He wails.

Last night we saw the most fly trumpet player out there: Roy Hargrove. I know his music, but had not seen him in person before. I had read that he'd been playing professionally for fourteen years; so I expected to see someone in their fifties. Instead, a most dapper 33 year-old walks on stage wearing a Borsalino; describing his fawn colored suit, the slim-legged pants, untucked shirt and chocolate tie will accomplish nothing. Each piece was distinguishable: the tie was slightly shorter, slimmer and darker than convention, the pants gave him an almost Fred Astaire look, the shirt in cream with pleats down the front (Though M. thinks perhaps the pleats were actually new shirt creases. Either way: a statement.).
I've been in the area long enough to remember going to Yoshi's at their previous location; but the memory has faded. I can no longer summon the building's exterior, its street address, or distinguishing features other than the dimly-lit low stage surrounded by cocktail tables. I remember being slightly put off by the industrial size of the new Yoshi's: the field-size restaurant, the brighter jazz area, the slick new image. But none of this matters, really. We are incredibly lucky to have such a jazz house in downtown Oakland, where music plays three-hundred and sixty-three nights a year. Where anyone and everyone is welcome to hear jazz masters and innovators, local and far-flung talent, the elders and the youngsters.
Roy Hargrove is one of those young elders; long of experience, short of tooth. Listening to his music is like being in the middle of hailing shards of glass: his trumpet spits out jagged sounds that fall over one another pell-mell. Entrancing music with an undercurrent of violence that makes you think, just briefly, about taking cover.