That evening, we have the first tutor concert. The quartet are technically excellent players. The composition is something that might come into your mind on a rainy November afternoon in the front room of a Victorian terrace in Cambridge in 1998. It's formulaic. Each player takes their 64 bars or 120 or whatever it is to improvise from their brains – and they're clearly very clever – and then it's onto the next. This Shona notion of playing from your tummy when the feeling takes you is absent here.
Everyone is well behaved and we clap politely.
Oh to have a bunch of musicians, a campfire, and no rules.
After a second piece in 7/8, the melodic instruments take a rest leaving drum, double bass and piano. These guys are starting to play. They go further and further until they take off together leaving the written pages behind on the ground and they're flying. It's alive! They're not looking at their music stands now, they're looking at each other. The drummer is a Dude! I'm excited! My heart is beating faster. They're going crazy! It's fantastic! Slam dunk bang crack bgl gg ggbgbgb BAAAANNNNNGGGGGgggggggggg..... phew. Woops and applause.
Jazz at it's best is incredibly skillful play.
