Marsalis writes as elegantly as he plays the trumpet, so fans will doubtless enjoy his atmospheric musings on playing jazz across America, nicely complemented by photographer/filmmaker Stewart's glamorously black-and-white photos. Less indulgent readers may notice that there's not much new here: the usual tributes to band members (``one of the finest musicians in the world,'' ``a great jazz musician,'' etc.), remarks on the grinding travel routine (``the road is an endless series of `Are we here?' ''), and bouquets to the audience (``What I really love about meeting people we have played for is the range of personalities''). Also not new are Marsalis's bad-tempered putdowns of popular culture other than jazz—music videos are ``visual projections of the purest ignorance and worst intentions,'' and he decries ``young sensibilities slowly destroyed by the alpha-wave onslaught''—though he claims to like rap. Marsalis is a lot more appealing when he gets off his soapbox and concentrates on extolling (with considerable eloquence) the music he loves.
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