Deadly to Pedestrian Thinkers

Two clarinets courtesy of baritone saxophonist Andy Laster and Darriau lead a rubato, free introduction that breaks into Ellington's "Lime House Blues" with Frank and Matt finishing each other's phrases. Coleman jabs the keys, shaping, molding, and twisting the rhythm like clay. 4 horns across the front. Laster takes the hand off and muscles his way up field, strong-arming with a blast of gritty growling blues until the rest of the horns come blooming, blossoming, bursting into a free jazz "Jingle Bells" riding on a crescendo of cymbals and rim shots.

Hollers from the crowd and the band is off again into "Jubilee Stomp." London working that plunger. Coleman deconstructing the tune while drums rumble and roll into a jagged New Orleans march. Matt grabs his tenor and kills Leadbelly's "Dick's Holler" with that good nasty rasp. Blues, slow and deep. London's cheeks bulge. The horns fall in behind him. The blarg/gargle/ flark/burble and splort of Curtis Hasselbring's trombone. The slippery, flippery syrupy slurp of Laster"s black stick. The rhythm suddenly falls off a steep cliff as Coleman holds court with an introspective monologue, stepping out of the shadows like Rod Serling in the Twilight Zone until George Schuller's fat beat barges in, kicking like a Nola stripper's legs as the band, who'd been down on their knees, so the crowd could see Coleman, rise to their feet and the sound explodes from the trumpet, pointed at the ceiling, hitting the kid at the front table downing a Heineken, like a snowball upside his head. The notes run like cold water down the side of his face. That's it they can't take it no more. Out of their seats, they flee before the next number, "Red Man's Blues." London's trumpet talks, stutters.



Darriau's clarinet bends melodies like taffy, growls, smears, slides, cries as the band busts into irresistible swing, changing into a herky-jerky counterpoint that trips over its own feet. Andy Laster's "Smokefish" is built on angular riffs that traffic jams the song off from the road up onto the sidewalk. Deadly to pedestrian thinkers among the crowd. Hasselbring's tune, "Betaville," is full of rhythmic upheaval, the melody dances with one hand waving free, bursts of horns, drums propel a quirky breakdown of Laster's sax with piano and bass. A soundtrack for Eric Dolphy's ghost ice-skating at Rockefeller Plaza with a long stripy scarf around his neck. Close your eyes, you'll see dogs chasing clowns, drunks dancing with mops until it all builds, rumbling like Sun Ra's rocket ship ready to blast off as Coleman climbs the sonic ladder, stomping on every rung of the scale. "Cause I'm Goin' Down," drums roll a syncopated funeral march as horns cry them black and crazy blues as Roland Kirk called 'em.

Band back down on their knees as Joe Fitzgerald's bass thinks, plunks and meditates on sorrows to big to imagine. London plays like his lips are burning. Like the mouthpiece of his horn is too hot. Spits, sputters, splatters choked notes that groan and growl as the band builds driven by hard fast slapping rim shots, rumbling, the rhythm back on track, like the C train after a three day strike. Another round of warm stout and warm applause. The last number, "New Orleans Stomp," (which along with "Goin' Down" comprises a new suite by Darriau) kicks off with light dancing cymbals, counterpoint horns, fractured by disjointed chords from Coleman.

The trombone grabs and jabs, jeers, bobs and weaves, cutting in and out of lanes like a gypsy cab looking for a bit of daylight when the alto jumps on it, hands it off to Andy on bari. Like the Marx Brothers with 4 down and 9 yards to go. A mad happy scramble. Like Buster Keaton running down Bourbon Street, while the next gang of college kids order another round of drinks. The spirit of Jelly Roll ja ja drivin' them through the tunnel and back to the Jersey burbs with visions of sugar plum fairies can-cannin' in their heads.