Jazz

Wynton Marsalis and his quintet was magnificent tonight.

Everything you would expect. Sublime.

Elevating.

Artists at their peak. Singing without words. Speaking without a language.

In New Orleans last February, one night returning  to my hotel,

I stumbled on a group performing in a side street. A group of teenagers, from the looks of them. Like a high school marching band without uniforms, director, formation, parade or requirements. They filled the night's chill with notes like those from Marsalis or Coltrane or Miles Davis, or the newest jazz lion, Christian Scott. 

They were all smiles for a group assembled randomly to take it in.

An unexpected joy in that late night along the Mississippi.

The dozen of them, flung not-so-expensive, banged up, duct-taped, instruments into the air. Twirled and cavorted.

The smallest of them worked the crowd with his purple LSU baseball cap looking for dollars and cents. I gave. He gave and they gave back, more.

Jazz.