Marsalis gives readers a seat on his old septet’s tour bus for a ride down memory lane. It’s the early 1990s, and the trumpeter is coming into his own as a composer, despite his tight road schedule (check-in at hotel, go to sound check, eat supper, iron the suit, play the gig, snooze a bit, hit the road). Should a day off (or a few free hours) arise, he’s speaking at a local school, composing a ballet, recording an album or playing a ballad to his sons on the phone. Loosely using a sort of call-and-response style, the book swings between Vigeland’s (Stalking the Shark: Passion and Pressure on the Pro Golf Tour) fly-on-the-wall documentation and the poetic solos of Marsalis, philosophizing on jazz, joy, love and life, all synonymous for him. For better or for worse, it’s easy to lose one’s sense of time and place on the road and it’s equally easy to do so in this book.