It's jazz night at a local restaurant. There's no permanent stage: musicians squeeze into a small nook at the front. The drummer and bass are in the rear, their backs against the neon sign in the plate-glass window. The leader of the group, a silver-haired trumpet player, brings in the band with brief grunts on the backbeat before launching into a complicated unison line with his saxophonist. His improvisations are melodically inventive and rhythmically brisk, pulling the band into sharper focus. When he finishes playing, he strolls away from the stand to chat with a friend, while keeping an eye on the band.

The atmosphere is casual: many in the audience simply drink and chat. Yet there's an atmosphere of seriousness and expectation. People are deeply attentive, leaning forward and cheering the end of each solo. The musicians don't seem to notice either the audience or the music on their stands; their concentration and satisfaction is evident. The saxophonist leans against the wall, his eyes closed, while the guitarist rocks back and forth, a smile warming his face. The music is wild and chaotic, but always under control, and it ends on a crisply-timed syncopation.