From an old copy of the Police Gazette that one of our fans stumbled upon at the back of Hudson News at Penn Station:

I was beginning to think that music in this town was dead. I'd dropped into the Jazz Standard a few months back. The music was all angles and hard edges. Not a body moving, not even a foot tapping in the whole crowd. Most of them looked like they were listening to a lecture. I came back a few weeks later and it wasn't much better. I tried the Vanguard, an old reliable. Same story there: all highbrow stuff. I was ready to give up.

A guy told me to go hear the Buster Elliot Quintet. I wasn't optimistic. But a few hours spent in a club seemed better than an empty room and a half empty bottle of Hiram Walker. So I dumped myself onto the 6, got off at Astor and trudged my way over to Second Avenue. The place had promise. A tiny room with the band jammed up against the far wall so tight they were in the audience. Somebody's fake book was on my table. The air conditioner was leaking on the players. I still miss the smoke, but the beer was real enough.

The group came in. The bass player looked like he was in high school. The piano player seemed wound as tight as a cheap Timex.

They started to play. “How High the Moon,” a nice opener to loosen everybody up. None of these guys had gone to the school that takes the swing out and teaches you to think about music. On the next number, I could have sworn the guitar player's hands weren't moving, but he tore the room apart. And then “Speak Low,” like they owned it. The horn player blew some of the nicest riffs I'd heard in a long time. The sax man was right in between the lines where he belonged.

This woman got up to sing. An easy “Girl from Ipamema” to get started. Nice pipes. Then she took over “A Foggy Day.” She knew she was singing words, but she got that she was singing jazz. By the end of the song, everybody in the place was moving.

They finished the set with “Mr. P.C.” The drummer, who up to that point had been doing what drummers should – keep the group focused – let loose. He'd have blown the windows out if the place had any. But he kept the room swinging while he did it. Not many guys can do that anymore. Later, somebody told me he was a lawyer. It takes all kinds I guess.

As I headed back up second avenue, the walk didn't seem so slow. I’d sleep tonight. Maybe there's hope for this burg yet.

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