Dream Band

I spent a night in an old-fashioned jazz club in London, the alcohol-free but sweet-substance and heavy-haze variety I used to frequent as a youth. It might have been Ken Colyer’s Jazz Club in Great Newport Street. It certainly wouldn’t have been Ronnie Scott’s; that was too upmarket for the likes of me, for whom a good night out and home on the first Sunday morning train needed to be had for the pre-decimal equivalent of 75p, including breakfast.

The music was almost beyond credible. It was rhythmic and driven. I was leaning against a slightly damp wall being assailed by wave after wave of jazz I could not only hear but actually feel, taste and see. Notes and phrases came like hailstones, bouncing off a crowd of jigging and bobbing devotees, cheering and hollering fans, all gathered on a tiny patch of shiny linoleum serving as an occasional dance floor.

On trumpet was Wynton Marsalis. Next to him stood Lester Young on tenor sax and Gerry Mulligan on baritone. Shafi Hadi played alto, Bechet soprano/clarinet and J. J. Johnson trombone. Around the edges were Dave Brubeck on piano, Charles Mingus (bass), Charlie Christian (guitar), and Art Blakey (drums).

Never before or since have I heard live music with such raw-polished verve. Ten individual musicians coalesced into one harmonic organism, each nerve end playing perfectly with the other. I shall never forget the precious experience. Unfortunately, I missed the last two numbers because I woke up.