There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.
Finally Beiderbecke came out with a silver cornet. He put it to his lips and blew a phrase. The sound came out like a girl saying 'yes'.
You,” I said, “are sweet music in a distant room.
A bird half wakened in the lunar noon Sang halfway through its little inborn tune.
I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
I spent many a summer early morning with the radio very low, half sleeping and half listening.
... I like the clubs because ... we have two or three acoustic guitars up there and we're not hard-core slamming or stomping through the music. We're singing it with intricate harmonies and really showing the craftsmanship.
Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
John Fiedler's voice was kind of like the wind blowing through tall grass. It sounded homey and it sounded comforting.
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.
