We were left in no doubt about just how good this band really was. "The Number One big band in the world. Yeeeeah," was how de facto bandleader and saxist Alex Foster put it - several times, in case anyone missed the point. He needn't have laboured it: the remark got a chuckle each time, but the MBB is an outfit you would be hard pushed to hate or harangue. Top in the world? Giants in emotional range, raw musicality, lack of pretension, sheer volume and rollicking good fun, at the very least.
The great Charles Mingus, who died in 1979, used to shout encouragement and instruction to his players, and these musicians - a 14-piece tribute band rather than the generally smaller sets Mingus worked with - continue the tradition, yelling, chattering and scatting Satchmo-style in all the right (and wrong) places. But as the music itself resembled an ebullient conversation between friends, the vocal enhancements seemed appropriate, essential even.
Saxophonist Bobby Watson launched the first set in style, his sharp, clear tone riding above interruptions of dissonant ascending triads - a startling, colourful and effective tension-building device employed by the undergirding horns. John Hicks moved into the solo spot on piano, using a strong, rhythmic left-hand technique to support his right hand's rapid, tumbling improvisation. Then Foster raised his hand, 3-2-1 style, to cue in the band, an action he used later, clap-o-meter fashion, to monitor volume.
Mingus's Don't Let It Happen Here was powerfully tackled, introduced by a piercing trumpet and haunting spoken passage on the theme of injustice, and evolving into a raucous, lurching, occasionally menacing sound from horns, accompanied by an irregular, driving progression from piano, bass and drums, and overlaid with Foster's wailing solo. Cut to a quiet scene: the young Seamus Blake on tenor sax, lilting above a quiet bass and piano in Self-Portrait in Three Colours. Who says real men can't be tender? This unassuming ballad, diametrically opposed to the rowdier numbers in its quiet execution, allowed the rough diamonds a moment to sparkle. Then it was back to laughter and scat, with Oh Lord Don't Let Them Drop That Atomic Bomb On Me, set up with a bass riff, gruff vocal from Jamal Haynes and featuring a languidly elegant trombone solo from one of the band's older members, Britt Woodman.
It would be a shame not to mention John Stubblefield on tenor sax, the showman who livened up proceedings throughout with his obstreperous, infectious humour. But such were the engaging idiosyncrasies of this good-time gang, it seems a shame not to mention by name every one of them.
Till Saturday. Tel: 0171 439 0747
