The walls of Conference Room 310 at WRTI are lined with a gray cushion that dulls sound. To the roomful of elderly jazz musicians who came of age in smoky, boisterous clubs, the acoustics can be challenging.
“I can't hear a thing in this room!" exclaims Morris “Mo" Bailey, stationed in a motorized wheelchair at one end of a conference table, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. Bailey, a 79-year-old saxophonist turned composer, suffers from muscular dystrophy in his legs as well as resentment toward today's radio, which jazz no longer pervades.
“How can you let rap take the place of jazz music?" Bailey asks in a tone of disgust and disbelief.
“That's the problem now," says Thelma Anderson, 83, a short lady with curly gray hair and glasses. “The young people don't have access to hearing jazz."
Anderson, Bailey, and the others around the table—four acclaimed jazz musicians and a radio host—are killing time before their next recording session. In about 45 minutes they'll move across the hall for an informal Q&A, in front of a small studio audience, about 20th-century Philadelphia jazz.
“I can't hear a thing in this room!" exclaims Morris “Mo" Bailey, stationed in a motorized wheelchair at one end of a conference table, wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. Bailey, a 79-year-old saxophonist turned composer, suffers from muscular dystrophy in his legs as well as resentment toward today's radio, which jazz no longer pervades.
“How can you let rap take the place of jazz music?" Bailey asks in a tone of disgust and disbelief.
“That's the problem now," says Thelma Anderson, 83, a short lady with curly gray hair and glasses. “The young people don't have access to hearing jazz."
Anderson, Bailey, and the others around the table—four acclaimed jazz musicians and a radio host—are killing time before their next recording session. In about 45 minutes they'll move across the hall for an informal Q&A, in front of a small studio audience, about 20th-century Philadelphia jazz.
