Traveling in an alternate universe. One that speaks languages I’m not sure I’ve heard.

Jason himself a startling force of musicianship. With his band, pure radiation. Tilting left, rising north from his piano bench. Connecting his band with a fury of precision, muscle and melody.

Trombone – quirky. A garble of communication that constantly upends my understanding of the instrument – a closemouthed frog making sound from a billowing secret. To my ear, RJ Satchitananthan speaks in undertones.

Tenor Sax. Marcus Ali’s everybody’s coolest cousin. So at ease with self that he talks to friend on the right while friend on the left plays a remarkable solo – and it doesn’t matter. Laffing at private jokes to his left while we concentrate on the stunning virtuosity of the player on his right – and it doesn’t matter. This band doesn’t Perform. It communicates. When Ali busts out, it startles expectation.

Bass player Andrew Stewart has seven fingers on his left hand. NO? Prove it.  Introduces self with humility, wades into the game with simple eloquence, then proceeds to counterpoint his fellows with a uniqueness that confounds. And that’s just the warm-up. Slings into solos that reconstruct joy into transcendence. This is BASS I’m talking about. I’m told he built his guitar.

Todd Britton a shining beam on organ. Iain Green Drummer – a solid companion cleanly serving the whole. Juli Genoa & Jamie Browning, guest singers bringing the comfort of a family gathering to the party. Rupert “Ojiji” Harvey: the mighty Messenjah to remind us of the purity of the form and the foundation of the powerful riff Mr. Wilson rocks off. Aside: Dinner, Succulent.

Jason Wilson orchestrates a program that gallops over genres. Reggae. Then reggae again before I’ve registered the jazz element that usurped it, or the rock that flew in sideways …

This band’s generosity sandblasted the room.