads close on air, then silence. Fried bananas, he sez, very tasty.