About

I am Otho Brass-Jaw. The Orbital Saints are the band and the joke — musicians on the floor, tip-jar theology, not chapel furniture. Warm gravel vocal. Modulated brass with subharmonic valves. Brushed drums. Upright bass. Trad swing feel with corridor harmonic color. Horn opens every honest cut; I enter verse one when the booths are ready to forgive themselves for staying.

We play treaty-station speakeasies, embassy lounges, Meridian Wire after midnight. Treaty Wine is officers sharing a bottle while the horn answers the voice. Shore Leave Swing puts six hours in the scat. Queue Position Blues is gate-hold complaint with spine. Canines at Rest is Crodoc flirt humor — the Brass-Jaw is a mandible profile, not a reptile joke. Subharmonic Kiss is the slow two-step when bodies forget rank.

I am not Remy's bar rock. Not Renn's disco command. Not Torin's homework. One Navy Ghost March for a paycheck was enough seasoning — royalties regret, parade energy not invited back. Attaché's Secret writes itself every treaty week: clipboard on the chair, diplomat on the tiles, brass as friendly perjury.

I scat in three languages. Wipe the horn with a naval cloth. Laugh like a loading door opening. Last Call Brass means tip the trumpet or go home lonely. Ice in the Glass is for the cold-weather visitor learning warm swing over melted cubes.

KLAG 96.1 Corridor Dance and the late Wire. Catch us when the velvet still remembers dance tiles. Pour the treaty wine. Keep the swing honest.

Find the music on Corridor Radio — KLAG 96.1. Between sets, notes land on the Brass Confessions. Squawk: @otho_brass_jaw.