(Background: Back in the mid-80's, Wynton Marsalis had a critically acclaimed quintet featuring his brother Branford on tenor saxophone. The Marsalis crowd used a variety of colorful nicknames for one another. Stanley Crouch, then a jazz critic at the Village Voice, was busy promoting Wynton as the savior of jazz. Then Branford left the band...)

(Time: several years ago. Scene: the living room of a comfortable urban home. Tasteful furniture, potted plants; there is a grand piano with a trumpet resting on it, a music stand, and beautiful pictures and posters of jazz musicians placed discreetly here and there. WYNTON is standing by the piano, holding a baby in his arms. The baby is sucking a pacifier and has a sign around his neck marked "DELFEAYO." Wynton is engrossed in "The Complete Works of Nietzsche." Enter BRANFORD).

Branford: Hey, bro'.

Wynton: What's happening, Jeepy? Check this out, man, Nietzsche wrote some hip stuff. Why, his description here of the true philosopher could well apply to almost any brilliant and underappreciated jazz artist of these past seven decades!

Branford: Aw, man, get away from me with that shit. I just dropped by to tell you I won't be able to make the next tour with the quintet. I took another gig.

Wynton: Hey, that's cool, Steeplone. I understand that as probably the outstanding tenor saxophonist of your generation, you need to broaden your horizons, get in as much experience as possible. Will you be going with some legendary veteran of the bebop tenor battles on Central Avenue in Los Angeles (circa 1946)? Or perhaps an underappreciated modern giant who cut his teeth during the fertile period of swinging 60's modernism? Or maybe you'll be part of a group of young, serious professionals making the effort to truly understand our noble heritage and take it on into the future through diligent study and fearless bandstand heroics?

Branford: Well, no.

Wynton: So who is it?

Branford: Sting.

(WYNTON turns white, drops the baby. DELFEAYO starts bawling.)

Wynton: (incoherent gargling sounds)

Branford: Aw, Skain, don't be looking at me like that. And pick up little Delfone. Sting is a down cat. I know how you feel about pop music, but some of it's OK, sort of... you know, like (sings) "Roxanne, Roxanne..."

(DELFEAYO cries louder)

Wynton (picks up baby): Pop music! Pop music! My own brother! What about the awesome burden of our history?

Branford: Yeah, yeah, I know, but I ain't in school anymore. Sting's music is some simple shit to play, but what the fuck. It's cool. All that money, all them little hip chicks, you know. (winks) Can't be doing that historical shit all the time!

Wynton: Steepy, I just can't believe it. What about the razor's edge of swing that can only be honed in the hot fires of a brilliant jazz drummer's hearth? What about your tireless exploration of the masterworks of the giants of your noble, virile instrument?

Branford: Hey, man, all them little hip chicks, you know my virile instrument's gonna get some practice! That's a bet! (guffaws) No, but seriously. You know I just spent six months transcribing every note ever played or thought by Wayne Shorter and John Coltrane. Before that I spent a year analyzing in detail the melodic and harmonic conceptions of the great swing era saxophonists. In the meanwhile I made those classical records for CBS and was head counselor at the Edward Kennedy Ellington "It Don't Mean A Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing" Summer Camp for Gifted Child Jazz Artists. Now I want to relax a little, make some bread, see the world. No more of them damn European jazz clubs. "Monsieur Branforrrd, you have ze great swing, man!" Shee-it.

Wynton (shaken): I thought you were serious, noble... important! I

- I -

(Enter STANLEY, leaping out of closet.)

Branford: Dag!

Stanley (declaiming): Branford, I am truly ashamed of you! You have chosen to follow Mammon, to join those who in their greed and ignorance only help to keep the struggling, enslaved head of jazz genius down in that reeking gutbucket from which it derives its greatest strength! Uh... (looks confused) what I mean to say is, you have failed the future generations of American youths who will look to you for guidance. (Indicates DELFEAYO, who is coolly snapping his fingers to a syncopated beat.) The cold and unforgiving eye of history will look back on this dark day, Branford! Your name will be struck from the glorious book of the true soldiers of our fight! Your people's descendants will spit on your grave, and -

Branford (vexed): Crouch, if you don't shut up I'm gon' smack you one in your unforgiving eye. Talkin' 'bout spittin' on graves, man, what are you, crazy? What's wrong with you, anyway, always be makin' speeches, readin' them damn books. Wynton, I told you to stay away from this guy, he ain't got no sense of humor, man! Old bald-head motherfucker, can't afford no rent on his Village Voice check, got to be living in your damn closet. And by the way, Kenny Kirkland is coming with me to Sting's band. He wants to check out them synthesizers.

(DELFEAYO bursts into tears.)

Stanley (pulls flaming sword from closet): ENOUGH! RUN, SINNER, RUN!

Wynton: Branford, stop that cursing, what would Mama say? Stanley, put away your righteous weapon! Lord!

Branford: Feets, don't fail me now! (Takes off.)

(Exit BRANFORD pursued by STANLEY.)

(WYNTON walks to the piano with DELFEAYO).

Wynton: There, there, Delfeayo, don't cry. Here, I'll play you your lullaby, "Noble Gutbucket Blues." Can you say "noble?" Can you say "gutbucket?" There, there. This little piggy went to Julliard, this little piggy stayed home to practice diligently. This little piggy had red beans and rice, this little piggy had none. And this little piggy went "scooby doo wah" all the way home!

(curtain)