Chicago’s Malachi Thompson is one serious brother. I remember when he spent the late ’70s, early ’80s in D.C. He had big lungs, a tone like refrigerator-burned butter and a freaky-styley command of boppoid melodics (think Lee Morgan on sensi and Chivas). That night at the Pension Building when he spoke in so many tongues that his spars in the New York Hot Trumpet Repertory Company (Lester Bowie, Olu Dara, Wynton Marsalis, Stanton Davis) turned Amen Corner while the secular crowd got rapture.
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