He didn’t write arrangements, he wrote parts for the personalities of his players. His band was like a vast keyboard in which each note was not just a different pitch, but a different take on humanity. Press Harry Carney’s baritone sax, and the most opulent sound in jazz history flowed out; press Cootie Williams, and a trumpet erupted that had all the urgency of a siren. Duke loved his band, and its members venerated his genius, graciousness and work ethic. Because they toured constantly, he wrote most of his thousand-odd compositions in cars, trains and hotels: fragments scratched on…
