It's the summer of 1923. We took two quarts of bathtub gin, a package of muggles [marijuana cigarettes], and headed for the black-and-tan joint where King Oliver's Band was playing. The King features two trumpets, a piano, a bass fiddle, and a clarinet. As I sat down to light my first muggle, Bix gave the sign to a big black fellow, playing second trumpet for Oliver, and he slashed into "Bugle Call Rag." I dropped my cigarette and gulped my drink. Bix was on his feet, his eyes popping. For taking the first chorus was the second trumpet, Louis Armstrong. Louis was taking it fast. Bob Gillette slid off his chair and under the table. He was excitable that way. "Why," I moaned, "why isn't everybody in the world here to hear that?" I meant it. Something as unutterably stirring as that deserved to be heard by the world. Then the muggles took effect and my body got light. Every note Louis hit was perfection. I ran to the piano and took the place of Louis' wife [Lil Hardin Armstrong]. They swung into "Royal Garden Blues." I had never heard the tune before, but somehow I knew every note. I couldn't miss. I was floating in a strange, deep-blue whirlpool of jazz. It wasn't marijuana. The muggles and the gin were, in a way, stage props. it was the music. The music took me and had me and it made me right.