I was in Belgium one night, working at a place called Epistrophe ...I was up in the hotd room, watching a rain on Brussels, and I swear, to God, a voice said in my ear, 'It's time to go to New Orleans.'"

Sitting in Loren Pickford's French Quarter apartment as the afternoon shadows deepen, the poetry of the jazz existence flows as freely from his sandpaper voice as streams of improvisation flowed from his alto and flute the previous night at Snug Harb...