Curtis Fuller

While the musicians readied their instruments a man came to the front of the crowd. "I want you all to know how special this is." He said into the microphone. "Curtis Fuller is the best trombone player ever to play." The man continued to remind the crowd of the importance of the occasion. Yet, no one could deny the significance of Coltrane's only trombone player. Then Mr. Fuller emerged from the shadows. The din of the crowd came to a halt as Mr. Fuller began the obligatory introduction of the performance.

"This is about the clan." he said. The crowd paused, not sure what he meant, and then he explained. "Oh, no, not that Clan. The group of guys I played with when I played for Sinatra in the sixties." The crowd laughed and relished in the realization that here, before them, wearing a blue baseball cap, was a man who represented jazz history. Mr. Fuller introduced Ms. Figuero, a pianist who he lavished with praise; the young woman stood up and bowed. To the right of Mr. Fuller stood two trumpeters. One, Don Sickler, is a venerable transcriber. The other was Duane Eubanks (brother of Kevin and Robin). Behind Mr. Fuller stood a powerful young bass player, Ivan Taylor, and to his right, Louis Hayes.

Boom. It started, and Mr. Fuller's Sextet transported the crowd back to the bop era, edged by the constant snare of Mr. Hayes, a man nearing 70 whose awkward pencil grip strikes of the snare beat rapidly and consistent. Mr. Taylor played at a feverish pitch, his fingers flaring up and down the strings, demonstrating not only his precision and technical ability, but also his grasp of the historical context by quoting Jimmy Garrison from time to time during solos.

Mr. Fuller erupted in short bursts to puncture the energy building and building. Complementing the madness was the rhythmic playing of Ms. Figueroa. Her favorite phrasing involving repetitive staccato that pushed the tension even higher.

The only “adequate” moment of the festive playing was the guest performance by the pianist husband. A balding man with a mustache, heralded as world famous, he played a lukewarm flute as the horn section took a breather. Notable though was the piano. A fury erupted out of the stringed box, perhaps out of frustration with her husband's playing, or spurred on by sharing an intimate moment in a packed club in the middle of the night, Ms. Figeuroa's playing kicked up a notch and clearly stole the glamour.

Louis Hayes © Andrea Canter

As the coda neared, Mr. Taylor took his last solo of the night. Yet midway through it, Mr. Hayes decided to use the facilities, got up from behind the skins and made his way to the back of the club. "I'll make him solo a little longer," he said in response to the chortle and gleeful snickers of the people noticing this act. Soon it was evident that Mr. Taylor realized an important man was missing. His facial expressions belied that something was awry—perhaps he had not soloed for this long in his career? Then the man who had introduced the crowd to the idea of significance rose from his seat and sat down behind the drums. He comped admirably with the simple beat of opening and closing hi-hat, but thankfully Mr. Hayes returned and relieved the man of his stand-in duty.

When the "Caravan" came to its last beat, the cheers of the crowd soon equaled the volume of the excellent musicians. The trumpets were good, maybe even great, but the clear playing of piano player, the multilingual bass notes, and the drumming of Mr. Hayes shined above the rest. Of course, nothing compared to Mr. Fuller, whose playing displayed a certain genius and tenacity that has no equal in the trombone world.

Shortly after the crowd’s euphoria had subsided, the mysterious drummer/emcee took the mic once more. This time he asked the club for their prayers for the Brecker and Coltrane families as he announced the deaths that day of Michael Brecker and Alice Coltrane. The very pronouncement, 50 years since Mr. Fuller recorded Blue Trane with John Coltrane served as a poignant reminder that, despite the aura of immortality that playing grants the musician, in the end everyone faces the coda of death.

Outside it was drizzling lightly.