THE THREE SWINGIN’ PIGS

Though as big and baaaaaad as ever—“I’m a classic fairy-tale villain,” he proudly proclaims—the wolf has no better luck chowing down on jazz-combo piggies Satch, Mo and Ella than he did with their uncles in that other tale. Rendered in the high-energy art as a duded-up, super-skinny figure with a long ski nose and breath so stunningly bad that it comes out in a noxious green cloud, the determined wolf scores a ticket to the pigs’ latest gig, elbows his way to the front of the packed Smokehouse—and then gets invited up on stage by scat-singing Ella to show his chops (so to speak). A crowd-pleasing howl and some huffing and puffing on the sax later, he’s given up his predatory purpose to become the band’s newest member. Montijo’s red-hot pictures and Rubin’s skit-scat-skedoodle words make this take-off a hand-clapping, foot-stomping romp. (Picture book. 6-8)