Article: Rivers runs deep

In prehistoric mists before Clint Eastwood discovered the heat and dazzling cool of James Rivers, the lanky saxophonist played for a stretch at a little club called Sylvia's on Freret Street. In 1974 Rivers had yet to rate an invitation to the Jazz Festival. But he packed the faithful into Sylvia's, as he did at other small clubs where the early James Rivers Movement bands smoked into the wee hours. On nights when he really sizzled, our man would march out of the club, a tide of patrons in town, and parade down the street leading his own personal second-line.

Late one night a bus driver on the Freret route had his behemoth vehicle purring in neutral out front of Sylvia's, just listening, ...

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